Return-Path: Date: Fri, 17 Apr 1998 17:47:55 +0000 Please consider archiving this on the fkfanfic page. Thanks! Best wishes, Date: Sat, 11 Apr 1998 05:05:22 +0000 From: Molly Schneider OK, guys, this is my first time, so be gentle! Comments and lavish praise to mollyschneider@prodigy.net. No flames or sharp sticks, please--I'm sensitive. Warning: Adult (m/m) Permission to archive: at JADFE and www.fanfic.com. All others, please ask me first. Disclaimers: All characters herein portrayed are the property of their Sony/Tristar and James Parriott. This fiction, and the use of these characters, is for limited circulation only and no profit is being made from their use. Any opinions or emotions exhibited by these characters is of my own invention only and is neither attributable nor necessarily intended by their creator/owners. Gosh, isn't that all nice and legally sounding? Lyrics from "Heartache" by Gene Loves Jezebel. Unbreakable Bond By Molly Schneider copywrite: 1998 "They say a little bit of heartache, a little bit of heartache never hurt anyone/ Then how come I'm dying over you?" *** "Are you allright?" Nick shrugged. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?" "You've been kinda edgy lately. Anything I can do to help?" No. No, he thought despairingly, breathing in her all too human scent, nothing at all. "I'm fine, really." "Okay." He saw that look in her eyes, the one that said I don't believe you, but I won't push it-yet. She punched him lightly on the arm. "Wanna grab a couple videos?" "Not today. I'm a little tired, I wouldn't be much company." Go home, he willed her fiercely. Take your salt-warm human scent and the flush in your cheeks and the mesmerizing beat of your heart. Take that hair, those eyes, that trust-and go home. Away from me. Because if you come home with me this morning, Nat, I'll betray that trust. He was tired. Tired of the disappointments, the disillusions. Tired of being always the outsider, the one who didn't belong anywhere. He was weary, and he felt himself slipping back, and he would have hated himself for it, but he was getting tired of that, too. He peeled off his jacket, grabbed a bottle from the fridge, and sank down on the couch. Taking a long swallow, he grimaced. He picked up the remote and turned on the stereo. Nat wouldn't understand if she knew he'd taped these shows. He didn't really understand it, either, but right now he didn't feel like puzzling it out. Instead he dropped his head back on the soft leather, closed his eyes, and lost himself in that voice. "You're my guilty secret, not just a memory" Curiosity, that had been why he'd started listening to LaCroix's show in the first place; curiosity mingled with fear. Then it drew him in again, that hard-forged wisdom, that neither asked for quarter nor gave it. Lately, it had just been to hear that voice: sometimes silken, sometimes harsh, just as it had always been. Before . . . Images played behind Nick's eyes: LaCroix, resplendent in dark silks and cool disdain at some mortal party; LaCroix rising for the night, elegant in just his chemise. He and LaCroix laughing at some shared joke in bed together. Nick jerked his eyes open and thumbed the remote. No, he told himself. Don't. He wandered around the loft, finishing his bottle of--of swill, he thought, and opening another. Should paint. Read. Answer my email, something. Screw it, I'm going to bed. He wrapped himself naked in the black silk sheets, remembering other beds, other times. Grand carved Elizabeth beds dressed with rough linen sheets, Empire beds draped with silk . . .and LaCroix's pale body, whiter than the sheets. It had always fascinated him, how the muscles could ripple so smoothly in that hard flesh. Desire surged through him. No, he told himself again, don't. But he wanted it, he couldn't hide it from himself any longer. That was why he was always running from LaCroix: if he spent too long a time near him, the desire for his master always came back. That voice, silky against his ear, murmuring "beautiful one, my golden child, mon desir, mon amant." Rasping in passion, "That's it, Nicholas. Yes. Mine, mine, you are mine!" Nick moaned, tossing off the sheets, then pulling them closer around him, shivering. "You're all I've ever wanted, and you belong to me" LaCroix, the wineglass halfway to his lips, put it carefully down again, his link to Nicholas throbbing with an emotion he hadn't felt from his son in a long time. Fear and passion, desire sharpened with desparation. He opened the link a little. Nicholas was in bed, but not asleep, not dreaming. He heard his own voice echoed back from Nicholas' mind in the cadences of lovemaking. His voice, then his hands, moving over Nicholas' body. LaCroix always knew how to touch him, where a featherlight caress would draw shivers of delight, where a