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Armand By Jill

Jill Morrison
I wrote this one on a whim because I love Armand *and* Krycek, although this story is dedicated to my favorite vampire. I don't own him, or Krycek, but I do understand both of them better than their handlers. *eg* I know what Anne Rice says about vampires and sex, but she's wrong, and Armand wants to prove it. If you disagree, please don't shoot me for it - I'm young. *eg*
Anyway, there aren't really any spoilers in this story. Familiarity Vampire Chronicles will probably help, but it's not entirely necessary. The events (such as they are) take place around or shortly after "Paper Clip." Of course, it's NC-17, so act appropriately;-)
Archive to MKRA, or wherever else you think it should go.

By Jill

It was 2:30 in the morning, and *he* had asked me for vodka. I slip through another alleyway, bumping into someone as I hurry past. He rasps a threat after me, but I don't stop because he had asked me for vodka. The voice is singing in my head. "I'm going to get him vodka. I'm going to get him vodka."

I hadn't been in love for such a long, long time. I missed this fever state love brings, missed the overriding passion that allows me to focus completely on *him* without distraction. I live for him; he is what makes each night worthwhile, he's the reason why I'm *alive* tonight. I'm obsessed. I adore being in love. And to love this one, who is so much like me -- I could not ask for more.

So when he'd woken up in my arms and asked whether I liked vodka and did I have any, nothing else had mattered. I'd left him there in the bed, among the tangled sheets, and gone off after his vodka. "Do you like vodka?" he'd asked me. "Do you have any?" I could hear his voice even now in my head, husky and deep. I could feel the way his eyes burned with love as I'd gotten up wordlessly and gone to get him his vodka. It was everything now, to get him this drink. Even had I known what it tasted of, it would have been only for him. And even if I could taste it now, I doubt I would prefer it to what *I* drink.

I stop at one of those stores it seems you can find in every city now, if you know where to look. The man behind the counter accepts my money without asking any of the questions law in this century requires him to ask. Such a change, it seems to me. When I first tasted alcohol, nobody asked me for my age; nobody cared.

So I carry his drink in a brown paper bag in my hand. Intent now on my own thirst, I turn back down the alleyway, searching for the man I bumped into not half an hour ago.


I return to the room where I'd watch him fall asleep last morning at dawn. Light from the fireplace illuminates the tangled mess of sheets where he'd slept, flickering into the corners of the room, making shadows dance across the walls. I'm not surprised to find that he is gone. Like myself, he is nocturnal, a predator. I sit down on a corner of the bed, turning the bottle of his vodka over and over in my hands, watching the firelight glinting through the clear liquid, waiting.

He returns with half the night gone, and I know that he's killed, though he's taken the time to bathe. I can still smell the blood on him. It's even more obvious to me by the way his skin glows, his eyes sparkle, he moves more quickly, breathes faster. He's beautiful right now. His smile when he sees me is feral, the whiteness of his teeth and eyes contrasting sharply with the darkness that cloaks him. He's so perfect; he's what I should have been, standing there with his auburn hair swept back off of his broad forehead, huge eyes glinting green in the dark, lips parted over a full mouth, a perfect mouth had his bottom row of teeth not been crooked. I worship him. He towers over me; even his breath smells sweet.

I rise from the bed, the vodka forgotten on the floor, and come to him. If he is perfect from afar, up close he is angelic. His pale skin, like mine, is flushed by his hunting tonight, though we derive different satisfactions from the kill.

He has a face to melt the hearts of popes and kings, a short, upturned nose, wide full mouth, high cheekbones. Like me, his age is not immediately apparent in that face, not unless you approach closely enough to see the faint lines issuing from the corners of his eyes, tracking their way across his forehead.

He regards me with that same steady, calm expression he always wears, and it's all I can do to keep from reaching out to him. But we are not like that together.

He slips past me in a movement so graceful I'm almost unaware of it. What a perfect vampire this one would make. But I will not, cannot do that to him. So I will watch him age, watch that beauty crumble and that grace fade away. I will watch this one die a mortal's death.

