on a steel horse I ride

It was a distinctly rare moment of peace that seemed to settle between the pair upon that sofa. The very tension within the room however so hardly ceased to exist, rather, it seemed to abate to an undercurrent. One that swirled beneath the placidity that rested atop the surface as Darcy allowed himself to sit beside his mate upon that sofa. A silent gesture of trust that she would not seek to lunge suddenly at him nor make any effort to hold him when he did not desire to be held. That matehood between them had....changed things. Subtly, perhaps, and yet that increase in trust was so distinctly displayed in that delicate moment. That conversation, in turn, so shifted to an openness rarely shared and yet permitted to exist between them alone. Words allowed within only that private space. The utterance of one lover to another. The frustration within the Southern cowboy was clear upon each line of his features. Darcy, in that moment, loathed none more than himself and his own weakness. Such fear was....vile. A disease. Yet how encompassing it was. Ho eclipsing. More so then he had ever anticipated if only for how long it had been since he had truly felt fear's fangs at his heart. He had not known this...weakness within him existed. Risque too, it seemed, had been equally taken aback. In all the years that had existed at one another's side she had trained him for every situation imaginable, taught him to offer but every part of himself to her on mere command and oh- how he had excelled at those very things. Yet never once had she made any notion to attempt to take a fang from him. A punishment he had seen lavished upon those far more unworthy vampires. One Darcy had truly never taken a moment to consider beyond the initial act. Is that where the fear had taken root? From watching others suffer its fate? Even if he had hardly given it a second thought?

His words were little more than a lament. One both knew the answer too already and yet that very undercurrent of stress forced from his lips all the same in his distinctive southern twang. Could they not just leave the fang. Risque features were quick to shift as her sharpened mind turned over that very sentiment. Yet he too had already deduced that this was not a question the cowboy truly anticipated an answer too. Not when that answer was already so clear. Risque would never allow such imperfection upon him. Darcy, in turn, would be made a mockery of by those he commanded and oh how loath he was to allow such a thing even if the thought of having that tooth ripped free of his jaw was enough to prompt his teeth to grind once more in an apprehensive disdain. Risque, beside him, was silent for several moments longer. Her mind moved to construct a calculation of sorts that Darcy had failed to anticipate. His mate, in that moment, offered an analogy of striking perception. Would he truly take a broken gun to war? Darcy's own features turned near pensive in that moment. A broken gun would have no use in a war and only a goddamn fool would arm himself with one. That insistence he would not utilize a broken weapon was met with his lover's approval. Her own accented words a sweet siren in the dull light of her office as she insisted that a broken fang was surely the same thing. A soft sound of agreement hummed within that Southerners throat. She was right- even if he was loath to admit it. A vampire's fangs were...his status- and his weaponry. If only a fool would bring a broken gun to a fight then what did that make him? How readily that irritation at himself seemed to flicker upon his features once more. Darcy was quick to turn that very blame upon his newest target. The dentist. The dentists and his goddamn needle. Idjit of a man.

That irritated huff that left Darcy's lips was met with his lover's consideration once more. Risque, beside him, reclined in a near feline relaxation, her hypnotic gaze resting upon him as she spoke once more. Her laguid words held the first hints of intimate intent. Pain, after all, had always existed between them. How readily she had taught him to anticipate it, endure it- and relish within it. How sweetly he had been rewarded for embracing it. How readily his mind seemed to find a distinct arousal in it. Risque, so often, assuring the two went hand in hand until his very body responded to even the slightest of her touches and oh- how readily she seized his attention then. Just as he had been trained to do. Her sweet, musing words were quick to garner a response- a pre-prepared one. Darcy nearly flawlessly offered her those very words she so often desired to hear. The southern vampire was nothing if not obedient and yet- how oblivious he was, in that moment, to her attempts to pry more from him then merely his trained responses of appeasement that seemed to rise to the surface above even his own distress over his shattered fang. The subtle and yet sudden quirk to his lover's lip was hardly missed. Darcy's own mismatched gaze so swiftly observing that silent gesture before Risque insisted his words were a lie. He had moved from her before. Denied her touch, How readily she drew up his indiscretion to hang before his very eyes. She forgot nothing. She never did.

This was a different game then they had ever played before and oh, how certain Darcy was of those steps. The southern vampire, in that moment, allowed his gaze to shift near submissively once more in some instinctive effort to appease her and yet- her figure held no tension nor implication of incoming punishment. She merely seemed to be....stating the lie within his words. Perhaps it was fortunate she so hardly pressed him for an answer as her thumb rose abruptly to her own lips. That very gesture so instantly captured the cowboy's attention as a look of wary...curiosity seemed to settle upon his youthful features. Her every movement was practiced, smooth, a liquid grace of rhythmic ease as her fang pierced the flesh of her own thumb. The scent of blood, her blood, spilled into that room like an intoxicating siren that seized but every once of Darcy's attention within a manner of moments. Risque's blood was....a reward of the highest order. A delicacy he was rarely allied to indulge within. The mere scent of it was...hypnotizing. His focus upon that wound alone and yet- how he hardly dared move from that place he sat even despite that clawing, relentless hunger that tore at his throat. His very species, after all, was so designed to react to even the faintest hint of blood. It was what made a Ravager so....exactly that. Yet to descended upon Risque in some fit of hunger would be a mission of suicide. He had not been invited to feed. His figure held taut, rigid and yet still as he awaited her very command.

