Mea Culpa

               This story is rated Adult for explicit sexual content. Please don't read it if your local laws say that you shouldn't.
               Nick/LaCroix, strong dom/sub themes, slight violence. Some strong language, and a fair bit of French dialogue <g> (translations are at the end of the story). Moderate to high mush factor. This story is set sometime fairly late in Season 3.
               The characters depicted herein are the property of James Parriott, Paragon, Sony/Tristar, and the other PTB. Quotes from Killer Instinct used without permission but with great appreciation. The song 'Mea Culpa' is by Enigma, from 'Enigma - MCMXC a.D.' No infringement of copyright is intended.
               Permission granted to archive at the Inn of Crossed Swords site (thanks for the help, Molly!) and JADFE. Anyone else, please ask first. All other rights reserved.
               I'd appreciate any comments. Please send them to: a.larouche@ext.canterbury.ac.nz. Thanks!
               Eternal gratitude is due to Sheila, for unending patience, unwavering confidence, thoughtful advice, and occasional threats to stake me when I wanted to hit the 'delete' button.

                                         Mea Culpa
                                        by Amie LaRouche
                                      Copyright October 1998

               The small icon in the corner of the screen blinked: new email. LaCroix opened the message, sent about an hour before. It was brief, even terse.
               "Father, please come. I need you."
               The ancient vampire rose quickly from his desk, his perpetual grace unmarred by his haste. He had been aware for several hours that Nicholas was more than usually distressed. However, in their few, brief contacts of late, his son had made it vehemently clear that he resented LaCroix' 'interference' in his life, and that such assistance as might sometimes be acceptable was quite off limits for the moment.
               Slowly, reluctantly, LaCroix had come to the conclusion that his own - quite proper -possessiveness had perhaps been a factor in Nicholas' rebellion.
               Nicholas was unquestionably his favourite son, his true protégé, the most precious of his many children - and the most troublesome. It had always been his belief that the traditional methods of handling children were, of necessity, the best. They had certainly been effective with his other offspring. Yet with Nicholas, his assertions of authority, even the chastisements which had often been necessary, had had little effect on the boy's spirit. They had not instilled the respect and gratitude due to a father, nor had they succeeded in achieving even the forms of proper behaviour.
               Frustration - almost despair - had made him cruel, even vicious at times, in the handling of his difficult child. It had seemed, in his desperation, that the only way to bring Nicholas back into the fold was to bring out his wild nature. The simplest means was to turn the younger vampire's anger onto himself, as painful as the consequences had often been.
               It was astonishing, after all these years, that Nicholas' barbed comments still cut him to the quick. No one else - not even his lovely, half-tamed peregrine falcon, Janette - could wound him as easily, nor make him as savage in retaliation. And yet, to see the beautiful passion on Nicholas' face, to feel the surge of life within their bond - it was worth every moment of the pain it cost
him. It was not what he had wished, what he had dreamed, when he fell so disastrously in love with his bold young Crusader. It was not enough, but it was all he had. For now.
               He remembered the beginning, that moment of glorious possibility.
               ***
               Lucien LaCroix' reborn son stood before him, rendered luminous by the delicate touch of eternity, lost in the lingering ecstasy of his first feeding. In his innocent self-absorption, his golden hair a radiant nimbus in the candlelight, he resembled the painted angels of his faith.
               "Do you feel her blood surge in your veins, Nicholas? It is an experience unsurpassed by any other! Revel in your new-found power, in the gift I've given you. Immortality - that's what all men want, isn't it? Be glad I made you what you are."
               Turning amber-glowing eyes to his sire, the boy whispered, "Que suis-je?"
               Such simple complexity! LaCroix smiled. All unknowing, the boy had asked a question which would take centuries to answer fully. Fondly, he said, "Mon protégé."
               Nicholas' astonishment, and a burgeoning love for his new family, had already begun to be tainted by rebellion as he recognised the touch of his Master's mind within his own. In fear and adoration, he shook his head, whispering in reply, "Votre esclave."
               LaCroix chuckled indulgently. The child's term was all too apt. Already, the elder vampire felt himself as much in thrall to his new son's desires, as the boy was to his will. "Then I, too, am your slave. For I am bound to you as your eternal teacher, that I may let you know all there is to know about what you are."

               ***
               Such a pity, that Nicholas had proven unwilling to learn.
               It was in the patrician vampire's nature to protect and guide his children, at least those he thought worthy of his tutelage. Most were properly grateful for his generosity. Yet this errant, unstable child - the most vulnerable of his offspring - consistently rejected both him and his teachings. It was wearing, and frustrating, and endlessly fascinating.
               Perhaps, though, an alteration in his manner of handling Nicholas would yet bear fruit. Their recent encounters had brought home to LaCroix that the more tightly he tried to hold his son, the more frantically the young one would struggle. Given a certain degree of freedom, though, he seemed inclined to at least try to be civil. It was not much, but it was a beginning.
               One day, Nicholas would return to him. Of that there was never any doubt. Willing or no, he would return. It would be more pleasing, though, if he were willing. It had always been more pleasant that way.
               As an experiment (and in grudging recognition that nothing else had been particularly effective) LaCroix had been attempting to comply with his favourite's wishes, leaving it to him to initiate contact. Eventually, he would be brought to realise his dependence on his sire.
               It seemed that the cry for help had come more quickly than he had expected.
               LaCroix mentally checked the position of the sun: nearly two hours to sunrise. If this was a serious problem, he would most likely spend the day at the loft. Given his son's recent erratic behaviour, it was doubtless best to be prepared. He quickly placed a few things into a bag, including several bottles of his best vintage. Sustenance for the day, and a bit more, just in case Nicholas was sufficiently distressed to be tempted to stray from his vile diet. A vain hope, perhaps, but one never knew.
               An inky shadow in the darkness, the silver dagger at his collar the only spark of brightness about his black clad form, LaCroix slipped into the loft through the skylight. His son was not at his usual post in the leather armchair before the fireplace, nor brooding at his piano. All was dark, but for the streetlights visible through the windows, and the glowing screen of a laptop computer on the kitchen table. Not a good sign.
               Casting around mentally to locate his son, LaCroix felt it best to bring some ight into the room before addressing the bleak despair which he felt emanating from... from under the stairs? How odd. Nicholas usually chose a more comfortable place to torture himself.
               Using the delay to steady himself, LaCroix lit the fire, and several candles around the room. He turned at last to face his son. The smell of fresh paint, and the sight of an overturned, broken lamp, explained Nicholas' placement. He had obviously been attempting to exorcise his current demon by painting. Without success, it would seem.
               His child knelt on the floor before an empty easel, his face in his hands, his black silk pyjamas splattered with spilt paint. Against the far wall, a nightmare in tones of grey and red lay twisted and broken.
                j'endure plus
                the time has come
                je te désire
                the time has come
               The bloodscent of tears teased LaCroix, rousing the unconquerable, ever present desire for his protégé. It was well that the boy had never truly understood that his sire's heart lay forever at his feet.
               The smell of Nicholas' blood was mingled faintly with that of a mortal - female, and young, the traces only a few hours old - overlaid with the smell of soap. LaCroix nodded in understanding. It was easy enough to wash away the visible signs of blood, but the scent lingered.
