Darlaficathon

Bound

Author: Doyle
Pairing: Angelus/Darla
Rating: R
Notes: For ladyoneill who wanted historical Angelus/Darla with bondage and with no appearance from Spike, Penn, Dru etc. This is set in 1760 right after the flashback we saw in Darla to the meeting with the Master. Any historical inaccuracies are much regretted.


She had defied her sire. That had never happened before, never even occurred to her, and one day she was sure she would pay dearly for it; but Angelus's hands were insistent as they pressed against the silks of her skirt and his lips on her neck were still-warm from feeding, and the Master would forgive her. One day.

Angelus bore her forward into the suite, kicking the door closed behind them - an unconscious, rather charming holdover from his humanity, she assumed, when he would have seduced serving girls in his father's house. They had no such need for privacy, now. The master and mistress of the house were downstairs, their bodies cooling in the drawing room. There had been a servant, a little housemaid, and Angelus had left her close to death, heartbeat fluttering like a dying bird. Something for later. Darla had smiled indulgently and beckoned him to the master bedroom. Let him have his little treats, if the girl still lived by the end of the night.

She pulled away from him now, a tiny, hidden smile curling her lips at his growl of frustration. "I want to see the view," she said, moving to the windows and pushing the heavy curtain aside. She looked out for a moment at the Greenwich night and the lights on the river. It was acceptable. Not a match for Venice or Paris, but a step above the Galway hovel where she'd sired - what had her Master called him? The stallion.

She did smile, then, as he pressed against her back, hard as iron and attention-seeking as a child. "We'll not be here for long enough for the view to cause you grief," he said, catching her around the waist and roughly turning her to face him. "And I think you're teasing me. Now, that's not nice."

"I've claimed to be many things, Angelus," she demurred, one hand trailing down the buttons of his waistcoat as if independent of her control. "I don't recall nice being among them."

Seven years since he had closed his eyes and bared his throat, and that look in his eyes as he swept her up still made her forget she was a far older creature than he. She forgot, too, that she didn't need breath, gasping as she landed on the bed, pulling hungrily at his clothes. He pinned her to the mattress, his hands finding their way beneath her petticoats and when would women's clothing cease to have these damned layers…

And then he stopped and sat back, lips pursed in thought.

Darla stared at him in blank disbelief.

He was still astride her, but sitting on his heels, now, and still fully clothed. "Here's what I'm thinking," he said gravely. "Maybe prune-face had it right. Maybe you don't want to be with me at all. You'd prefer the dark and the sewers, stuck beneath ground with him, worshipping his Old Ones. Not here with me. With your views,you're your finery. Doesn't seem right, me keeping you here against your own intentions."

The insufferable bastard. She wriggled uselessly beneath his bulk, cursing his greater size. Of course, they were neither of them human, and the fact that he was larger didn't make him stronger. She was older, and she had sired him, and if she chose she could throw him off this bed and through the far wall.

But she stayed where she was, and he broke into that rogue's grin that had convinced her to make the sire seven years ago.

"So you do want to stay? Hmm." He rocked quite deliberately against her and she gritted her teeth against the hiss that wanted to escape. Then he rolled off her, striding from the room with a terse, "Stay there."

And she did, though she drummed her heels against the bed in fury and arousal.

He returned with ropes in his hands - fetched, she supposed, from the scullery or the servants' quarters. The twine smelled of smoke and she offered no resistance as he lashed her wrists together, looping the rope over the sturdy wooden rail across the bedposts. She thought of the delicate young woman dead in her own blood downstairs, how she had cast nervous, enthralled glances at Angelus during dinner, and she wondered how often the late Mr. Ambassador had tied his young wife to this bed.

"Not hurting you, is it?" Angelus asked solicitously, and she almost laughed aloud. They'd bitten, scratched, torn at each other with fangs and fingernails enough to half rip one another's skin off in the past, and he thought he could hurt her with play that was barely rough for mortals.

"No," she said, smiling in the way that had often earned her an extra coin or two, back before the Master had found her. "But I'm not sure how you're proposing to undress me."

As expected, he didn't, preferring to just move any items of clothing that could be easily raised and ripping off those that couldn't. The dress would be beyond repair, she thought as he tore at the silk sleeves. A shame. It had cost the original owner dearly.

She hadn't done this in some time. She remembered quickly why she liked and loathed it almost equally - the delicious abrasion of the rough bonds on her crossed wrists; the fact that she was, for all intents, helpless to do anything but grind against him, even when he pulled back and left her skittering furiously along the brink.

Finally, bored of games or too close himself, he gave a last thrust and she arched into him, her back lifting from the bed. His blood, when she sank her fangs into the flesh above his collarbone, was sweet and tasted of the little scullerymaid downstairs. Maybe she was still alive, huddled in the dark waiting for Angelus to come back, as he'd whispered he would before taking Darla's hand and coming upstairs.

Angelus rolled onto his back, the wound already beginning to heal. "Where next?" he said. "Paris again? Italy?"

"Away from London," she agreed. "The Master won't be in any temper to see us again for fifty or sixty years."

He turned his head to look at her, the cockiness seeped away, replaced with confusion. "But you're done with him. You said. You picked me."

She laughed. "Angelus, he made me. We had a little spat. It doesn't mean forever."

His glower turned ugly. It ruined his face, making him look less like the angel his dear departed little sister had thought him to be and more like a petulant schoolboy denied a promised outing. "You'd go back to him. Even now."

"Of course," she said, as if he'd stated that the sky was blue, or that they couldn't be seen in mirrors. "One day. When you can apologise for your unspeakable rudeness."

He was on her again, lightning fast, his eyes furious and only inches from her ow. "You're mine," he insisted.

Oh, she thought, you foolish child. And had she thought for an instant this was love to him and not ownership, she might have spared a little sympathy for him. But probably not. "No," she said, gently as she was able. "You're bound to me, not the reverse."

"You're the one tied down," he spat.

With hardly an effort she pulled her arms free, the ropes snapping like gossamer. She brushed him aside and rose from the bed, smoothing down her ruined dress. "My dear boy," she said, "I wouldn't be so obvious as to put the chains on the outside." And she swept past him and down the stairs, holding her skirts as properly as any lady, and wasn't surprised when he let her go.

END

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