on a steel horse I ride

That trust was delicate, fragile, intricate in every fashion as Darcy dared to linger before his lover in those ever precarious moments. That invitation to seat himself on that couch beside her would result in his closeness to her once more, in her ability to lunge forward and seize hold of him in a grasp he could not escape. Her strength, after all, was vastly superior to his own and yet- never before had she invited him to sit when she desired to punish him. Her lithe, femanine figure held no tension and in that same breath- no intention. She was relaxed, calm, at ease as she reclined like a goddess upon that sofa. Any anger or outrage as his unintended defiance had seemingly dissipated. This was new ground, delicate ground- for them both. Yet- it was that trust that seemed, at last, to pierce through that near wild, animalistic haze that had seized the vampiric cowboy earlier. A faint logic, once more, capable of grasping hold within his conflicted thoughts. That desire to please his mistress, to appease his mate, for now, so seeming to have mastered that veritable fear- at least enough to allow the cowboy to do as commanded, to take that seat upon the couch and right beside his lover, rather then at the far end as she had perhaps anticipated he might. Darcy, even now, so making some attempt to master those instincts that had driven him to wildness before. No one had ever touched his fangs. No one ever desired to. Even in more than a century together, Risque had never made any motion to reach for his teeth. The southern vampire simply never trained to allow that touch. An oversight, perhaps, on both their parts and yet how loath he was in every way to displease his lover. That anger at himself, it seemed, still clawed within him.

That silence between the pair in the wake of his presence beside her so hardly lasted long. Risque's voice, eloquent, glorious in its tenor, invoked that space a moment later to speak of her Maker. A topic so rarely ever disclosed and one that drew Darcy's mismatched gaze toward her in curiosity. It was a singular lesson she had learned from her maker, it seemed, that she wished to convey now. That matter of fear and its ability to control. That singular question Risque posed seemed to prompt a consideration within the vampiric cowboy. Darcy's thoughts near releasing that chance to seize upon something other than those insecurities that clawed at his mind and he so diligently refused to acknowledge- as if that very acknowledgement might afford them a power he strove not to yield. Rather, the man nearly relished that chance to consider a question. Risque, after all, so rarely posed questions she truly desired answers too. Most answers, after all, were obvious things and so often poised upon the precipice of the demise of one being or another. That answer, however, was simple enough. Fear overruled. Those very words were uttered a moment later. Darcy made no elaboration. His beloved merely offered her desired response even as his teeth ground over one another in....discontent at that consideration of himself once more. Fear did not exist for him. At least- until now he had been certain it had not. Fear was weak, pathetic. The response of prey and how far above such a thing he was assured he had ascended. Yet even the mere thought of someone, anyone, reaching for his damaged fang was enough to provoke that wildness to his thoughts once more. An instinct stronger than himself. A fear that had overruled even Risque. His beloved. His goddess. It was inexcusable. Perhaps she had been right. What need did she have to troture him- when he did it so well to himself.

The vampiric Queen's words slipped smoothly from her lips once more in agreement to his answer. Fear overruled, it controlled and worst of all, she insisted- it was an unworthy master. Darcy's head was quick to incline in agreement. Her words were nothing but true. They always were. His mate was never wrong. Not when she spoke of matters of human nature. Fear was an unfit master. A leader unworthy to be followed. A soft, faint growl of discontent at himself coiled loosely within the back of the vampire's throat once more as Risque continued. That fear was a crack. A wound that allowed the infection to grow until even the foundation threatened to crumble. Just as it had threatened to do for him. Her efforts to even inspect his fang had resulted in that snarling, defensive....mess. Darcy's gaze shifted if only slightly from his mate, that act a near instinctive gesture of submissive appeasement once more and yet one, in equal parts, that spoke of his own irritation at himself all the more. She was right. In all she said. Control, Risque insisted, was the only way to fix that fissure.

"Yar right Darlin'. Yar always are."

How readily he meant those words in that moment, his mismatched gaze fluttering back to her own as if anticipating she might hold some answer, some cure, something that would remove that foolish fear from him and yet she seemed- contemplative once more. Darcy, in turn, was content to turn those words about within his mind before a sigh managed to part his lips. The cowboy leaning further back agianst that chair in a further hint of relaxation. More of that tension left his frame as he did. The vampire, in a true rarity, took that moment to speak freely, openly. Darcy, in that moment, speaking not to his Mistress or Queen- but to his mate. His irritation at that fear, his inability to understand its manifestation, was clear. Risque's own words were equally as.....calm. The raven haired beauty so merely insisting that he had briefly forgotten himself- for a moment. He would remember. How very close those words were to something almost....comforting. Darcy's gaze shifted once more, meeting his lover's own in curiosity. This was a new tone. A new way of speaking. A conversation that had truly become between....mates. Hmmm. How he might be inclined to like it. One hand lifted, running through his dark locks in a rare and yet subtle sign of some inner stress as he queried those words he already knew the answer to. Could they not just leave his tooth? It was a wistful sentence, a falsified one, Risque would never allow him to sport an imperfection any more then Darcy would be inclined to have his treasured weaponry tainted. The vampiric Queen insisted upon that very thing a moment later. He would not go into battle with a defective gun, would he? His tooth was surely the same.