When I turn around, he's reclining on the bed. Lifting the bottle from its place beside him on the cushion, he raises it toward me before bringing it to his lips. I watch, mesmerized, as he drinks. From the way his eyes are shut against tears, from the way his face closes in on itself, I can see that his vodka burns. Sinew, tendon, blood vessels ripple in that strong neck as he works to choke the liquid down, and I have to turn away...

I find myself fighting back over 500 years of instinct, and it is hard. I have fed tonight, I fed last night and the night before, but the sight of him like this, *offering* himself to me without even knowing it... I'm so *hungry*. I love him too much. I can taste what his blood is like, knowing already that it is warm, thick, sweet. Without realizing it, my tongue darts between my lips, pausing briefly, feeling the sharpness of my teeth.

With a groan, he falls back across the bed, legs dangling over the edge of the mattress to rest on the floor, arms spread as if he were being crucified. He's balanced the bottle of vodka on his chest, half drained, and I watch as it rises and falls in time with his breathing. I cannot, from my position, see his face, but I know that his eyes are shut, and if he thinks at all, it is about his kill tonight.

Suddenly I wish for his self-assured composure. When his attention is not focused on me I feel lost, even in the confines of this small room. I live my life for and through the men I love, and when they do not acknowledge me, I have no purpose. I have been criticized for this by others who would like to believe that *they* are individuals. But even were such a thing possible, what a pale form of existence it would be...

Then, suddenly, those green eyes are focused on me with an intensity I've come to fear. What he is silently begging for is *not*, of course, impossible, but to do this to a mortal, to forge this bond with someone who will age and die, someone who by the very nature of his existence will never feel it the way *I* am capable of feeling it...

It would be too much.

Before I can react, he is standing before me. Reaching out with one finger, he tilts my chin so that I am once again forced to stare into his eyes. Their green centers darken to an intense black soot. I'm rooted to the ground as the finger begins to trace along my jaw, my cheek, my brow and ear, finally stopping to wind itself inside a strand of my hair, which I have not cut for him. His other arm is around my waist; it tightens there and he draws me to him. I resist him and then I do not, I no longer have control as I slide into his arms. I don't know if I can do this, I don't, but I do not stop.

My lips must feel so dry under his, paper thin and leathery. His tongue parts them lightly, and I draw back, confused, fearful. I cannot let this go on, but I cannot afford to lose him. He runs his hands up along my back, and I worry that the muscle will appear too hard, too cold, I think that it has been too long since I have fed. But he is running his hands through my hair again, and the world slips away from me. His mouth is fire.

I am surrounded by his scent, his blood thunders through his veins and in my ears. His lips pull tenderly at my cheek, my teeth graze the skin of his throat. He moans; he has no idea that I could betray his passion like this. He would hate me if he knew how easily I could kill him, and the thought hurts me like little else has. I love him more now than I have ever loved any of the others. His hands have started to pull at the silk of my shirt and I am forced to draw back; I must prevent him from seeing because for mortals, to see is to understand.

I had expected anger; I could have closed myself to it and I would have survived. But the pain in his face as I draw back is more than I can bear, it is so raw. He opens his mouth, that gorgeous throat working to make sounds which will express what he feels, but I already know. I have had to do this so many times before, but I realize that to do it now would kill me as surely as the sun. I reach up to touch his face, to trace those angelic lips.

"No," I whisper. "No, my beloved. Not me. You."

Without a sound he falls to his knees so that I am able to strip the leather jacket from his broad shoulders, unbutton the blue shirt underneath. He damages me.

His chest is smooth, hairless. I would compare it to marble were I not made of the substance myself. He is like a god to me, flawless in his beauty. I place the palms of my hands on his shoulders, then move them out and down over that chest, down further to the waist of his denim jeans. The fabric is worn, pliant, unlike me, my lover prefers old, worked clothing to the impeccable tailoring of the garments I wear. While I struggle with the catch of his belt, he leans forward, wrapping his strong arms around my waist and leaning his head on my stomach. His eyes are closed; he is divine. I can hear the bass thud of his heart as his breathing slows and relaxes; he begins to rock back and forth, all the while holding me about the waist. His shoulders alone are massive. Although I have been made physically powerful by blood and 500 years of this life, I feel that in this moment he could crush me without effort.

