Slice of Time

Rich embroidered tapestries cover the window slits and dour stone walls, trapping frigid air before it can penetrate the room. The floor, ankle-deep in antique Persian rugs and furs, boasts a multitude of colourful pillows, strewn around with calculated spontaneity. Along one wall looms a fireplace, carved from a single piece of marble that flushes pinkly in the reflecting light of the crackling flames.

Before it, slightly hunched and silhouetted by the glow, slouches a figure, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist. His profile, classically featured and heavy browed, casts a shifting shadow against the opposite wall and long hair, caught in a black ribbon, spirals down his back, a dark serpent uncoiling against pale, naked skin. On his trousered lap he holds a small book and, periodically, an elegant finger makes its way to his lips, pauses for a second and then descends to turn a single page. A glass and decanter stand next to him, warming on the hearth, both half-filled with a ruby liquid that clings to the crystal, leaving a slick sheen gleaming redly in the dim light.

Outside, the wind screams its defiance, flinging hand-sized gobs of snow against the parapet and searching for a way in to this small oasis of calm and heat. Its attempts seem futile until the door opens, bringing with it a swirl of frozen air and a well-wrapped form, caked in white and shaking snow from its mousy-blond hair. The man by the fireplace glances up, frowning slightly at the sudden drop in temperature, before returning to his well-thumbed tome.

"Good hunting?" he asks in a voice as cool as the melt-water dripping from the visitor’s coat.

The garment hits the floor with a soggy thud, followed by soaking boots, socks and trousers. Clad only in his shirt, the newcomer saunters over to the fire, turning in front of it and lifting the hem to warm his buttocks. "Not a buggering thing," he comments with a disgusted snort and then frowns down at the decanter. "What’s that?"

"My supper."

The visitor makes a grab for the glass, stopped midway by a steely hand on his wrist that moves faster than an eye could blink.

"I said, my supper." The grip remains as two gazes collide, blue and black both boasting a glimmer of gold, and only relents when blue slides to the side dropping the overt challenge. Long fingers caress the bruises rising rapidly on the slim wrist and the dark-haired man continues in a more conciliatory tone, "Later. There may be enough for two."

With a gentle tug, he drags the other man down to his side where their bodies seam with an ease that belies their heated exchange. The same fingers that had dealt pain, card through tousled hair, and lips drop to murmur, "I realise you are hungry, William, but the rules are there for a reason. Understand?"

The faintest of sighs escapes the visitor and all tension flows from his body. "Yes, Angelus, I understand," he answers, and is rewarded with a kiss.

Several hours pass in silence. Angelus reads steadily, sipping at the warm blood. William sleeps restlessly at his side, hands often searching out the reassuring presence beside him. Finally the book is placed carefully to one side and Angelus rises, throws three more logs in the fire and leans on the mantle staring deeply into the flames.

Behind him, William stirs and, upon discovering the void, his eyes open, searching the room. Coming to rest on the brooding man, he opens his mouth as if to speak and then frowns, closing it again, reconsidering his options. Instead he hunts down the book, glaring at the indecipherable cover, and flicks through several pages that offer no further information to the uninitiated.

"Find anything?" he asks eventually, hopefully.

Angelus shrugs and then shakes his head.

William closes the book, runs a finger over the leather binding and sighs. Nothing, then. And they had put such hope in this. All for naught, it seemed.

"We’ll find something," he says with a nod, voice conveying more conviction than he feels. Angelus doesn’t bother to answer. There’s no point. They’ve been here too often and for too long for him to indulge in platitudes. He simply stares into the fire.

"Angelus?"

His name is said with a whisper and the scent of the reason hangs unspoken on the air. Hunger. William is hungry and further introspection will be impossible until he is fed.

Extending a hand, Angelus allows himself to be guided back onto the cushions, reclining and baring his neck in tacit consent. Fangs cut through his skin seeking nourishment from the long dead veins beneath and for a long moment the only sound is the gulping click of a vampire feeding.

