Title:          Masquerade
Author:         Molly Schneider
                copyright 1998
Archive:                to JADFE and www.fkfanfic.com
Warnings:       M/M explicit semi-consensual sex; blood sport

Venice stank.  But it was an oddly rich and beautiful stench, as darkly fascinating as the
ancient palazzos and the odd little passageways.  He wandered into one of those
passages now, leaving the noisy crowd on the square behind him.  Smiling softly to
himself, his senses singing with the blood he'd just drank, he wondered idly just how
long it would take before they discovered that one of the more flirtatious revelers was
missing.

The one following him was one of his kind, he could tell that, but not who it was.  An
old one, apparently, who could keep his thoughts completely hidden.  Nicholas took a
turn into a tiny court, then vaulted to the nearest roof, and over again to a rubbish-
strewn alley.  Good try, friend, he chuckled.  Let's see you catch up--oof!  He was
pinned against the rough stucco wall behind him by a preternaturally strong arm across
his chest.

He snarled, his eyes flaring.  There was no response from his captor.  It was a male, a
little taller than himself, wrapped in a black cloak from head to toe.  A mask of
Bacchus covered most of his face, but Nicholas could see the glowing eyes, and the
man's fangtips glinted in the moonlight.

"Let me go, if you know what's good for you."

There was again no reply, except for the tiny, elegant snick of a switchblade knife.
What was this?  Why would a vampire use a knife? Nicholas struggled, but the arm
that held him was immovable, and his kicks were deftly blocked.

No escape.  The knife came near him, light running along the sharp edge--an edge so
sharp that it sliced through his cheek almost painlessly.  He gasped at the shock, then
growled in his throat as the stranger delicately licked the trickle of blood from his face.

Perhaps this one had seen him kill the woman and was now savoring the enjoyment of
her blood distilled with Nicholas' own immortal essence.  He glanced around, looking
for a weapon.  There was nothing; and then the blade sliced his other cheek.  The cool
wet tongue drew an involuntary moan from him.

The cord of his cloak was slit with one slight movement; the knife circled, deciding,
then slit the front of his shirt.  His nipples puckered in the cool night air.

Another gash, this one across his chest, and the stranger watched for a moment as the
blood welled, then bent to lap it up before it reached his own cloak.  The stranger's
mouth moved to his nipple then and he tensed to try and break free again--but this
time the blade was laid gently against his carotid.  A warning; it *was* possible for
their kind to bleed to death.

Against his will he found himself responding to the adept mouth teasing his nipples,
sucking, then biting first one then the other.  With shame and anger he felt himself
harden.  He brought his fists up into the stranger's stomach, but the arm still pinning him
kept him from putting enough force into the blow.

Fine, he thought, resigned.  Kill me now and get it over with.  There was a wave of
humor from his tormentor.  The stiletto moved lower, slicing delicately into the skin of
his stomach.  As the stranger bent to enjoy the veil of blood, Nicholas had a moment
in which he could have broken free and overcome his captor--but he let the moment
slip by unheeded, as he rolled his head against the wall, moaning deeply in his throat at
the unbearable pleasure.

His erection throbbed painfully, and his mystery lover cupped him with a gloved hand.
He thrust against it, growling, and the stiletto neatly sliced open the laces on his
breeches.  The nearness of the razor-sharp blade to his genitals made him tense, but
the knife went away, replaced by a brush of cool lips as the cloaked man dropped to
his knees.

Cool lips, nuzzling him.  The briefest flicker of a wet tongue, an exhalation of breath
that made him gasp.  "Please," he begged, his voice a low rasp.  "Do it, mother of
Christ, do it!  Please!"--begging for the sex where he would not beg for his life.  Then
the stranger's mouth engulfed him.  No teasing now:  the suction was strong and
immediate.    With a force not possible in human relations Nicholas slammed into the
other's mouth, the vampire on his knees meeting Nicholas' thrusts with equal ferocity,
his lips meeting the blond curls at his victim's crotch.