               Nicholas lifted his head slowly, looking up at his master. The beautiful, cornflower-blue eyes shone red-rimmed with tears. Softly, as if to speak cost him painful effort, he said, "LaCroix. Thank you for coming. I... I need not to be alone tonight. I'm afraid... of what I might do..."
               LaCroix towered over his son. His heart lurched to see his beloved in such pain, such unnecessary, self-inflicted torture. How many times had he stood thus, over the centuries? So many, many times he had pulled his favourite child back from the brink of madness and despair, only to have him turn away - running heedlessly toward the abyss as if it were his salvation.
               Quietly, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil, the ancient vampire said, "What troubles you, Nicholas?"
               "I killed a woman tonight, LaCroix... " He noted the raised eyebrow, the hint of satisfaction. He shook his head wearily. "No, I didn't take her life... though I almost did, to my shame. But I caused her death."
               Nicholas spoke almost in a monotone, passion leached from his voice by exhaustion. He fell gratefully into the neutral language of his police reports. "It was... a kidnapping. Never mind the details. I the followed car out of the city. The driver was going way too fast, and he missed a corner and spun off the road... He dragged the victim out of the car, threatening to shoot her. She was struggling, so I had to try to hypnotise them both - I couldn't hold his mind while she was distracting him. I almost managed to get him to put down his gun, but... I was so intent on him that I lost my hold on her. She broke away and ran - and he shot her." The young vampire's voice, already hoarse from crying, broke harshly. A sob escaped him. "I couldn't... I couldn't stop him! I wasn't fast enough, I couldn't hold them both... It was my fault! It's always my fault!"
               Taking a deep breath, he regained control of his emotions, though his voice shook as he continued quietly, "He just stood there - I don't know why... He didn't even try to run or fight while I cuffed him. He just stood there, shaking his head. I wanted him to run! I wanted an excuse to hunt him... I was so close to taking him anyway..."
               He shook his head, lost in the vision. "There was nothing I could do for the woman. She was dying. Her heart was damaged, I could hear it fluttering... I just sat on the ground and held her while her blood drained onto the grass. It was on my hands and my clothes... It smelled so sweet, so warm - I wanted it so much... Too much, I couldn't help myself... I licked it off my hands - and God help me, it was glorious! I've not tasted its like in... in so long. I caught myself just as my teeth touched her throat. She was dying, and all I could think of was my own damned, evil hunger!" He sighed heavily, tears of repentance tracing lines of crimson down his ivory cheeks. "I was too weak to save her, LaCroix, and I was almost weak enough to take her life myself..."
               LaCroix knew that, in his child's current state, a lecture on vampiric nature would do no good. He said patiently, "She was dying, mon fils. It would not have made the situation any the worse for her."
               "That's not the point, LaCroix! It was my fault, all of it! She wouldn't have been shot, if I hadn't slipped, if I had been able to hold his mind... I wasn't strong enough! If only it had been someone else who found them - I was so arrogant, thinking that I could save her, where a human couldn't... If I hadn't tried to hypnotise them both, I wouldn't have gotten her shot..."
               "You're quite right, Nicholas." Nick's eyes showed his pain at having even LaCroix agree with his dismal view of his failure. "You would not have caused her to be shot, if you had not been there. Nonetheless, she would have been killed regardless - no doubt after having been raped, and whatever else the... gentleman in question had in mind for her. Would you have preferred that, so long as this was not on your shoulders?"
               Nicholas shook his head vehemently, trying to dislodge the images which replayed, over and over in his mind. He could not deny the truth of his father's words, nor could he find comfort in them.
               The liturgy of the confessional haunted him. <Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned... Mea culpa... through my fault, my most grievous fault, she died, they died...> He breathed a silent prayer for mercy from the God he had abandoned, the God he continued to defy by his very existence. <Through my sin, so many have died... Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa... Lord, have mercy!
                Kyrie eleison,
                Christi eleison...>
                prends-moi
                je suis à toi
                mea culpa
               LaCroix knelt beside his son, wordlessly pulling him close. Nicholas shuddered once at his touch - a long, silent release of tension - then relaxed bonelessly into his father's comforting embrace.
               He leaned his head wearily against his sire's shoulder, his tears soaking into the soft linen shirt, their crimson dispelled by the blackness. In a low, rough voice he implored, "Oh, mon père, make it stop, make it go away! Aidez-moi, je vous prie... aidez-moi, maître ..."
               The ancient vampire cradled his weeping son, buffeted by the waves of guilt and hunger which swept through their bond. Very gently, he asked, "Nicholas, how long has it been since you last fed?"
               The golden head rose slowly, sapphire eyes lifting reluctantly to meet glacial blue, then glancing away. With false assurance, Nicholas said, "Only a few hours..."
               "Those vile concoctions of that damned doctor's do not qualify. When did you last have blood?"
               "I..." the young vampire paused, licking his lips nervously, "Four days ago. Natalie thinks I should give it up altogether..."
               LaCroix permitted the change to sweep softly over him, his feeding teeth extending, eyes glinting with tawny flecks. He opened the vein in his wrist, holding it out to his son. "Drink, Nicholas. I cannot allow you to continue starving yourself in this way."

               The blood - redolent of ancient knowledge, heady with the scent of patchouli and cloves - tantalised Nick, murmuring promises of bliss, calling him back to take his place at his master's side. <Mon seigneur, mon maître... mon désir défendu...> He turned his head away, whispering, "No... please LaCroix, don't."
               A new wave of guilt shook him, the emotional tumult of the night giving way to his longing for the forbidden love, the intimacy which he had refused for so long. Images came to him, memories of LaCroix, of their sweet caresses. Memories he had tried for so long to bury, to hide away forever in a far corner of his mind.
                je vous aller au bout de mes fantasmes
                je sais que c'est interdit
               ... Soft hands stroking his hair, strong arms holding him tightly, soothing his terror as he awoke weeping from nightmares during his first days. The gentle cascade of words easing his fears, the welcome startlement of light kisses rousing him from the stupor of his dreams...
               ... Strong hands, his master's hands, knowing and firm as they explored every morsel of his flesh, flames of desire dancing in their wake...
               ... Those same sweet hands, raised in anger. The sudden sting of a harsh, backhanded slap. More stinging still, the tones of the voice raised in rebuke...
               ... Always, always that voice, that beloved voice. Rich as velvet, soft as thistledown one moment, sharp and biting as a whipcrack the next. Haunting in its palpable caress, its glorious seduction, in the unconquerable longing it awoke in him - to surrender to his father's words, his master's will...
               ... Silken enchantment of sculpted ivory flesh, a Roman marble god come to life. Velvet-soft hair, the luminous white-gold of summer wheat. Eyes of scalding ice, glacial fire. Soft moans, pale limbs writhing beneath his hands. Glancing up - in triumphant adoration - to see the elegant, patrician head thrown back in ecstasy. Sharp lust coursing through him at the sudden glint of a wickedly pointed white fang...
               ... The ecstatic melding of minds, the union of souls as his master took his blood, releasing his own sweet elixir in return. The taste of his own bliss, magnified and mirrored in his sire's essence - the seemingly endless cycle culminating in a fleeting glimpse of the heaven from which he was forever barred...