firmer pressure would heighten his arousal. He knew all those secret places-the soft flesh between Nick's ribcage and his hip, the fold of his armpit. Nick could almost feel him touching him now, stroking, teasing, soothing. Those hands returned again and again to his nipples, his throat as Nick writhed underneath that powerful body. That hard white body-marble, alabaster. No, he moaned to himself, please. . . oh, please . . . He wants my hands? He shall have them then, and LaCroix pushed subtly along the link. Nicholas was underneath him, eyes half-closed, moaning with rising desire. He cupped the roundness of his beloved's shoulder, drew his fingers across Nick's chest and slowly up his throat. Nick titled his head in instinct, but LaCroix continued up, laying his palm against Nick's cheek, brushing those full lips with his thumb. Then down again, across the chest, his touch growing firmer as he moved down the taut stomach. Just as he would have reached the erection waiting for him, he shifted smoothly to the muscled thigh. "So listen now, my angel, this love for you can't stop" He could feel him. Could feel his touch, and his essence in that touch--power tempered with patience, and a shameless sensuality. He spread his thighs at the cool hand stroked him, raised his pelvis in a wordless plea, and when it went unanswered, raised his mouth for LaCroix's kiss. LaCroix shuddered, and took a swallow from his glass. This was going too far. But he couldn't resist the mouth waiting for him at the end of the link. It was a hungry mouth, demanding even as it trembled. Oh, Nicholas, he thought, this was always you. Hungry, and afraid. But what you feared, I could never understand. Give it to me, he thought fiercely, opening his mouth under his sire's, waiting for LaCroix's tongue to take possession. Liquid heat, potent as any wine, as that tongue slid into his mouth. Fierce and tender as that kiss was, he barely noticed LaCroix's hand closing around his erection. Moans deepening into growls. Nicholas pushing up against his stroking hand, his head thrashing on the pillow. He pushed two fingers into that ripe mouth. "Get them wet," he ordered roughly. Nicholas complied, swirling his tongue around LaCroix's fingers to coat them with his spit. LaCroix pulled them out, found that throbbing entrance, and slowly inserted them. The body beneath him didn't need much preparation; Nicholas was ready for him, eager. He could almost feel it, that first insertion. LaCroix had always done that, except when he was angry. Please, he thought incoherently, please . . . Then it came, filling his emptiness, and he clung to it. Sometime his Change had swept over him, he didn't know when, and now his lips peeled back in the vampire rictus, displaying his fangs, and he opened his eyes to meet the glowing eyes of his master. The twin hungers twined around each other, coiling tighter with each stroke of LaCroix. He grasped LaCroix's buttocks, pulling him deeper, joining them closer. "Hungry," he rasped. "Hungry!" Yes, Nicholas, soon. But not yet, not quite yet. His beloved was grasping him with his inner muscles, hard and fierce. "That's it, Nicholas. Take it, take all you want. Yes." And when they were just almost there, on that knife-edge precipice, he pulled his son's mouth to his throat. A split second of pain as the fangs pierced his skin, then the start of his own orgasm as Nicholas broke, and bucked against him. "Mine," he hissed as he bent his own head, "you are mine!" And then he was drinking. They were joined together, by flesh, by bond, by blood. . . . . . He was drinking, muffled snarls in his throat as he suckled greedily on his master's blood. Joined with his master, by the flesh and the blood and the unbreakable bond between him. The world exploded in a flash of red-gold, and he with it. The universe was golden, a cloud of infinite dancing particles and he was part of each of them, and they were part of him. Joined. The cloud faded slowly, until it became the crumpled sheet beneath him. He opened his eyes. He'd bitten into his own wrist without realizing it; he was splattered with blood and his own semen. LaCroix wasn't there; LaCroix hadn't been in his bed for decades. No one was there to stroke his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead and hold him as he cooled. He curled up in a ball, clutching the pillow close to him, and willed himself to sleep. "And though we've come to differences, love must surely spark" LaCroix closed the link. He opened his eyes to see the blood from his own gnawed wrist soaking the sleeve of his silk shirt, and took a deep ragged breath. No, Nicholas, I'm not there to hold you anymore. But, oh, how I wish I were. "They say a little bit of heartache, a little bit of heartache never hurt anyone Then how come I'm dying over you?" FINIS