His orgasm was coming, and just as it hit the stranger drew his fangs the length of
Nicholas' cock.  Nicholas screamed in ecstasy, and his tormentor drank down the
sacred mixture of blood and come in deep gulps.

Then he was tumbling to the cobblestones.  A strong arm caught him, embraced him.
He grabbed for the proffered wrist and tore into it.

"I knew it was you," he said when he came to himself.

"Liar," LaCroix's voice hissed against the nape of his neck.  He was drawn closer
against his master; he could feel the impressive bulk of LaCroix's erection pressing
between his buttocks.  "I'd love to take you here, Nicholas.  Take you right here and
now in this filthy alleyway."

Nicholas dropped his head back against his master's shoulder.  "Do it . . ."
 

The mask of Bacchus tilted towards the aquamarine sky, the deep shadows of the
eyeholes barely dimming the luminous glow within.  The cruelly sensuous mouth smiled
faintly.  "Barely time enough before dawn--but still, time enough."

In the space of a mortal breath Nicholas was flung roughly forward onto the dirty
cobblestones, the grit scraping his palms and bringing the faint tingle of blood to his
nostrils.  He quickened again and growled, looking over his shoulder at his master with
golden eyes.

The black cloak fluttered in the night air, then settled over them both.  Nicholas's
breeches were pulled down and glove-clad hands ran over his bared buttocks before
parting them.  One knee shoved his thighs apart and he rested his forehead on the
stones, lifting his ass slightly for the expected penetration.  Instead, a leather-covered
finger pushed into him.  "Not that," he rasped impatiently.  "We don't have time for
play; just do it!"

There was a cool chuckle, then a black glove flickered on the edge of his vision,
plucking something from the ground.  "But I do so *like* to play with your ass,
Nicholas."  Something cold pressed into him--cold and hard and uncomfortably
shaped. He winced away, then a wave of wantonness swept over him as he realized it
was the hilt of the knife that he was being teased with, and he bucked against it with a
harsh little cry.

"Oh, mon plaisir.  You can be such a delicious little slut when the spirit moves you.
You know, I believe I'd like to hear you beg a little."

Nicholas stole a panicked glance at the barely lightening sky.  "We're running out of
time," he gasped.  "LaCroix, we have to do it now!"

"*I* don't have to do anything."  The knife-hilt began a leisurely stroking inside him.
"Beg, Nicholas."

"All right," he snarled. "Fuck me, LaCroix!  Is that what you want to hear?  Please
fuck me, you know I want you to, you know I want you to fuck me so bad--"

It slammed into him then, that cock as hard and cold as the stones he lay on.  LaCroix
was riding him furiously, not taking the time to match their rhythms, but Nicholas didn't
care.  His every fiber was screaming with lust and bloodhunger, focused only on the
drive to climax, his own mindless snarls echoed by the beast on top of him.  He ground
his own erection relentlessly against the cobblestones--his cock was bruised and
bloody, he could feel it; so was his ass, but it only excited him more.  "Give it to me,"
he demanded.

A strong arm circled his chest.  He was lifted onto his knees and he flung his head
back, arching his neck for his master.  Fangs drove savagely into him, and he felt the
coldness of LaCroix's come flooding inside him just as he seized the other's wrist and
tore into the vein, his own seed bursting from him.

It was brutal and quick, their feeding.  Nicholas dropped LaCroix's wrist as he felt the
heat on his face and chest.  Moaning in fear, he turned into the shelter of LaCroix's
cloak.

The elder wrapped him securely in black wool and protective arms, and took to the air.
Soon Nicholas felt cool darkness again, then the softness of his feather bed as LaCroix
laid him down.  His lover left him, and he slept.

####

Molly/StormBorn
UF/FKPagan/Cousin/NA
Gothic Scouts of America
stormborn@uswest.net
Two Welsh twins and a big bad vamp!

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