               Against his will, memories of his master were the substance of his shameful fantasies. In his unwary moments, such dreams escaped their prison to taunt him. They haunted and obsessed him - insisting that what once was, might be again, if he would dare to allow it.
               LaCroix gently stroked his son's silken hair. Responding - as he so often did - to Nicholas' very thoughts, he murmured, "Ils ne sont que des rêves, mon cœur, des fantasmes. Dreams, nothing more... Surely dreams cannot harm you?" He lifted a drop of his own blood on his finger, glistening crimson in the flickering light. Slowly, he brought it toward his son's mouth.
                je suis folle
                je m'abandonne
                mea culpa
               Nick's eyelids drooped, closed. He drew in a deep breath, his coral-pink lips parting. He made no move to turn away as his father touched the ruby droplet to the very tip of his tongue. He was shaken to the core by the immediate, absolute knowledge of his sire's unwavering love. On a long, tremulous outbreath he whispered, "Ah, maître, je suis épuisé... I am so tired of this world... Make me forget it! S'il vous plait, mon père amant... Please," a sob shook him, "just for today, for a few hours, make me forget!"
               LaCroix' breath caught in his throat, a torrent of desire overwhelming him. To love his son, to caress this body which he knew as well as his own... Once more to possess the flesh, if not the soul, of his beau chevalier - for that, he would give the world, and to hell with the consequences.
               Yet he hesitated. After the pleasure would come the inescapable pain, the endless heartache - and the risk that this would drive his son even further from him. If Nicholas were to decide that this had not truly been his choice... No, he would not take that chance.
               He studied the face of his most beloved child, the perfect, alabaster skin made more perfectly white by the streaked bloodtears. His tortured angel. His seraph, gazing on his eternal Hell, pleading for entry once again into Paradise.
                je suis lent et erraieur
                je ne peut rien
               Softly, he caressed the pale cheek, capturing a crimson tear on his finger - the same finger which had carried his own essence to his son. The blood was so very, very sweet on his tongue - a drug in his veins, an addiction never to be conquered, nor even resisted. Its rich, earthen musk was brightened by the sharp fire of cinnamon, bitterly touched with mad, unending self-hatred. Such a fine, silken darkness, such wondrous velvet luminescence! In all his days, the ancient vampire had never met its like, as he had never found another to rival this fragile, precious child.
               Shaking his head in defeat, he asked softly, "Nicolas, mon ange de tristesse, why do you do this to yourself? Why this incessant torture?"
               Nicholas lifted tear-bright eyes to meet his sire's. With perfect innocence, his desolated gaze shining with the clarity of belief, he replied, "It is what I deserve."
               LaCroix struggled to master the barbed agony which pierced him at his son's words. "How can I make you stop believing that?"
               In a moment of crystalline honesty, Nicholas said simply, "You can't. I don't think anyone can." He sighed, wearily. "It's just the way I am. But you can make me forget, for a while, LaCroix. You have always had that power. Je t'en prie, mon désir, faites-moi oublier cette monde du chagrin..."
                je deviens folle
                je m'abandonne

                mea culpa
               He reached up to stroke his master's cheek, softly, a look of wonder suffusing his face at the fine, remembered texture. "Please, Lucien?" He lifted his face, his eyes closing languidly, mouth softening in anticipation of a kiss. A small cloud of fear remained, in the creased corners of his eyes, the slight hesitation as he touched his father's mind.
               After a long moment, LaCroix pressed his finger softly to Nicholas' lips. Cornflower coloured eyes fluttered open, meeting the steady, ice-blue gaze. Confusion turned instantly to hurt, struggled to become anger. "You don't want me, then?" The dark eyes glanced away, becoming veiled. "I'm - I'm sorry, LaCroix. I should not have presumed... It was foolish, arrogant of me..."
               Nicholas struggled to his feet, wanting only to escape, to hide once more within the enveloping darkness which had claimed his heart. He turned away, fighting to control tears of rage and humiliation, to shut tight their link, to keep out the elder vampire's searching thoughts. His voice bitterly quiet, he said, "If you go now, you can get home before sunrise."
               Strong arms embraced him softly, his father's lean, finely-muscled body pressing against his back. LaCroix' dark, silken voice purred in his ear, "My Nicholas, you are a fool - to think that I would not want you... Can you truly imagine, after all I have endured for your sake, that I would turn away from my beloved son, mon jeune Nicolot?" Soft hands began to explore his body, tracing the contours of his arms, the firm expanse of his belly, brushing oh-so-lightly across his sensitive nipples. Kisses, cool and tender as rose
petals, rained on the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. Ah, it had been so long! How could he have denied himself such pleasure?
                j'endure plus
                je te désire

               His words interspersed with kisses, LaCroix asked softly, "Alors Nicolas, mon doux plaisir, are you certain that you want this? Have I your free consent to make you mine?"
               Nicholas turned in his father's arms, weak with desire, with such intoxicating nearness to his forbidden love. He breathed deeply of the rich, dark scent of his father, as much a part of him as his own tainted soul. Oh, such temptation! But he would not, could not deceive his master. Gathering his courage, he replied sadly, "It is only for today, LaCroix - you know that. I will not come back to you."
               A sharp flash of pain passed through them both at his words, as if some fine, enchanting possibility had been destroyed moments before its birth.
               LaCroix was silent, observing a brief interval of mourning for that small, stillborn hope of reunion. Concealing his disappointment, he nodded. "You will come back to me, mon cœur. It is only a matter of time - and I have all the time in the world." He paused briefly. Surprisingly, his son stood still and quiet. "I give you my word that I will not use this interlude to force your return."
               The younger man bowed his head, a subtle tension draining from him. "Thank you, Father." He gazed frankly into the icy depths of his master's eyes. "Mon bon maître, for today I give you my full and free consent, as you desire."
                prends-moi
                je suis à toi
               Unexpectedly, he smiled, an incandescent flash of joy lighting the darkness, an impudent boy peeking out from within his solemn eyes. He slipped suddenly from his father's arms, dancing out of reach. "Of course - you have to catch me first, old man!"
               LaCroix smiled slowly. <So, that is how he wishes to forget! Bien sûr, mon fils, comme tu veux. The game begins!> The outcome of the ensuing game of tag was inevitable, and the long-established forfeit eagerly anticipated by both.
               The chase was somewhat restrained, on this occasion. Nicholas was slowed by the pervasive fatigue of his prolonged fast, and further hampered by his desire to protect his objets d'art. LaCroix was also more than usually careful, not wishing an accident to break their fragile rapport, nor desirous of ending the pursuit too early. There was an exhilaration to be found in the chase itself, which he had sorely missed. If the price of extending his pleasure was an exertion of his considerable self-control, so be it. Despite his relative weakness, Nicholas repeatedly eluded the hands which
reached out to capture him. Nimble as a swift, he darted through the loft, long-practised skills being tested to the full. At times, he was mere hairbreadths ahead of his father. The occasional, fleeting brush of LaCroix' fingers across his skin left them both breathless, with more than exertion.
