OK, OK--for those of you begging for slash, I'm taking time away from my disastrously overdue Pillow Book story to bring you this very short PWP. Archiving permission to JADFE and ICS; standard disclaimers apply; comments to stormborn@prodigy.net.Beyond Words (01/01)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1999"Just what *will* it take to make you happy, Nicholas?" LaCroix snapped. His favorite progeny had been sulking around the house for the better part of the week, interrupting his brooding glances only with pointed bits of sarcasm.
"You're a bastard, you know that?"
"Yes, I do. But that doesn't answer the question."
Nick flung himself out of the chair to confront his--his--tormentor, he decided. "I thought that when I came back to you, things would be different, somehow. But you're still the same. You still treat me as your slave, your *property*."
An eyebrow quirked upward; other than that there was no change in the cool facade. "Do I? How so, Nicholas?"
He hated being trapped in this position. Telling LaCroix what he felt would only make him sound weak and snivelling, not telling him would lead to a deeper festering of the wound. "A little affection," he finally murmured. "Some sign that you're glad I'm here..."
LaCroix looked away from him. After a time he said, "It's not my way to be demonstrative. I have only one way to show you what I feel, and I should think you would have experienced that enough to not need further assurances."
"In your blood."
"In my blood." The elegant visage turned back to him, a little less neutral this time. Nick stood motionless as the other closed on him, and a cool hand stroked his cheek. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to turn his face into that hand. The merest whisper: "Come, mon fils. Let me show you again."
He stumbled after the soft sound of the retreating footsteps, across the foyer and up the stairs. LaCroix's bedroom; he could smell the faint scent of leather, old books, and spices. He heard the door close behind him and opened his eyes to see the other in front of him. Those hands--those hands, which affected him so much in so many ways--undid his shirt buttons; he stood mutely and let himself be undressed and led to the bed.
LaCroix loomed over him; sudden desparation seized him and he dragged him down onto the bed, tearing at his clothes. Naked skin against naked skin, already slickening with sweat; full ripe lips against his own. He opened his mouth under that kiss, sucking and biting at LaCroix's mouth. When his master's tongue pushed into him he moaned, sucking eagerly at it. He gave his body up to those hands, wanting what they could do--were doing--to him.
LaCroix tore loose from the kiss to push the first two fingers of his hand into Nick's mouth. Knowing, and maddened with knowing, he wet them thoroughly with his own spit, then nipped at them to draw a few drops of his maker's precious blood. His thighs climbed LaCroix's to wrap around his waist; LaCroix's face contorted in the vampire rictus, displaying his fangs as he pushed his spit-and-blood slicked fingers roughly into Nick's ass. Snarling, Nick bucked, and grasped at the invasion with his inner muscles.
An answering snarl, and LaCroix shoved his cock home.
It filled him, blotting out everything else but this possession and his own hunger for it. He raked the straining back above him in a frenzy of arousal; LaCroix's fingers tangled in his hair and pulled his head back to arch his throat. "What am I?" snarled LaCroix, the question punctuated by a brutal thrust.
"My master," he gasped.
"Yes. What else?" Slam.
"My father..."
"Yes. What else?" Slam.
"My... lover?"
"Yes! What else?" Slam.
He looked wildly into the face inches from his own, seeking the answer in those glaring eyes.
"Your slave," hissed LaCroix. He bent to Nick's throat, his furious thrusts blending with the movements of his tongue on the exquisitely sensitive artery, the pumping of his hand on Nick's cock.
LaCroix wanted him, as badly as he wanted LaCroix. Loved him, needed him, as badly as he loved and needed him--he could feel the truth of it vibrating all through his body.
One more thrust, and they roared together just before LaCroix struck, those fangs piercing his throat with ecstatic pain. Then his own fangs were buried in preternatural flesh, and blood brighter and deeper than any mortal's flooded his mouth. Dimly he could feel the coldness of LaCroix's semen in his ass, feel his own come spilling over the other's fist.
The truth of what LaCroix felt for him was there in his blood; yes, but it had been there also in his body, in his every movement. Even in that cool facade, held carefully in place to guard against this soul-ravaging love.
They could not let each other go and so they fell into dreamless sleep together, limbs entwined, bodies plastered with blood, sweat and semen. Yet awareness of dangerous need trembled at the edge of their sleeping minds, and they clung to each other.
FIN