Special thanks to Beanbeans for the gorgeous artwork for this story.
William had been rooted to the spot for hours.
The heavy, fancy-scrolled wooden doors before him had closed not long after he had denied the lure of his sire’s arms, outstretched though they were, because she had been reaching for him from the embrace of another. The sounds that made their way to his ears—he didn’t focus his newfound senses, for he really had no interest in hearing—did nothing but dig at the wound in his heart even as they stoked his fury.
The doors had opened again, an unkempt Angelus and a ravished Drusilla making their way out. Drusilla giggled and stumbled into Angelus, clinging to him like a limpet, gazing adoringly up at him as she stroked his arm as though it were an esteemed prize; Angelus, however, only had eyes—glittering, calculating, gleeful eyes—for William.
William felt the weight of that stare, heard every noise, could all but taste the mingled arousal and spendings that suffused the room, but he dignified none of it with his attention. Rather, he feigned sleep, his head tilted backwards against the wall, waiting for them to believe his lie. He needed for them to believe, needed the comfort of this facile deception to shield him from the ache of the truth that still flickered against the shades of his eyelids like shadows enlivened by candlelight.
Fooled or no, they were gone soon enough, leaving him there on that fine sofa, alone with his thoughts and the tattered remnants of the fine mess in which he found himself.
It seemed, however, that moments of peace and concentration were no more likely to be possible in this strange version of death than they had been during his life; all too soon, the steady, light-yet-solid snap of heeled shoes against floor announced the end of his privacy. The low rushing noise of Darla’s skirts attended her entrance into the room; stately and ordered as any queen, she strode into his sanctuary, pausing only a few steps inside and spinning on one elevated heel to address him, irritation suffusing her tone.
“William, have you seen—”
Slowly his eyes blinked open, though he didn’t raise his head. Disrespectful though it might have been, his energies were focused elsewhere, and no punishment to which his elders could sentence him would be worse than that which he’d already endured. He met Darla’s imperious gaze with what he hoped was an at least moderately challenging stare of his own.
The twist of her lips made it clear that he wasn’t yet as proficient at defiant glares as he had hoped, and when she spoke, her annoyance had given way to a mild blend of curiosity and amusement. “I see that Angelus has begun your lessons in earnest.”
His voice was raspy, pitched lower beneath the weight of his emotions, and the sound was unfamiliar to his ears. He sat up, squaring his shoulders as he answered. “It would seem to be so.”
“And what did my dear boy decide should be your primary lesson in our ways, young William?”
“Nothing belongs to me.” He modulated his voice carefully, kept the words flat and free of emotion, though the sheen of tears in his eyes was certain to give him away.
“I see.” Darla was in motion once again, dainty form made formidable by the vibrancy of her scarlet silk gown and the billowing of her skirts as she moved. The sheer power of her presence was something to which William hadn’t quite acclimated; then again, there were moments when it was clear that even Angelus was intimidated by his diminutive sire, and those moments gave William some small comfort as he struggled for purchase in his new world. “That is a particularly significant lesson. One with which Angelus still struggles, though you would do well to learn more quickly. He’s much less lenient an educator than I.” The sardonic smile that shaped those ruby lips provided the perfect accompaniment to her words.
William’s head once again reclined against the wall, a short bark of appreciative laughter accompanying the movement. He had learned too well, and all too quickly, of Darla’s ‘leniency.’ Closing his eyes to sleep yielded incessant choruses of her clipped, derisive tone delivering her always-scathing opinions and verdicts on his worth as a man and his potential as a vampire; better weapons than her words fangs and claws might have been, but she’d never need use them on William to achieve her desired results. Words would always hold him in line, create a niche for him and shape him until he fitted it effortlessly. And of course, this was something Darla knew, he realized as he cast his gaze towards her, meeting bright eyes that spoke of what he should already have suspected: Angelus was a keen student of humanity, but only because he had had the benefit of this excellent instructor.
She was the first to look away, casting her eyes downward as she rearranged her skirts, perching almost demurely on the edge of the windowseat, hands crossed in her lap as she stared out onto the gaslit street below. “Angelus is first and foremost an artist, you know. A master of blood and desecration, his achievements whispered throughout the clans of our brethren.” There was a fondness to her tone, a pride, that he was certain he’d never heard before. “Talented though he is, however, he’s young yet, enamored of the power of patriarchy and strap when it comes to our little family, and that is a failing, for there is much that can be used in the way of instruction. And he has yet to truly learn that his methods sometimes yield results that are… well, counterproductive.”