               The chase lasted a good half an hour, until Nicholas was sufficiently tired to be cornered at last. Triumphant, LaCroix pinned his panting, struggling son against the brick outer wall of the balcony. "Hah! You're still a quick little bird, n'es-tu, p'tit Nicolot? No matter, I've captured you again, my young gyrfalcon. I
always do, in the end." LaCroix grinned briefly, a flash of needlesharp teeth sending a shimmer of white-hot desire through Nick. The pursuit had been distinctly stimulating, as always.
               Nicholas pulled against his iron hold, trying to escape, to continue the sport. His father's almost negligent strength enticed him to fight, to test himself against the reassuringly inflexible grip. He wriggled against the lean body which held him pressed to the bricks, trying futilely to slip out of LaCroix' embrace.
               LaCroix grasped his son's wrists firmly, pinning them both behind Nicholas' back with one hand. He scowled, straw-coloured eyes streaked with hot gold. The elder's stern glance was lightened by the slight, irrepressible ghost of a smile which curved his lips seductively. "Be still, child! Unless you've a wish to be 'persuaded' to behave..." He looked speculatively at his son, one eyebrow raised. If the boy chose to continue to fight him, today could take a
distinctly interesting turn. That game had been a favourite in the past, but it had not been played for a very, very long time. He was not surprised, however, when the struggle ceased abruptly, and Nicholas relaxed in his arms, bowing his head in surrender.
               The ancient patrician sighed melodramatically, only half-feigning disappointment. "Pity. Eh bien, mon plaisir, another time perhaps." With his free hand, he stroked Nick's soft cheek, trailing his fingers along the curve of the jaw, lingering in the hollow of his throat.
                je suis lent et erraieur
                je veux tout
               Nicholas glanced coyly at his captor, his eyes flashing amber in the candlelight. "Peut-être, mon très puissant général... On ne sait jamais." He smiled enigmatically, not hiding his pleasure in the close contact of their bodies. Once again, he lifted his face to be kissed, his eyes bright with excitement, dancing with an unspoken challenge.
               LaCroix bent his head to meet that challenge, pressing his lips tentatively to his son's. Soft... ah, soft as rosepetals, those lips, sweet as honeyed wine... Ah, how could he have survived so many years without such ambrosial kisses?
               Distracted, he loosened his grip on his son's hands. Rather than seek to escape, Nicholas wrapped his arms around his master's muscular body, pulling the older man close. His mouth opened slightly, his lithe tongue darting out to caress LaCroix' lush, silken lips. He whimpered almost inaudibly as his master's tongue met his, invading his mouth, worshiping his sharp, sensitive canines.
               Releasing his son momentarily, LaCroix nodded toward the lower floor. Both men flew down to land on the rug before the fire. The table, which usually occupied the space in front of the leather couch, had been moved without comment during their earlier game, along with several of the more precious decorative items.
               LaCroix pulled his son to him, his long, elegant fingers twined in the tousled curls, their resumed kiss becoming ever deeper, more passionate. In delight at the remembered perfection, he caressed the sculpted muscles of the young one's shoulders and back, trailing his hands softly down to cup the firm, softly rounded ass.
               The game was well begun, its outcome certain.
                comme tu veux
                comme tu veux
                mea culpa
               LaCroix stepped back, regarding Nicholas with covert delight. He asked gently, taking them deeper into the ritual of the game, "Tell me, Nicholas. Who is your master?"
               His child hesitated a moment, then bowed his golden head. "You are, Master. I give myself to you."
               "Mine, yes..." the ancient Roman sighed with deep satisfaction. "You are mine, mon fils. Mine to use as I wish."
               "Oui, maître." Nicholas murmured.
               "Is this your free choice, Nicolot?" The answer was obvious - nonetheless, the question must be asked.
               There was a quiet pride in the younger man's voice as he replied, "My choice, and my duty, and my honour, maître."
               LaCroix cupped Nick's chin, lifting it. Meeting his son's gold-streaked eyes, he said, "Dis-moi, mon fils. Q'est-ce que tu est?"
               "Votre esclave, mon maître."
               "Mon esclave prècieux, c'est vrai..." LaCroix paused, a faint, incredulous smile flickering across his stern features. <Mais mois, j'ai été toujours ton esclave, mon désir sans limites...>
               Dipping his head, LaCroix licked at the corners of Nicholas' mouth, lightly, teasingly. With soft kisses, he traced a wandering path along the underside of his son's jaw. He paused, nibbling at the tender skin above the artery, breathing in the heady, spicy musk of the blood which slowly pulsed beneath his lips... Ah, so sweet, so close! He traced the finest of scratches in the hollow below Nick's ear, lapping eagerly at the welling droplets. A nova of
pleasure blossomed in his mind at the savour of the blood, his son's
precious blood.
               Nicholas turned his head, seeking to return the caresses, to taste his father's rich essence. The ancient vampire shivered as his son's mouth sought his throat, sucking gently at the soft flesh above his collarbone. He sighed softly as knowing hands stroked his back, curved possessively around the cheeks of his ass. He was almost lost in the pleasure, but recollected himself as he felt the slight prick of Nicholas' fangs.
               Pulling away sharply, he growled, "No, Nicholas! Not now. Not yet."
               The young, beautiful face twisted in frustration, the denied taste of his master sharpening his desire unbearably. Laying his head on his father's shoulder, he murmured coaxingly, "Mon père, s'il vous plait... Just this once? I can't wait - I want you now, I need you... J'ai soif, maître, soif de toi..."
               The plea left the ancient vampire breathless for a moment. Such temptation! Such sweet, soft tones, rousing his own denied hunger. Gently, he replied, "You chose our path, mon fils, not I. You would be disappointed if we did not play out the game to its end, n'est-ce pas?" The golden head, still resting lightly on his shoulder, nodded twice, reluctantly. "Very well, then. You must wait, and be patient. However, I think that we could both benefit from a drink. There are bottles in my bag - please bring one here. And put on some music. I am sure you can find something appropriate."
               Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Nicholas said softly, "Oui, maître. Comme vous voulez." He crossed to the stereo, choosing quickly, knowing precisely the music which best suited his mood. 'Enigma' - perfect. Dark, intense, and overwhelmingly sensual. He set the CD to repeat.
               He collected a wine bottle from his father's supply, and two crystal goblets. He poured both full, handing the first to LaCroix, who sat on the leather couch. At his father's gesture, Nicholas sat beside him, placing the bottle on the floor. He sniffed the bloodwine, an expression of intense longing crossing his face. As he raised the glass to his lips, he faltered, stammering, "LaCroix, I can't... I mean..."
               LaCroix watched his child with sympathy. "I know that, Nicholas. But you will drink it, because it is what you need, and because I ask it of you. Unless you wish to end this, now?" One eyebrow raised, he placed his hand on the arm of the couch, as if to rise.
               Hastily, Nick said, "No! Please, maître..." He sipped the wine once, twice, then drained the glass in one draught. An expression of awed contentment suffused his face, almost erasing the fine, ingrained tension around his eyes which alone betrayed his perpetual hunger. Shyly, he continued, not looking at LaCroix, "Pardonnez-moi maître, I should not have questioned you."
