on a steel horse I ride
That very command to allow her to view his damaged fang seemed to slice through the room like a whip. Darcy, for a precarious moment, seemed to consider that very command and yet that centuries worth of training, for now, seemed to win out over that innate need to prevent his mistress eyeing that blemish upon his figure. To hesitate any longer would displease her near as much as that fault within his fangs itself. Darcy's lips peeled obediently back from his fangs. That chipped, broken canine was near painfully obvious amonest the the otherwise pristine rows of violent teeth. Risque's gaze cut sharply toward that imperfection. That movement was near enough to prompt the southern vampire to flinch and yet, for now, he held his ground in an almost submissive obedience. As if offering her that placidity now would somehow atone for his earlier actions in nearly tipping her from her chair. Yet, how wild his mismatched eyes remained. Darcy, for the first time in well over a century, appeared near...animalistic in his features. Just as he had done in those early months of their meeting. That wildness, it seemed, existed still. Somewhere buried deeply beneath that centuries worth of training and teaching and obedience and self-control. Something instinctive persisted. Like a weed amongst a garden Risque herself had so carefully cultivated into an image of her own desire. Risque's heels clicked ominously upon the floor as she strode forward with a languid, graceful ease. Her every movement was a sinful glide. Her presence, her touch, by far Darcy's greatest rewards- seemed to bring an apprehension to his features. Even despite his efforts to conceal it.
His lover's hand extended forward then. Risque so clearly intending to reach for him, to hold, that very act prompting the cowboy to....lean away. His feet remained firm upon that floor and yet he was near powerless to prevent that instinctive lean of his figure- one that prevented Risque's grasp upon him. A dangerous sin. A line he was loath to cross and yet how readily his body betrayed even the violent determination of his mind in that moment. That desire to defend what remained of his fang. To shield agianst the pain he knew would come from its removal was....overruling Risque's own authority in a way nothing yet had so managed to do. How well they both knew it. How aware they remained of each other in that moment. Darcy nothing if not fixated upon her every muscle, her every movement, upon even the faintest of twitches to her lip or flicker of her gaze. This was a dance they had not danced in a century. This was a hypervigilance he had not shown since his earliest months and how distinctly aware he was of the weakness it exposed like a gaping, bleeding wound to his ever opportunistic mate. Darcy was...loath to lean back and yet his mind and body seemed determined to betray him as she reached again. Darcy leaning further back. Risque's body inched forward, that movement no more then a millimeter and yet that, it seemed, was the first strike in the proverbial dam wall. Darcy, for the first time in well over a century, stepped back from his lover's reach, That subtle, slight movement of his feet a silent surrender to an instinct he could not overcome- and how well they both knew it.
He could feel that silver at his back. Darcy, in that precarious moment, so abruptly aware of the silver wall he had backed towards. Littered with restraints there was every chance he would find himself strung upon it before he could react. Held down and unable to defend from his lover's whims to remove that tooth in any way she pleased. As was her right. Risque's hypnotic gaze so hardly left his own and yet how readily he perceived his mates intentions all the same. That silver wall was...convenient. A tool she would be foolish not to utilise and yet here and now Darcy was so hardly willing to allow her that very thing. How careful he had been to avoid the directness of her gaze until that moment, as if that submission might soothe her irritation or lessen a punishment he was sure he not only deserved- but would be undoubtedly delivered for his insolence. Yet, here and now, those mismatched eyes dared to meet her own. Her name uttered upon his lips. That word, this time, so hardly holding that reverence or desire it so often did, yet, nor was it a plea. Rather, that singular utterance held within it a wealth of the unspoken. Her head tilted, the gesture slight and almost...curious, before she uttered his own name back towards him. That utterance prompted a knot to form within his gut. This was a delicate dance- one far more dangerous then they usually played. How readily his instinct roared at him, that desire for flight....or fight so readily warring within his mind until he could hear nothing else. Her every inch forward rapidly turned up the pressure, forcing one decision or another from within the ever-wary vampire. That desire to bite, to lash out was.....potent and yet....how readily and painfully his mind recoiled from even the idea. To turn upon his mate would be....suicide. How little desire he had to....harm the being he adored most in all the world.
It was but a single inch more that finally seemed to prompt those metaphorical tables to turn. Darcy, at last, unable to take her approach any longer. The walls of that resistance crumbling, that dam breaking, releasing the water from within as Darcy all but bolted to the far side of the room in a burst of vampiric speed. That distance between his Mistress and himself was now notably further. He had chosen flight. A better reaction, perhaps and yet how well he knew of that sin he had committed all the same. How irritated he was at his own action. At his own inability to stand as ordered. How desperately he had tried to obey her command and yet how utterly incapable he was. That very fury at his own weakness seemed to distort his own features then as his head shook. A subtle display of yet another battle he seemed to be losing as those accented words found his lips. Darcy insisted he had done what she had asked. He had shown her his teeth. He had not disobeyed her verbal command and yet how well he knew those words were feeble. A desperate lifeline to cling to as if they somehow allowed him to atone for that silent command he had utterly failed to complete. Risque's near sudden insistence that he had done as asked was...unanticipated and yet that wary wildness so hardly managed to vacate his gaze. Darcy once more seemed to fight a losing battle in vain as he managed another, single word. His hand balled into a fist. That energy within him seemed to rise violently once more as if that distress needed some outlet, some escape, Darcy refusing to allow it to unleash upon his lover as that admittance that he could not follow her order at last fell from his lips. Those words a final...blow to what remained of his resilience as his fist struck backward with violent force. Shattering a hole into the wall behind it as plaster fell away. Exposing the bones beneath.