"Naw, I ain't go into no 'ight wit a gun dat was broken."

His head nodded in turn, agreeing with her words, that connection she drew between that weaponry and the fangs in his mouth distinctly clear and yet just how they were going to remove that tooth continued to play at the forefront of his mind. Darcy, in that moment, was content to direct his irritation towards that fool of a dentist. The man offered him pain relief with a needle of all things. A needle! In his mouth. As if that might somehow bring him relief from pain. A scoff of sorts huffed from the vampire's lips at the thought as Risque insisted no needles. Dentists, she assured him, were useless beings. Besides he surely had no need for pain relief. The near coy simper that found his lover's lips was enough to coax that grin to his own in turn as she insisted she had believed he enjoyed that pain. Oh, but how quickly his very figure seemed to respond to even the suggestion of something more intimate. Darcy, so long ago, having come to associate that pain his beloved offered with the exquisite pleasure she alone was capable of bestowing upon him. His body had been all but trained to respond as such and oh- how readily she seemed to captivate his attention then at a mere mention of that memory as his head nodded.

"I enjoy everythin yar do, darlin'."

How true it was. With that single and sole exception of her reaching for his teeth there was but nothing Darcy would not allow. No pain or pleasure his lover could give that he would be inclined to turn away from. They went hand in hand after all- and oh how he relished her brand of mastery over both. Risque's hand rose upward, her thumb trailing almost....sensually across her lip. Darcy, as he so often was, so simply inclined to watch her lithe, graceful movements before she drew that thumb between the cushion of her lips- only to allow her fangs to slice that fragile flesh. The scent of blood, cloying and potent and so gloriously Risque's own filled that room a moment later. Oh, how readily fixated Darcy had become. Risque's blood was....a reward of the highest level. A taste permitted to him only in those throes of intimacy when he had satisfied her enough to be allowed it. Little seemed to exist in that moment- beyond the scent and sight of that blood as Risque drew her thumb from her lips. Her hypnotic gaze eyed that appendage, as if she had not intended to bloody it as she had. Had it been...an accident? Her very words offered that suggestion a mere moment later. A mistake- or so she would have him believe. Some part of Darcy's mind, concealed and pushed back, was wholly aware that this....was a ruse. Yet a ruse the rest of his thoughts was inclined to simply believe in.

Her hand shifted then, her arm extended halfway forward, offering him that thumb with that soft suggestion that perhaps he would like to taste it, quickly, before it healed or stained her new dress. She had never before permitted him to simply taste her like this. How readily those instincts near rioted within him and yet-how equally potently that bloodlust rallied to the surface. Few beings so ever dared to bleed in his presence. His control when it came to blood had always been tenuous. Delicate. Fragile. A control he kept tethered on a silken leash of Risque's own making. Decade upon decade of her training alone all that had separated him from the rest of his species. Ravager Vampires, after all, led short lives. Brutal, but short. Their bloodlust so largely believed to be.....uncontrollable. Enough that it led them to their own ruin each and every time. The southern vampire had shifted near automatically, his hand reaching instinctively for her own before it seemed to...pause, abruptly. Those animalistic instincts for self-preservation whispered that this was almost certainly a trap. It was outside their usual dance. A sidestep. A new movement Risque was determined to lead and yet- how willing was he to follow it? A break from pattern was a warning. Yet that offering of blood was a gift. That war between hunger and self-preservation seemed to result in a hesitation. Even if only momentary as his mismatched gaze met her own levelly. Even fear, it seemed, in its rawest form- was not more potent than the intoxicating draw of Risque's blood.

That movement was a veritable blur. That vampiric speed seeing Darcy appear right beside her now, his figure pressed agianst her own as his hand seized her wrist. That touch gentle and yet firm if only in an effort to keep her hand still, to prevent her flesh slicing itself all the more agianst the daggers that resided with sharpened glory between his lips. Her thumb was brought smoothly to his lips, his tongue slipping out to sweep across that wound. The mere taste of that blood prompting a sound of satisfaction within his throat his lips parted entirely, taking her tumb between his fangs, that hold delicate, controlled and yet one that allowed his tongue to sweep more effectively at that cut, to suck at that blood almost greedily as if every single drop was far too precious to be wasted. This, he was certain, was the taste of heaven and oh- how little else mattered.

Darcy

I'm wanted, Dead or Alive