               The ancient vampire regarded him sternly. "No, you should not have. However, I accept your apology." He refilled his son's glass. "I cannot have you distracted by thirst, Nicholas. Drink." He noted the slight flush which crept across the pale cheeks as the blood, and the unaccustomed alcohol, took effect.
               Draining his own glass, he handed it and the bottle to his son, who silently took them to the kitchen, rinsing them and disposing of the empty bottle.
               LaCroix rose to meet him on his return, pulling Nicholas roughly into his embrace. Once again, he kissed his young lover avidly. The sweet, intimate taste of his protégé filled his thoughts, the kisses alone almost more pleasure than he could bear. His ran his tongue lightly across his golden child's fangs, fighting down his urge to impale himself on their thorny points. Nicholas shivered, whimpering at the caress, shaking as he fought to stay still, not to pierce his master's flesh, not to taste unbidden of his ancient blood.
               Struggling to control his urge to take his beautiful son there and then, LaCroix flung back his head. Nick's lips sought his neck, his soft tongue tracing intricate patterns, crossing and re-crossing the smooth, white throat.
               Brushing his fingers across his child's nipples, soft and elusive as the beating of butterfly wings, LaCroix elicited a quiet moan of desire. He smiled, noting the slight twitch of reaction as he slowly lowered his hand, tracing the smooth stomach, the narrow hip. Nicholas gasped, dropping his head to his master's shoulder, as the longing became too intense, the exquisite sensations too overwhelming to resist. He was fast becoming a creature of pure, mindless lust - for his master's touch, his flesh, his sweet, sweet blood...
               LaCroix turned his head to nibble softly on his son's tender throat. He stroked the younger vampire's muscular back and hips, cupping his round, firm ass. His hands moved to Nicholas' chest, his touch featherlight, endlessly teasing. Slowly, slowly, his hand slid down his son's stomach, finally coming to rest just below the silver belt buckle. His fingers stroked the achingly sensitive
area - his touch light, so damnably light! "Aah, Father, please..." Nick breathed, his hips bucking forward, his flesh seeking contact. The tormenting hand disappeared as he spoke, only to tweak his nipple a moment later, shocking him back to awareness. He lifted his head, barely able to focus on his master's face.
               The ancient vampire watched his favourite child intently. He smiled wickedly, fond cruelty glinting in his topaz eyes. "Oh my, we are hungry, aren't we, my wanton son? How long has it been, mon mignon? How long, since you pressed yourself against my hand this way, begging for my touch? How long since anyone has tormented you as you deserve?"
               Nicholas closed his eyes, his golden head bowing in delicious humiliation. The firelight made a flickering halo of his hair - the light of heaven inextricably mingled with the flames of hell. He stood bathed in dancing shadows, a gloriously desirable dark angel.
               LaCroix lifted his child's chin firmly. A silken thread of menace wove through his words as he said softly, "I asked you a question, Nicholas." Amber eyes regarded him warily, but there was no answer.
               Fast as a cobra striking, he slapped his son harshly, hissing, "Réponds-moi, esclave!" A second backhand slap, on the other cheek, rocked Nicholas back on his heels. The younger man stepped away from his master, shaking his head, still silent.
               Grasping Nicholas' shoulder, LaCroix forced his recalcitrant protégé to his knees. "I will not ask you again, Nicholas. How long has it been?"
               The young vampire lifted his troubled face to his master, his eyes cast down. A moment of silence passed, before he whispered, "Aah, maître... it has been far too long..." He bowed his head again, finally prepared to surrender his will to his master's.
               The patrician face softened with pleasure at the enchanting sight of his son kneeling in submission before him. His silken voice, however, retained its warning undertone of steel. "Yes... I am sure it has been, Nicholas. Far, far too long. Dis-moi, p'tit - have you ever found another who has truly known your inmost darkness? Another who understands your needs, your longing to abase yourself, to beg forgiveness, to plead for punishment... Another who
knows how to make you hungry with just a word, leaving you ravenous for his touch? Have you, mon esclave?"
               Nicholas glanced up, briefly, as his master paused, then down again. His breathing was ragged and quick. "Non... non, maître, I have never found such a lover. No-one has ever known me as you do. And there has been no-one else, not in so long... So very, very long..."
               LaCroix seated himself on the couch, watching his son closely. "And all this time, Nicholas, all of these long, lonely years... You have denied your nature, you have starved yourself of blood, of the company of your own kind. You, who have always been such a sensuous creature - so responsive to a glance, the lightest brush of skin, the beating of a heart - surely you cannot have denied yourself all pleasures, mon doux? The pleasure of your own touch - this least of solaces must be allowed, even in your world."
               Nicholas nodded his head, slowly. Their bond thrummed slightly with LaCroix' disapproval at his silence. Reluctantly, he whispered, "Oui, maître."
               Settling back comfortably on the butter-soft leather, LaCroix continued lazily, "Well, then. Show me how you have amused yourself in my absence."
               Nick looked up at his master, sapphire eyes round and dark with shame. "LaCroix, no! I -please! I can't do that... don't ask me..."
               Lightning-fast, LaCroix was on his feet, lifting his son by the bunched fabric of his collar, slamming him against the wall beside the fireplace. His sulphurous eyes were streaked with crimson, his features contorted with sudden rage. Needle-sharp fangs glinting as he spoke, he growled, "Do you dare to defy me, boy? You started this, not I, you chose this! I swear to you, if you question me again, you will have more than a bit of embarrassment to fear. I know how to hurt you, Nicholas, and how to make it last."
               Brusquely releasing his hold on his son's shirt, he continued, "Now, take those damned clothes off. I want to see you, all of you. And then I want to see you touch yourself. I want to watch you, to see how you have passed so many days, since you last came to me..." He sat on the couch, leaning back luxuriantly, his expressive voice once more calm and controlled. "And you will do it, mon fils. Never doubt that. I am in no mood to be baited."
               Nicholas lifted his hands, clumsy with haste, to unbutton his silk shirt. He paused, his eyes darting anxiously to his father's face. LaCroix gazed on him with a sardonic eye, commenting lazily, "Take your time, cheri. I have all day, after all. You do remember how to move gracefully, I hope."
               LaCroix watched, fascinated, as his son bowed his face to his hands, breathing slowly, deeply. When he lifted his head, his expression was schooled to calm blankness. Raising himself to his full height, he walked with the poise of a dancer to stand at the precise centre of the Persian carpet before the fireplace. He briefly nodded his head in acknowledgement of his audience, his hair a radiant halo, his loose black pyjamas shrouding the treasure within.
               Gazing at a point above his master's head, he once again raised his fingers to his collar, moving this time with conscious grace. He paused a moment after he loosed the first button, stroking the soft silk, before lowering his hands to continue the process, slowly revealing glowing alabaster skin. The flickering candlelight gilded the fine hairs which dusted his chest.
               Nicholas' eyes drifted shut as he let the shirt fall loosely open. He shivered infinitesimally as the silk skimmed the tight buds of his nipples. With his right hand, he caressed his chest, running his fingers in lazy circles around the sensitive flesh.
               Slowly, his hand slid down to the buttons of his pants. His attention was riveted by his sire's sharp intake of breath as the top button of the fly slipped open. He allowed his hand to linger a moment, milk-white against the black silk, teasing them both with his light touch.