“And those would be?” William straightened, fearing that the question would be seen as impertinent; though he found himself braced for attack, still he asked, utterly under the thrall of this authority, of the spell she was weaving as she promised revelation.
Darla indeed raised a brow at his temerity; her eyes and answering smirk, however, spoke of something closer to appreciation of his courage. “It’s simply a matter of moderation. Nothing is won in chess by merely dashing your opponent’s pieces onto the floor, after all. Finesse and degree—nuance. The creation of true credits to our kind, rather than shattered shells of minds contained in undying bodies.”
Her nose wrinkled with slight disgust, and William was certain that her gaze shifted to the lust-wrecked bed in the other room for the barest of moments, though it could have been a trick of the light. “Whatever may occur during the remainder of your training, William,” she continued, “do remember that you are an Aurelian, and Aurelians are not sheep. Know your mind and its workings, create who you are from who you have been. Let Angelus teach you, but keep yourself in mind.” That slight crinkle of nose, a dissatisfied little moue of lip, and then she added, “You needn’t be his pawn; the one he has created is effort enough for all of us.”
His eyes widened for an instant at the hostility in those words, the animosity towards Drusilla of which he’d only previously seen the barest of indications; before Darla could catch him out at his scrutiny, however, he sniffed in a manner that he hoped signaled disinterest and looked away. Every motion was calculated to hide his hurt, to add mystique, to fit into the show of manliness that suited this being he was now—to create a persona worlds and eternities detached from the sniveling little boy that he had been.
“I believed that she was to have been my destiny.”
Despite his efforts at leeching them of emotion, the words were a shamed whisper, and he was surprised to look up and see something other than cold disregard for him in Darla’s eyes; it was the first time she had exhibited anything stronger than a mild and brief flaring of interest for him since he’d been turned, and the fact that her beautiful, stalwart mask had slipped at all was a surprise. The larger shock, however, was that the hint of emotion that she was allowing him to see was something close to sympathy.
A rustle of silk, a swish-hush sound that both grated and comforted, formed the orchestration of her slow walk towards him. He leaned back as she approached, the aura that surrounded her demanding his submission; he was thankful for the support of the high-backed settee, however, when her fingers crushed into the folds of that delicate gown, raising its hem just enough to allow first one knee, then the other, to frame his thighs as she arranged herself astride him.
“What are you doing?” He knew that he was stammering, that he was allowing his new veneer of worldliness to slip, but never had he been more stunned, more confounded. His body, however, seemed to suffer from no such confusion, and his hands slid up to enclose her waist.
She smiled then, though he was torn as to whether or not the expression could truly be called pleasant; there was something behind it that spoke of something darker than joy, that sent a chill through him even as her hands in his hair, on his face warmed him with suffusions of lust.
“Angelus won’t let her be your destiny. But I can be your diversion.”
“Why would you…” His brows knitted in confusion even as his head fell back, slender fingers dancing along his throat breaking his coherence.
Soft crimson lips against his jaw, then his ear, accompanying an alluring sirensong of promises whispered directly to the emptiest, most longing recess of his devastated heart. “Perhaps I know how it feels to be supplanted. To pledge your eternity to someone else, only to find that their fealty lasts only until the next big challenge, though you helped them succeed.”
“It hurts.” The words were a husky murmur, although only a fraction of their darkness had its origins in William’s heartache.
Darla leaned back, giving him a calculating look as one hand dropped to his shirt, working the buttons loose one by one. “It does,” she agreed, “in ways we shouldn’t feel. And I prefer for my pain to be external. Or better yet, to have it inflicted upon others.” A quick tug, and his shirt was free from his trousers; a play of fingers along shoulders, biceps, forearms, and then the soft cotton material lay pooled atop the dark fabric of the sofa.
Her hands moved to the fastenings of his trousers, and William moved his own to lock around her wrists, pausing her actions as he gauged her intentions. He’d known far too many women like Darla throughout his life, though it had taken his death to awaken him fully to their myriad means of deceit. For all their appearance of tenderness, of hearts on their sleeves, women like these were little more than well-concealed snakes. Cobras hiding behind lovely dresses, painted and primped, doing their best to entice, enchant, enthrall, ensnare—and all without the barest flicker of what a true heart would call a real emotion.