Turning his head, he kisses my naval, I can feel the benediction of his warm breath through my shirt. I am sure now that he could and will break me before the dawn arrives. I run my hand through his hair, also long, the thick strands like threads of gossamer in my hands. "Alexei," I breathe.

And with that he is standing, embracing me, and I lean my head against his chest as if I were a small, frightened child. He is moving now, guiding us both toward the bed, and I follow as a shadow would, as would a thing inseparable from *him*. He lies face down across the disordered sheets, and I lay myself on top of his broad back, reveling in the warmth that rises from his skin to suffuse *my* body. Lifting myself, I trace my mouth along his spine, working the dense network of muscle with my lips as I travel lower. He does not groan, not my lover, but his hands twist and work in the sheets, and his huge shoulders rise with each breath.

Finally I reach the small, perfect dimples where back meets waist, and pause, stroking my hands along his back, feeling the warm, pliant, *living* tissue of him. Then I am slipping the jeans down over his thighs, gathering the material in my hands, lifting one leg, then the other, and stripping the denim off over his feet. His calves, like the rest of him, are gorgeous, strong and perfectly shaped, built for running. My fingers play lightly over their surfaces before moving back up toward his buttocks. I swallow, a last testament to my human self before opening the front of my own pants. It has often been said of my kind that we are incapable of the intimacies of sex, and this is perhaps the largest falsehood which has been told concerning our species. For who more than us is capable of this act, we who are frozen in a parody of human arousal for eternity? I step closer, pressing his taut flesh aside with my hands, presenting his truth to my eyes. And through it all he lies on the bed, silent, still, trusting. His submission is sweeter than any struggle would ever be. I bend down, circling him with my tongue, intent now only on this. My fear has... not faded, no, but has retreated to leave me in a heightened state of intensity. I concentrate now on remembering, reaching back through the centuries to recall exactly what must be done for him.

Running my hands once more down the length of his body, I center myself and push. He gasps once, his spine arching and contracting like some exotic caterpillar, and then he is moving, pressing back onto me and then off. His hands work in the sheets, but aside from this one concession, he gives no indication as to what he is feeling. I've rediscovered the rhythm of it sooner than I had believed I would, and now I am pushing into him, countering the pattern of his thrusts. He twists his face sideways into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut so that I can see the wrinkles emanating from the bridge of his nose. I have gripped him by the waist, moving faster, a fine mist of blood sweat covering my body. He is no longer trying to disguise his arousal now; I can hear his harsh breaths even over the roaring in my own ears.

My blood is running through my veins like fire, and I can see him, his beauty, with a clarity that no human ever will. I watch, fascinated, horrified, as a deep blood-flush creeps across his back from his cheeks and neck. His hands clench and unclench in the bedclothes, and I can trace every separate muscle, tendon, and nerve ending as he writhes under me.

I remember now, what this was like, and the recollection hits me with all the force of the perception allotted to the undead, so that even though I cannot physically feel what he does, sensation, or rather the *memory* of sensation wracks my body, leaving me as stricken by our lovemaking as the man under me. He is warm around me, and that warmth is translated like flame to my body. He is tight, he is soft, he is velvet. I cry out, feeling something building inside of me, tightening me, even though nothing is truly changing within my body itself. Suddenly, I'm trembling, spiraling away into sensation, the world spinning out from my eyes. He convulses under me, and I know that the heat, the seed, is spilling out of him and not me, but I can feel it, waves of hot liquid pouring out of my body, into him, and I fall across his back, crying out.

I'm falling into some deep pit, losing my soul as I go, unable to stop, to gain the control I so desperately need right now. Out of all of them, only *he* has been able to do this to me, made me willing to do this to *him*. He rolls over, gathering me into his arms, caressing me, trying to relax muscles that will never be pliant. I am crying now, and he smoothes my damp hair from my forehead, rocking me and whispering meaningless syllables in my ear.

Slowly those syllables focus into words, and he is whispering that he loves me. I'm dying in his arms now, I'm in pain. His hand continues to comb through my hair, to wander across my shoulders, so frail compared to his. I close my eyes against the agony of knowing that it will not be long before he discovers that the sweat coating my body and his hands is blood.


Jill Made This!

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(c)February 13, 1998