               The rapt expression on LaCroix' face captivated Nick, a heady sense of the power of his submission sweeping through him. Prolonging the moment, he pivoted with fluid grace, turning to face the fire. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it slip slowly down his arms, catching for a moment on his hands, before landing in a dark heap around his feet. The shirt was followed
swiftly by the fall of the pants. He stood motionless, his arms at his sides, head held proud. Only his hands, clenched into loose fists, betrayed his warring desires, the intense shame which struggled to overcome his growing excitement.
               j'endure plus
               je te désire
               prends-moi
               je suis à toi
               mea culpa
               Always, he tried to deny that part of him which revelled in this submission to his master's will, which craved this humiliation, this laying bare of his darkest desires. And always, in the end, he surrendered to it, to his father, his master... his Lucien, his dark lightbringer.
               LaCroix watched enraptured as his son disrobed, the uncovering of the pale skin arousing him more than he had thought possible. The fine, sculpted muscles of Nicholas' shoulders melded into the smooth curve of his waist, his back narrowing gracefully to meet the swell of his ass, tapering again to the strong thighs of a man born to the saddle. He stepped out of the black puddle of silk, his bare feet sensuous and beautiful in the firelight.
               Turning slowly, he faced his master, his eyes cast down. Enchanted, as always, by his son's perfect form, LaCroix sighed deeply. <Ah, my Phœbus Apollo, my perfect young god! Such a radiant beauty you have, my eternal angel...>
               The ancient vampire motioned to his protégé to be seated in the overstuffed leather armchair. Nick sat, his posture erect and formal, fear and embarrassment still warring with his ever-increasing desire.
               LaCroix' smooth, rich voice caressed his son, blending with the sensuous music drifting through the loft. "Écoute, mon trésor... Relax, Nicholas. Listen to the music - the words, the rhythm..."
               je vous aller au bout de mes fantasmes
               je sais que c'est interdit
               je suis folle
               je m'abandonne
               mea culpa
               "Feel the currents of air, the soothing heat of the fire. Revel in the cool, soft caress of leather against your skin, the way it moulds itself to your body. Relax, mon cher... and show me how you please yourself."
               The young vampire took a deep, steadying breath. He closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. His hand traced slowly upward, stroking his chest, his exquisitely sensitive throat. His head turned to meet the caress, his neck arching, the ivory skin stretched taut over the barely pulsing artery. He licked his fingers as they came within reach, sliding his warm, pointed tongue across their tips. He began to suck each finger in turn, the texture of his own tongue arousing him unbearably.
               He imagined himself licking not his own fingers but his master's cock, sliding his mouth lightly back and forth on the silken shaft, teasing... Twirling his tongue around the tip, licking the salty, blood-tinged drops seeping slowly from the eye.
               His other hand slipped down to meet his erection, grasping it firmly. Almost unbidden, it began the familiar, comforting dance of pleasure. His fingers slipped from his mouth to caress his belly - to circle, then pinch, then twist his nipples, while he stroked slow-slow-fast...
               LaCroix watched avidly, gradually drawn to stand by him, to share vicariously in his pleasure. He gloried in his Puritan son's rare abandonment of asceticism in favour of this wanton sensuality.
               je suis lent et erraieur
               je veux tout
               comme tu veux
               comme tu veux
               mea culpa
               Sitting on the arm of the chair, LaCroix stroked the wild, honey-coloured curls, the silken strands electric under his fingers. His hands gradually slipped downward, stroking his son's arched neck, tickling the soft hollow under his ear, sending a tremor of pleasure along the fine limbs. The ancient traced the curve of the muscles in the strong shoulders, ghosting across the chest, barely brushing its fine, golden hairs. He drew lazy, tantalising circles
around the crinkled nipples, random patterns across the hard stomach. He placed his hand over his son's, as it rose and fell. The little bit of extra pressure, the slightly altered rhythm caused the boy's breath to come in ragged gasps.
               Nick grasped LaCroix' teasing hand, bringing it up to his mouth. His hot tongue flicked out, wetting the tip of the first finger, the outbreath chilling it. His tongue twined around his master's finger, drawing it into his waiting mouth, so soft, so slick, so inviting... Nick suckled avidly at his father's fingers, one and two at a time, the suction pulling them in, pushing them out in rhythm with the hand on his cock, his now free hand returning to its exploration of his own soft skin.
               Lost in the sensation, the taste of his father, wanting - needing - more, Nicholas finally, irresistibly, reached for LaCroix. His hands slid across the fine linen shirt, searching sightlessly to find his master's sensitive nipples. LaCroix moaned as Nick caressed the hardened nubs, fighting his increasingly intense desire to take his son, to fuck him...To taste his own ecstasy, distilled and enriched, within his child's blood. He resolutely removed the distracting hands, redirecting them to their former occupations.
               Firmly, he admonished, "No, Nicholas. I did not say you might touch me."
               Nick murmured contritely, "Pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie, mon cher maître..."
               LaCroix stroked his son's hair lightly, watching him avidly through half-lidded eyes, lost in a flood of sensations. Nicholas' skilful tongue once again teased his fingers, rousing memories of other caresses, other kisses, other times. The sweet, coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth as he bit his lip,    determined to keep control - of himself, of his son, of their mounting passion.
               Nick's hands slowed, a growl of frustration rising from deep in his chest. This was not, could never be, enough! Grasping LaCroix' hands, he kissed his father's palms reverently. His voice rough with urgent longing, he pleaded softly, "Ah, LaCroix, s'il vous plait... Je vous désire tant! I can't stand this much longer... Please, master, let me taste you, let me please you... J'en ai besoin, mon cher, mon père adoré... prends moi, je t'en prie..."
               He began to unbutton his master's black linen shirt, desperate with desire, trembling in fear that he would be denied once more. LaCroix was silent. He sat stone-still, eyes tightly shut, body tense with the lust which consumed him. The walls between father and son began to crumble, their bond rich with love, sharp with hunger.
               The younger vampire stood. He continued to open his father's shirt, the linen crisp and cool under his sensitive fingers. The uncovered skin shone like marble in the firelight, tempting him to taste it, to worship at the altar of his sire's flesh. With trembling fingers, he loosed the last button, the sides of the shirt falling free, black curtains slipping back to reveal the perfection within.
               Nick leaned down to drop petal-soft kisses on the silken skin of his master's neck, the tip of his tongue flicking out to paint a hot-cold trail where his lips had touched. He drew back when LaCroix shifted slightly, fearing a rebuke for his forwardness.
               Abruptly, LaCroix stood. Pointing imperiously at a spot before the fire, he growled, "Kneel." With swift movements, he threw off his clothes, save only the loose shirt. It hung open, revealing glimpses of firm, ivory flesh.
               Dropping to his knees at the appointed place, tawny eyes averted from the glorious sight being disclosed before him, Nicholas awaited his master's pleasure. LaCroix' strong hand stroked his hair, the light touch comforting him, without decreasing his apprehension.
               "I am going to fuck your sweet, soft mouth, mon Nicolot." LaCroix noticed his son's quick, soft inbreath, the slight, involuntary lifting of his head. The ghost of a smile quirked the corner of his mouth, the lush lips curving in sensuous anticipation.