By the time William has taken what he needs, they are both hard and aching, brought to the brink of climax by that simple act and Angelus shifts them around so that William is straddling his hips. Lips and tongue continue to worry at the closing wound and Angelus slides his hands under the fine cotton shirt to caress the lean muscled form of his lover. Of their own volition they trace languorous curlicues from shoulder to hip, gliding over smooth skin, finding every dip and curve, counting ribs and vertebrae in soundless contemplation.

Groin to demanding groin, the space between them diminishes, becoming slick with heat. William moans as Angelus palms his buttocks, kneading them, pressing and rolling the flesh, skilled fingers drifting down to explore and promise.

The slightest of movements allows Angelus to release himself, his erection sliding then, where his hands went before, captured and enclosed when William presses back, accepting and welcoming him home. Blood scent surrounds them both and the hunger is more then either can bear. Pushing William upright, Angelus strips him of his shirt, exposing every inch of the body he covets and, while one hand holds William still, the other seeks out what he needs. Glass cracks and shatters and he selects the longest sharpest splinter, its keen edges bringing touches of scarlet to his fingertips as he brings it to rest against the pale chest before him.

Breath catches in William’s throat at its touch and Angelus meets his eyes, his desire rising at the molten lust that burns there. The gentlest pressure sees William braced back against Angelus’ supporting knees; neck stretched, eyes half-closed, mouth open in supplication. And skin, from neck to nipple, parts under the makeshift blade, leaving ruby droplets gathering in its wake.

"Christ." The single word spills blasphemy into the air, making their joining that much sweeter and William’s fingers dig deep into Angelus’ thighs, his hips flexing as his cock twitches, releasing a solitary drop of diamond bright fluid.

More blood flows under the caress of the sharded glass, trailing now in rivulets that Angelus captures with fingers and tongue, illustrating the blank canvas with a host of random patterns. The only sounds are the crackle of flames and William’s breathing, increasingly unbridled under his master’s expert touch.

For every cut, Angelus feels himself getting closer to the edge, drawn there by the tightening muscles milking his erection and by the taste and smells surrounding him. William too, is close to coming. His fingers clenching and relaxing, inducing a rhythm his body is forbidden to make. Soon, Angelus thinks as he opens a shallow wound up the inside of one tense pale thigh, that pretty throat will gasp and the boy will lose his tenuous control.

In the meantime… he reaches for the weeping erection bobbing between them and tugs the foreskin back and down harshly, only bringing the blade in to play when the purpling head is fully exposed. Dots the surface with uncounted jabs – pinpricks, thorn pricks – educing strangled grunts that match them beat for beat. Some bleed, others don’t, it really makes no difference. There is enough blood to create the chalice he requires.

Anticipation delays the moment for eternity, but when it happens, when William sits suddenly upright and jerks his hips, driving Angelus deeper into his body, eyes flying wild and hands scrabbling at Angelus’ chest, Angelus is ready. Casting the glass aside, he grabs William by the thighs and drags him upwards, revelling in the moan of loss the action elicits. It doesn’t last long, replaced by a cry as Angelus swallows him whole, throat closing and working around the tender head, drinking down the blood and come that fills his mouth.

It rushes through him, sweeter than whisky, plummeting to his groin. He thrusts the boy back down, plunging into his pulsating body, deep, deeper. Nails gouge his chest, tracks of wildfire across his skin, blood rushing to the surface, exploding into the heated air along with the bellow ripping from his chest. And for a tantalising second he nearly feels his heart beat as he touches oblivion.

In the aftermath, silence returns. Breath steadies and stops. Arms, encircled and encircling, adjust, and foreheads press together. Eyes, once glazed with lust now drowsy with satiation, consider the situation and twin smiles are divulged before their lips meet in a chaste kiss, laden with hope newly born.

During their play the wind has dropped and the world is wrapped in the profound stillness that only follows a storm. Somewhere out there, Darla and Dru are waiting, and they will find them. They will.


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