“You wish to hurt him.”
His spoken revelation was more of a challenge than was prudent, although Darla seemed to take no offense at his brazenness. She merely leaned forward and ran the tip of her tongue along the curve of his lower lip, rocking her hips slightly and giving a small, hitching sigh as the resulting contact with their joined hands elevated her arousal. As she arched her back, a sinful grin, edged with malevolence, formed his only warning; she struck within instants, blunt teeth worrying his lower lip as she wrenched her hands free from his grasp and released first one fastening, then another. Her hand wrapped around his erection, and she gave a low chuckle as he gasped and attempted to buck upward into the caress.
“Dear, dear boy. How delightfully provincial you remain.” She truly did look pleased at the potential for corruption. “Tender heart, thinking that only love can inspire such pursuits as these. But tell me, sweet William. Deep in that poet’s heart, where you can’t help but know the truth… aren’t you taking up with me so that you might hurt her as well?”
A flash of glinting catlike eyes, a flare of nostrils and clench of jaw, and their détente had been reached. With their next contact, talk ceased, and there was nothing but touch. Mouths meeting, tongues entwining; hands on hips and breast, shoulders and cock. Layers of skirt and crinoline and petticoat were shoved upwards, gathered heedlessly at her waist by William’s eager hands as Darla raised her hips and teased him for an instant before sinking down onto him, answering his groan with a throaty cry and a digging of nails into his shoulder.
William had understood the rules of this liaison before their lips had ever touched; there was, then, no surprise to the circumstances. There would, of course, be no bed, no luxurious fabrics or feather-ballasted extravagances within which to explore softer flesh. No, this consummation would happen on the sofa, as she wished it. And would happen at all only because she wished it. Her corseted finery would not come off and leave her fully bare to his gaze; perhaps she felt she’d been naked enough, allowing him to see beyond the calculating eyes into her mind, into the heart that, to his surprise, still seemed to function inside her. Or perhaps she simply didn’t deem him worthy of the privilege.
Whatever her reasons, he found himself not caring. Her flesh, her need, her rapacity were more than enough.
She did, however, allow his arms to encircle her, his hands to work the intricacies of the ribbons and stays holding her dress closed. She helped him slide the fabric forward, down long slender arms and free of her hands to pool at her waist atop her skirts. The ruched cotton of her chemise was simply tugged down, her breasts wantonly displayed within its frame as she curved forward into the mouth that couldn’t resist the exploration of such tantalizing new territory.
The susurration of silk, the low panting that William hadn’t yet been able to convince himself to cease in such moments, and the small mewling cries kept trapped in Darla’s throat were the only sounds as two sets of blue eyes locked and held, transmitting vengeance and pleasure, further entwining the two.
Darla pushed her slender fingers into his hair and wound them into the curls, tugging just a shade too tightly as she rocked against him. Reflexively, his hands tightened on her hips, pulled her onto him more forcefully as he arched up further, the motion quick and sharp, winning first a decidedly unladylike yelp and then the sly, intrigued lift of an elegant brow.
“I might yet be proven wrong about you, William, if such ferocity lives in you.”
“You shall be,” he vowed, claiming her lips again, then nipping back when she bit at his throat—both touches of teeth to flesh a bit more sharp than could be considered entirely playful.
“We’ll see.” The words, the finger that traced his cheekbone, the contraction of her inner walls around him—all of it combined to create a challenge, one he was determined to see met.
The force of his hands grew bruising, the call and response of their intensified thrusts against each other sufficient to cause the shriek of wood against wood as the legs of the sofa shifted against the floor. Giving a low growl of frustration at the limitations of the position, William attempted to slide forward off the edge of the furniture, only to find himself held in place by Darla’s resistance; he didn’t pause to look at her, didn’t need to see her face to know that this was merely another test. One hand remained banded around her waist as the other slid up to tangle in and muss her perfectly-arranged hair; he bucked upwards, catching her off guard, and used her surprise to shift them onto the floor.
She tried to flip their bodies as they fell, but William resisted; she was strong, but he was determined, and their new location found him hovering above her, driving into her with something even more primal than lust or need. Something elemental, that mattered more, that allowed him to strike a deeper chord than his scant experience should perhaps have allowed.