               Nicholas whispered softly, "Merci, maître..." He lightly kissed the soft, silken tip of his father's firm cock. His breath came faster as he tasted the pale-pink tear glistening there.
               The velvet touch of his words teasing Nicholas' tingling nerves, the ancient continued with gentle severity, "While I take your mouth, mon mignon, you will continue to caress yourself. I want you to open yourself to me, to feel you riding the wave of your pleasure... but you will not allow yourself to come until I tell you to, nor will you draw blood without permission. I know you can do this, mon fils. I know precisely what you can endure. I can feel how close you are now, merely from anticipation... You cannot hide from me. Your mind, your body, are mine - you are mine, Nicholas, as you have always been!"
               Nick laid his head softly against the ancient vampire's strong thigh, captivated by the texture of the curled hair brushing his cheek, by the warm, haunting musk of his master's arousal.
               His voice rough with desire, LaCroix said softly, a hint of steel sheathed within his tone, "Mon esclave doux, you will obey me. I would not like to be disappointed in you."
               Raising his face, his eyes remaining demurely lowered, Nick murmured fervently, "I will not disappoint you, maître... I swear it!" He trembled, knowing just how difficult LaCroix would make it for him to keep his promise, and in fear of the consequences, should he fail.
               LaCroix stood motionless as Nicholas' soft lips parted to slip along his achingly hard shaft, the wet heat of the caress sending waves of tiny shivers down his spine. Nick began to slide his mouth lightly up and down on the silken cock, the barely-felt touch of his lips and tongue teasing his master almost beyond endurance. <Ah, mon fils! You have not forgotten your tricks... You always were the devious one...> Nick reached down to stroke his own cock, sending a shock of pleasure along their bond.
               The ancient vampire twined his fingers in his son's golden hair, holding Nicholas motionless while he struggled to restrain his passion, his control stretched almost to breaking point.
               LaCroix invaded his son's mouth, fucking him slowly and intently. Nick felt himself becoming almost passive, an instrument of his master's desires. His hands on his cock, caressing his belly, his nipples, his soft, white throat... these sensations were for his master's pleasure, more than his own. In his turn, he knew LaCroix' fierce, possessive joy in his willing obedience, as well as his urgent desire to test that obedience to its limits.
               Nick abandoned himself to the moment: to his master's control, the satin slickness of the long ivory shaft entering his mouth, the stimulation of his own touch. He slowly increased the pressure, the suction on the firm cock thrusting into him, pushing his sire closer, closer to the edge of their mutual satisfaction.
               LaCroix was lost in the exquisite sensation of his Nicholas' hot, skilful mouth on his cock. He began to murmur softly, his words a caressing stream, washing the endless pain from his son's heart. "Ah, Nicolas! Mon fils doré, mon adoré!... Comme tu m'ai manqué, mon désir fou... Que j'adore te baiser, petit démon angélique..."
               Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he increased the pace and force of his thrusts, his black-velvet voice fraying at the edges, becoming ever more entrancing. "Tu est à moi pour toujours, mon fils bien-aimé, mon jeune frère... Oh, Nicolas, mon esclave prècieux... ma vie éternelle..." His voice finally faltered, his breath coming in jagged, imperative gasps. Suddenly, he pulled away from his son, stepping back to gaze into the shocked, lust-bright topaz eyes.
               Nicholas growled, "Please, LaCroix! Please, don't leave me like this... I need to taste you, I need to feel your fire in my blood! Please, master, I beg you, let me finish..."
               Panting, LaCroix laughed sharply. "Oh, you will, mignon! You will... But not just yet. You have done well, Nicholas... Remember your promise!" Quickly shedding his shirt, the ancient fell to his knees, capturing his golden son in a quick, demanding embrace. He pushed his child down to the floor, pausing a moment to contemplate the exquisite, alabaster beauty before him.
               The silken tufts of the carpet were intensely soft under Nick's skin, myriad small caresses. He shifted under LaCroix' gaze, reaching one strong arm up pleadingly, to pull his master to him. "Father, please... I need you!"
               LaCroix yielded, at last, to his son's pleas, and to his own insistent need to feel the soft skin under his hands, the length of the hard body beneath his own. He stretched his long form out beside his son's, leaning on one arm as he began to kiss the luscious mouth, to stroke the tender throat.
               He could taste his own musk on Nicholas' lips, smell it on his cheeks, as their tongues danced. He caressed the smooth, firm flesh, lingering in the places peculiar to their lovemaking - the soft hollow at the base of his spine, the precise spot on his side just beneath the ribcage, the tender flesh behind his ear.
               Nicholas lay quite still, not daring even to touch his sire's marble flesh. He feared breaking his fragile control of his body's responses, or worse still angering his master by acting without permission once again. He whispered, "Master, let me hold you... Please, LaCroix, please let me touch you, mon beau maître..."
               LaCroix closed his eyes briefly, uncertain whether even his adamantine will could long withstand his son's caresses. He sighed, finally surrendering himself to the moment. Come what might, for now his precious child was here, and his own. "Yesss, Nicholas... Ah, my Nicholas, touch me, hold me..." He sighed, kissing the soft, ripe lips, "You are mine, my beloved... forever mine..."
               And the ancient, eternal dance of passion began.
               ...Soft caresses, cool hands stroking, silking across lust-heated flesh... Rosepetal lips dripping honeyed kisses across arched throats, soft bellies, tight nipples... Tongue engaging tongue, feinting, striking, retreating, encircling...
               ...Limbs entwining, parting, holding... licking, biting flesh rough with curled hair, tender as a child's... <no blood, mon fils, no blood!>... Mouths, hands demanding, insisting, yielding utterly, ecstatically...
               ...Hips rocking in desperate need, cocks captive between bloodsweat-slick bodies... Fingers tangled in spun-gold silken tresses, brushing through wheat-gold prickly-soft velvet... Topaz eyes holding amber... deadly sharp eyeteeth flashing...
               ...Hunger, ah! hunger rising!... hunger unceasing for blood, for sensation... for death, for life... for love, even love... forever... forever, my love!...
               When Nick was certain he could bear it no longer, still his master forced him to wait. The hunger, the lust built within him, until he felt that he must surely die from an excess of pleasure. Nicholas gasped, "Oh, comme je t'adore! Ah, s'il te plait, Lucien, prends-moi!... Je t'adore, mon plaisir défendu..." His tumbled words were punctuated by frenzied kisses. "Baise-moi, maître... baise-moi,
je t'en prie! Comme tu veux, mon maître... Toujours, toujours comme tu
veux... Prends-moi!"
               Nick's incoherent pleas, his wanton abandon roused a cruel glee in his sire, paradoxically fuelling his self-restraint, his desire to prolong the moment to its utmost point. LaCroix smiled wickedly, counselling patience, his silken voice low and coaxing. "Mon pauvre Nicolas! Doucement, mon mignon... Il faut attendre l'extase. Attends, ma passion ravageuse, attends..."
               Nicholas was beyond patience, and beyond resistance to his master's will. His world was ecstasy and endurance, no more. "Dieu, comme je te désire! Ah, master - I am yours, mon amant éternel... I'm so hungry, I want you so much... Take me, Father, je t'en prie... Please, Lucien, I beg you, take me!" He was nearly beyond conscious thought, the waves of bliss overwhelming his sensitised nerves.