How bitter those words tasted. How vile. How loath he was to admit to a battle he had not won. Those instincts were too strong to overcome at that moment. That desire for self-preservation had outweighed even a command from his mate. Darcy was nothing if not....furious at himself. That distress as clear as that defeat upon his features and yet too- how utterly.....tight his figure remained. That wild energy still surging within even as Risque uttered that simple insistence that she...understood. In all those years he had known his lover, in all the years he had walked beside her and too- in all the punishments he had (rightfully) suffered at her hand he had never before heard such an utterance from her lips. One free of anger or disappointment or hidden venom. How readily his gaze rose. Meeting her own abruptly. His own surprise seemed, for a moment, to pierce the veneer of his own wild state. This was new ground. This was a new dance. A new game. Unchartered territory. One they were both unfamiliar with. Her behaviour.....had changed. Her action was unexpected. How readily his attention seemed to fixate upon her anew and yet too- how readily that watchfulness hardly lessened as he tried to make sense of her actions. To read this mood. This new facade upon his beloved.
Risque moved to glide across the floor once more, turning away from him, only to lower herself onto the sofa, her figure neatly arranging itself with relaxed ease as her limbs pressed together. Folding themselves neatly. Her body held every note of relaxation as she gestured to that position beside her with that assurance that surely he could still sit, could he not? She had not need to torture him, not when he was doing so well at it himself. For several long moments the southern vampire seemed to linger at that far wall, his mind seeming to turn over this rapid change upon that field of play. To sit beside her was closer then he desired to be when she could still so easily reach him and yet he....believed her. Darcy's tall figure seemed to relax, if only slightly. That toned muscle and sinew releasing but some of the strain within it as he moved to cross that floor, his figure lowering to sit upon that couch obediently beside his lover. As if that invitation to sit had somehow removed some of that wildness from him. Removing a need for either fight or flight and allowing that logic to seep in once more. That silence persisted for only a moment. Risque so suddenly speaking of his maker, Beau. A man Darcy had hardly cared to consider in several decades. What was rarer, perhaps, was that mention of Risque's own. The topic of her maker was one she never spoke of. Darcy having queried her upon it only once. His 'failure to exist' was crafted by Risques own hand. A display of strength unlike most vampires were ever capable of displaying. After all, to slay one's own maker was....difficult. She spoke of the obvious inadequacies of men. Darcy, as always, inclined to nod in agreement before she insisted she had learned from her Maker at least one potent lesson. That the only master one ever need concern themselves with- was fear. Yet why was that?
It was rare to be posed with a question, Risque, after all, so rarely desired answers to the questions she posed. Not when those answers were so often obvious to them both and yet that answer, this time, was clearly one she anticipated as Darcy seemed to consider it. His mind, ever so slightly, began to shift away from that near feral edge, focusing upon that new task at hand. A question his lover desired answered.
" 'ecause it overrules."
It was true, wasn't it? Darcy had seen it time and time again in their victims. In their employees. Fear so often eclipsed....everything once it took hold. Much as it had done to him. Loath as he was to admit it. Darcy's teeth ground over each other once more. Fear was a reaction of prey. A loathful reaction.
"I dunno what da fuck is wrong wit me. Ain't no one ever tried ta touch me fangs 'efore. I ain't keen on it."
Darcy's head shook yet again, his mismatched gaze shifting at last to his mate beside him. This, by far, the most.....open conversation that had partaken in within decades. Darcy, for the first time, inclined to...admit to that fear even if he hardly mentioned the word fear itself. This, it seemed, a distinctly new ground for the both of them. Risque might have been his mistress and yet- she was also his mate. That very title, it seemed, so inclined to afford a new...trust. A delicate, fragile trust. Newly formed in the wake of that previous reaction. That very trust, here and now, so prompting the southern cowboy to remain beside his lover. That wildness beginning to fade. That invitation to sit, somehow, coaxing forth an entirely new...level to the cowboy so previously concealed beneath that animalistic outrage. How readily that instinct still existed, looming below the fragile surface and yet that desire to please had so managed to claw its way back to the forefront of his mind- even if he continued to watch her warily. Darcy, precariously, within arms reach and yet so offering a clear...belief, a clear trust, that Risque would not seek to lunge at him even if his frame still held some measure of tautness. She had said she wouldn't torture him, hand't she? He'd believed her, though whether to his own folly remained to be seen.
"Can't we jus leave da damn ting in me 'ead?"
How readily he knew the answer to that, one hand lifting to run through his dark locks in a subtle sign of stress. Risque, he knew, would not permit him to leave that fang in his mouth and yet that effort at conversation, it seemed, was a rather....unusual attempt to bring his own mind around to that idea. Darcy features frowned abruptly, a new thought finding his mind.
"I ain't gettin no goddamn needle in me mouth. Fuckin' bastard dentist. Pain relief my goddamn ass. Ain't pain relief if da go stickin' needles in yar gum is it...."
I'm wanted, Dead or Alive