Her hand extended toward him then, offering him that bloodied appendage, the wound upon her thumb deep to prevent it healing so quickly as blood flowed freely from its surface to taint her porcelain skin. Darcy's own hand extended to ensnare her wrist, to draw that injured thumb closer to himself and yet....how readily his mismatched gaze flickered upward to meet her own once more in silent assessment. How wary that look. The vampiric cowboy- even within the grips of that silent bloodlust- remained capable of holding that control, of searching for some hint of trickery within his lover's intent. He knew, perhaps, just what game she played in using her own blood to draw him...closer. An irresistible allure and yet, perhaps, tonight, he was willing to allow himself to be lured. Surely it was worth it for a taste of that blood. His movement was a sudden blur, the vampiric cowboy so instantly seated beside her then, his side pressed agianst her own as his grip upon her wrist tightened. That hold was firm and yet gentle as he lifted her thumb to his lips. His tongue was quick to brush over it. That initial taste prompting a sound of satisfaction within his throat as he coaxed that wound to remain open, those very chemical's within his saliva prompting that blood to flow more freely as his tongue slipped near seductively around her thumb, drawing that blood from it, relishing every mouthful- before pressing it between his fangs entirely.

How distinctly precarious that new position was. Risque's very thumb rested between his jaws, held between his teeth. His violent fangs wholly capable of slicing off that appendage with the barest of bites and yet his hold, for now, was gentle. Firm enough to prevent his lover withdrawing her thumb and yet so hardly sharp enough to pierce her flesh as he relished in that glorious taste. Her blood was....exquisite. It always has been. Darcy, in that moment, so defying his very species as he exacted that control. That very respect perhaps, that he held for his mate so preventing a mere bloodied feast at his jaws. Yet...surely it was something more than respect, more than mere training that allowed such defiance of his own species as he fed almost greedily on that blood. His mismatched gaze shifted to meet her own. Risque, in that moment, so hardly attempted to remove her hand from his firm hold as that silence persisted. Broken only by her own lilting words as she met his gaze with the blue of her own. That soft command to show her his fangs was one she had uttered before, over the years and yet, this time, those words were a....request. A request to admire them. How readily Darcy's fangs seemed to abruptly grip her thumb harder. That increased pressure, for just a moment, seemed to threaten at some inner discontent and yet how readily his features seemed to soften but a moment later. His jaw loosening abruptly once more. That initial reaction, it seemed, a response of pure instinct and one overruled within near the same moment by that...thoughtful control.

That request, however, was another matter entirely. That blood was eclipsing, numbing, distracting to his thoughts and yet not all consuming. He knew her intent, he was certain of it. That offering of blood was a ploy, one he had allowed himself to fall for if only for its impossible allure and how he did not regret it. Yet....what if it was not a ploy. No. Such a thing implied some deceit and there had been none. Perhaps she did not seek to trick him into offering his fangs so much as she sought to.....present an exchange. A reward for effort. Her blood, the highest of prizes- for his compliance. How readily those thoughts turned within his mind. A ricochet of consideration as his gaze hardly moved from her own in that unwavering hold. How readily that...new realization seemed to spark within his mind then. He still held her thumb between his teeth, that blood running across his tongue though he had ceased to lick at that wound for several long, perilous seconds as they both stood upon that proverbial knife's edge. It was not merely training, nor respect that assured he hardly bit down upon her thumb, that saw him hold desperately to a control that defied his species. Oh, how readily he knew what it was now. His teeth were slow to release her thumb, drawing it free from his mouth, his fingers still gripping firmly at her wrist as his tongue brushed over his own fangs, sweeping the blood from them

"I know what yar doin'."

His gaze merely rested upon her own. Calling out her intent in a way he had never truly done before and yet- his features remained placid. Calm. Controlled. Darcy so steadily let his lips pull back from his fangs, offering her that display of his teeth she had requested. That broken fang was so distinctly clear. A taint on his otherwise perfect weaponry. Darcy lent forward once more, licking at her thumb again, the vampire so willingly distracting himself. His lips kept back from his fangs all the same. Offering her that view and that access. How few ever dared to bring their fingers near his fangs- yet she had done so without fear. His tongue swept her thumb again, stealing another taste of that blood that sang with perfect sweetness.

"I ain't gonna bite ya. I ain't, I promise. Dun reckon I can. It ain't 'bout control or respect or nothin'"

Darcy lip quirked slightly, that simper he offered his lover almost lopsided. His figure seemed to find a relaxation it had not before even if a certain degree of tautness still remained. That distinct discovery within his own mind seeming to afford him an...acceptance. Even if that fear still persisted in tendrils.

"I love ya too much to 'urt ya like dat."

It wasn't control, or training, or respect, or fear that stayed his jaws when he knew she held every intent of bringing him that unavoidable pain in removing that fang. Love, it seemed, was far more potent than any of those things.

"Unless ya dun trust me."

He moved to lean forward again, his tongue sweeping at her thumb once more, licking up those remnants of blood that dripped anew from that still open wound. Is words very near daring her to try for that fang now. If she trusted him enough not to bite her fingers from her hand. If she loved him enough to believe in that trust. Oh, how this game was not Risques anymore. That playing field of love one the Vampiric Queen was so distinctly unfamiliar with- and how he knew it.

Darcy

I'm wanted, Dead or Alive