               Finally, LaCroix relented, whispering hoarsely, "Tu est à moi, Nicolot! Mine, forever... Now, mon fils, drink now! Forever, my Nicholas!" Fangs sharp as knives slipped into the slowly-pulsing vein in his son's neck.
               Nick reared his head back, a bestial scream escaping his lips, as the razor-sharp agony of pleasure coursed through him. He fell savagely on his master's throat, tearing the skin in his haste to drink of the ancient blood within. He drank with an urgency which would have drained a mortal in seconds. A second wave of ecstasy broke over them both, reverberating within their conjoined minds, their sticky-pink seed slick and warm between their bellies.
               After the first intensity of feeding passed, they lay a long time, entwined, drinking ever more lazily of the mingled blood. They drifted in joined memories, lost within the haze of their long-denied, eternal love. Slowly, unwillingly, they returned to their separate selves, their Elysian visions slipping inexorably into the half-remembered state of dreams.
               LaCroix reluctantly withdrew his teeth, licking gently at the wounds on his son's throat, savouring the last ruby drops of precious blood which glistened against the ivory skin. Reluctantly, Nicholas followed suit, tenderly kissing his father's torn flesh.
               Nick turned his head, capturing LaCroix' mouth. He kissed his sire deeply, thoroughly, treasuring every moment of their fleetingly recaptured intimacy.
               Breaking the kiss, he laid his head on his father's shoulder, holding tight to the familiar strength. They lay in silence for some minutes, caressing one another only through the melding of their minds. It had been so long, too long, since either had felt such peace, such comfort as at this moment. Nicholas whispered, "Thank you, Lucien. I have missed you, mon amour."
               Hot, unexpected tears pricked at LaCroix' glacial eyes. He kissed his child's forehead tenderly, rubbing his cheek against the golden-bright curls. <And yet, you will leave me...> he thought sadly. Eh bien, this too would pass. One day, when his beloved desired it so, they would be together, forever. And he would defy even the Fates to part them again.

               ~fin~
               ***********
               Lyrics of: 'Mea Culpa' Enigma - MCMXC a.D.
               (Transcription and translation are mine, and I apologise for any errors.)
               Kyrie eleison    Lord have mercy
               Christi eleison    Christ have mercy
               j'endure plus    I endure more
               the time has come
               je te désire    I want you
               the time has come
               prends-moi    take me
               je suis à toi    I am yours
               mea culpa    the fault is mine
               je vous aller au bout de mes fantasmes I am going to you, after my fantasies
               je sais que c'est interdit   I know that it is forbidden
               je suis folle    I am mad
               je m'abandonne    I surrender myself
               mea culpa    the fault is mine
               Kyrie eleison    Lord have mercy
               Christi eleison    Christ have mercy
               je suis lent et erraieur   I am slow and wandering
               je ne peut rien      I can do nothing
               je deviens folle    I must be mad
               je m'abandonne    I surrender myself
               mea culpa    the fault is mine
               j'endure plus    I endure more
               je te désire    I want you
               prends-moi    take me
               je suis à toi    I am yours
               Kyrie eleison    Lord have mercy
               Christi eleison    Christ have mercy
               je suis lent et erraieur   I am slow and wandering
               je veux tout    I want everything
               comme tu veux    As you wish
               comme tu veux    As you wish
               mea culpa    the fault is mine
               ***********
               A note on these translations:
               I have in most cases translated as literally as possible, well aware that many of these terms 'work' much better in French than in English. Most of the endearments are sourced from 'Le Dico des Mots-Caresses' by Marie Treps. Many of them date to the sixteenth century or earlier. A few phrases are also drawn from Wm Shakespeare's 'Henry V.' (I am assuming that both gentlemen are likely to revert to antiquated phrasings at times.) Any errors are entirely my fault, and the product of my own disordered brain!
               Que suis-je? - What am I?
               Votre esclave - Your slave
               mon fils - my son
               mon père - my father
               Aidez-moi - help me
               je vous prie / je te prie - please (lit. I beg you)
               mon seigneur - my lord
               mon maître - my master
               mon désir défendu - my forbidden desire
               Ils ne sont que des rêves, mon cœur, des fantasmes - They're only dreams, my heart, fantasies.
               je suis épuisé - I'm worn out
               amant - lover
               beau chevalier - handsome knight
               ange de tristesse - angel of sadness
               mon désir - my desire
               faites-moi oublier cette monde du chagrin - make me forget this world of sorrow
               jeune - young
               Alors Nicolas, mon doux plaisir - So, Nicholas, my sweet pleasure
               Mon bon maître - my good master
               Bien sûr - certainly
               comme tu veux / comme vous voulez - as you wish
               n'es-tu, p'tit Nicolot? - aren't you, little Nicolot?
               (Nicolot is a non-canon but logical Old French diminutive of Nicolas.)
               Eh bien - Oh well
               Peut-être, mon très puissant général - Perhaps, my very powerful General
               On ne sait jamais - One never knows
               Dis-moi, mon fils - tell me, my son
               Q'est-ce que tu est? - What are you?
               Mon esclave prècieux, c'est vrai... - My precious slave, that's true
               Mais mois, j'ai été toujours ton esclave - But me, I have always been your slave
               mon désir sans limites - my desire without limits
               s'il vous plait / s'il te plait - please
               J'ai soif, maître, soif de toi - I'm thirsty, master, thirsty for you
               n'est-ce pas? - isn't that so?
               Pardonnez-moi - pardon me
               mon mignon - sweet, cute. Also, a (specifically, effeminate) gay lover. This use dates to the 15th century... Amazing, what you can learn from reading dictionaries. <g>
               Réponds-moi - answer me
               Dis-moi - tell me
               mon doux - my sweet
               cheri - darling
               mon cher - my dear
               Écoute, mon trésor - listen, my treasure
               Je vous désire tant! - I want you so much!
               J'en ai besoin - I need it
               mon père adoré - my adored father
               prends moi, je t'en prie - take me, I beg you
               Merci - thank you
               Mon fils doré - my golden son
               Comme tu m'ai manqué, mon désir fou - How I have missed you, my mad desire
               Que j'adore te baiser - I love to fuck you
               petit démon angélique - little angelic demon
               Tu est à moi pour toujours - you are mine, forever
               mon fils bien-aimé - my beloved son
               mon jeune frère - my young brother
               ma vie éternelle - my eternal life
               mon beau maître - my handsome master
               Oh, comme je t'adore! - Oh, how I adore you!
               mon plaisir défendu - my forbidden pleasure
               Baise-moi - fuck me (Colloquial. Officially, baiser = to kiss. <g>)
               Toujours, comme tu veux - Always, as you wish
               Mon pauvre Nicolas! - my poor Nicolas!
               Doucement - softly, slowly
               Il faut attendre l'extase - One must wait for ecstasy
               Attends, ma passion ravageuse, attends... - Wait, my devastating passion, wait
               Dieu, comme je te désire! - God, how I want you!
               mon amant éternel - my eternal lover
               Tu est à moi - you are mine
               mon amour - my love