Darla’s lips parted around the cries he was wringing from her, her nails leaving vicious tracks on the pale flesh of his back and shoulders as her legs wrapped around his hips, adding extra force to each thrust. She bowed upwards, rolling her hips in rhythmic figure-eight patterns against his; no longer battling him for control of their coupling, she was instead seemingly content with cooperating if it brought her within range of the release that drew ever closer.
William’s control faltered as Darla’s walls tightened convulsively around his cock, her voice a raspy chant in his ear ordering him to come, to bring her over, to finish them both. Her blunt teeth against the faint scarring on his throat, however, were all the command she need give; his thrusts became bruising as his hands drifted down to cup her ass and lift her into each desperate stroke. The strangled scream that she gave as she bit her lip and gave over to her orgasm broke down his final resistance; overcome, he surrendered in a rush, burying his face in her throat as he panted and gasped his release.
Darla lay pliant beneath him for longer than he would’ve predicted, although soon enough she was shoving restlessly at his shoulders, her impatient stare prodding him to his feet. She accepted the gentlemanly gesture of the hand he offered, allowing him to lift her to her feet before turning away from him as she carded her fingers through her tousled hair.
“You destroyed my coiffure, William.” The accusation, however, bore no malice; rather, it simply seemed to be mere words, uttered only to fill the silence.
“Indeed. Although in my defense, you wrought a fair amount of havoc yourself,” he answered, rubbing a suddenly-anxious hand over the unruly curls.
Laughing softly, she faced him, eyes traveling over his still-bare torso as he fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers. “You may wish to dress yourself before Angelus and your darling girl return; I’m afraid that your flesh is perfect testimony to what just occurred.”
Returning her cryptic smile as he scrutinized her features, William was quite certain that Darla wasn’t afraid at all.
“What did just occur?” he asked, striving to keep his tone noncommittal as he retrieved his shirt and shrugged into the soft material. He met her mocking smirk with one of his own and continued, “Besides mere fornication?”
She smoothed her skirts, then arranged her chignon and fastened it tightly with a pair of delicately-carved ivory combs. “Perhaps it was merely time that Angelus was reminded of the lessons he himself wields so well. It can be difficult for the tutor to mind the true meaning of a lecture when he finds himself mired in instruction of the details.” Turning her back to William, she gave him an expectant look over her shoulder and waited for him to refasten the stays and ties that he’d loosened, a task he achieved with what he felt was admirable speed, given the relative novelty of the task.
“And what shall we tell them?”
His question hung unanswered in the stillness, and he feared that it might remain so. Once he’d laced her gown perfectly, however, Darla turned back to him with a wicked grin, one deceptively small, delicate hand curving around his cheek, molding to its contours. “Simply tell Angelus, when he asks—and he will ask, dear William—that I wished only to reinforce his instruction. That we are none of us the sole property of anyone, to be dealt with or discarded by whim and fancy. Least of all myself, as I am his sire.”
She must surely have expected the forthcoming battle, the all-out war—engendered by their actions—that her scent on William’s body and her message on his lips would spark. Though it was nascent, one contender not even yet aware of his role, still the heady tension of impending conflict was already a tangible presence in the luxurious house, prickling William’s spine, stirring a fire deep within him.
“Do be certain to give him my message, William. Word for word.” The sly curve of her lips as she drew back to glide across the threshold told him that he had been correct in his supposition as to her motives; all was made abundantly clear by the glint in her eye.
It had, of course, all been simply one more game, one more power play. One more lesson, though this time taught with pleasure rather than pain. One more instance in which he’d been expertly maneuvered, made a pawn on a chessboard of lust and supremacy.
But from his newly-established—bequeathed, he corrected, as he heard the final swish of skirts before a door closed at the far end of the hall—position, he found it hard to care that he’d been manipulated. Shifted, danced from square to square. Why should he be concerned, when the maneuver had given him real power, the first he’d held since his change? The ability to shatter bone, to drink deep of life itself—that was a gift; but it paled in comparison to the mere anticipation of what was to come when Angelus returned.
Oh, yes. There would be war, now that they were on even, cuckolded footing.
As if by clever scripting, William heard Angelus’ drunken warble and Drusilla’s high-pitched giggles echo down the plaster and lathe and heavy wood of the hall; holding himself utterly still, he allowed the sounds to sink to his core, grab hold. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and strode towards the doorframe.
Let the battle commence.
Miscellaneous (Spike-Centric) Romantic Pairing Fiction Main