Something slightly fluffier than my usual B/I. Considered it set after Indigo. This is for one of my favourite authors and friends HopeCoppice (They are an incredible writer, seriously you don't want to get me started on how amazing their fics are because we could be here for hours. I'll just say this - their first YD fic 'Introspection' still gives me chills).
Happy Birthday lovely! Hope you enjoy this...
xo
Hated
Somebody should have told the architects of Rome that cobbles were not conductive to walking in heels. Especially Manolo Blahnik heels with vintage lace edging. Breathers could be extraordinarily inconsiderate sometimes. If there was even the tiniest scuff mark on her precious shoes then someone was going to get it in the neck.
With grim determination, Ingrid made her way across the street with delicate steps, her main concern being for the welfare of her shoes rather than for any of the busy passersby. Inwardly, she preened with satisfaction at the sheer number of people who stopped just to watch her stroll across the street. Even in a city full of beautiful women, Ingrid Dracula stood out, she didn't just attract admiring glances, she had the ability to completely halt people in their tracks, send them into a strange trance of adoration which had nothing to do with hypnosis.
The vivid red silk of her evening dress trailed over the cobbles behind her. The simple understated cut of the dress combined with the dangerously low neckline, bold colour and beautiful black beading was a hard hitting statement. It was completely different to the old-fashioned ball gowns traditionally worn to an event such as tonight's gathering. Ingrid had designed it herself, she wanted to make it clear to everyone attending that she was a powerful force within her own right, that she was not some simpering female to do their bidding. Of course, thanks to her irritating younger brother, the one man she actually wanted to attract the attention of had just performed a disappearing act.
Amidst all the tourists milling around, cameras hanging around their sweat stained necks and garlic rushing around in their bloodstreams, two solitary figures sat together on the white marble of the magnificent fountain. For all their curious glances, none of the tourists dared step forward and ask why they were so oddly attired.
The mixture of guilt and panic on her younger brother's face as she approached was classic. He stood up hastily, his hand moving behind his back in a half-hearted attempt to conceal what he had just been eating. "Ingrid, what are you doing-" he began with an artificially bright smile.
His older sister raised a cynical eyebrow. "The Stregonis have gone to all the bother of throwing you a welcoming ball. You should be in there kissing their capes." With one swift movement she twisted the offending object from Vlad's hand. "Not eating frozen sugar and cream. Ugh!" She grimaced as dark chocolate sauce trickled down over her fingers.
"But it's gelato!" Vlad protested childishly. "Everyone knows that the Italians make the best ice-cream."
With disdain, Ingrid dropped the ice-cream cone onto the pavement surrounding the fountain. She raised a pale perfectly polished finger to silence Vlad's protests. "Especially given that they are one of the few clans to support your pathetic breather loving ways."
A sneaky smile crept across her brother's face. "I just thought my Number Two could handle it." He gave her a look of wide-eyed innocence that wouldn't be amiss on one of the many stone angels surrounding them.
Ingrid scoffed in contempt. "Nice try Chosen One." She pointed back at the glittering lights of the Stregoni residence. "Go kiss some cape."
Muttering under his breath, Vlad gathered up his cape and began trudging back towards the party. It didn't escape Ingrid's attention, how his gaze shifted longingly in the direction of the ice-cream van. She shook her head in disbelief, of all the things that the Grand High Vampire could have been doing... It was obviously the Count's fault that Vlad had turned out such a wimpire.
Vlad's companion showed no signs of following. Instead, Bertrand du Fortunesa sat back slightly on the fountain's ledge and gave his ice cream cone a lingering lick as his eyes drifted contemplatively over Ingrid. She couldn't help smirking as she caught the glow of admiration in his eyes. It was a struggle to maintain her haughty facade as her gaze roved over Bertrand in return. The French vampire was wearing his military attire, the dark blue of his jacket bringing out the brilliant depths of his eyes, the superbly cut material attenuating the magnificent broadness of his shoulders. Ingrid had never cared much for uniforms but she had to admit that there was a possibility Bertrand could persuade her of their merits.
And Lucifer's unlife! The way he was eating that ice-cream... The sight of his tongue trailing over the creamy whiteness was enough to make her, Ingrid Dracula the Princess of Darkness, almost blush. A single drop of melted cream fell from the cone onto his chin and before Ingrid had even thought about it, she was bending over, a hand resting upon the golden braiding of his jacket, her tongue flicking out to capture the cold sweetness of that one drop before crushing her lips against his, revelling in the tiny intake of breath that betrayed his arousal at her actions.
For a few minutes Bertrand was all that existed. The strength of his muscular body beneath her hands, the spicy scent of his skin against hers, his tongue expertly dancing with hers in a way that never failed to heat the cold blood lodging in her veins. Oh but she hated him. Hated his influence over her younger brother. Hated his smug all-knowing attitude. Hated his starchy primness. Hated the way he made her feel under his hands when they were together in bed. Hated what he could to her with a single look across a crowded room. Oh yes, she hated Bertrand du Fortunesa – passionately so.
Ingrid pulled back with immense difficulty. Right now, she wanted to shove her lover backwards, watch him fall into the turquoise waters of the fountain and then follow him. It would certainly be one way to cool down...
Bertrand's eyes glittered darkly as he gazed up at her, "Tu es belle dans la couleur du sang." He let his hand fall from her cheek to trail suggestively along the red silk of her dress from the beaded neckline of her cleavage to the curve of her hip. "Tres belle."
Ingrid tossed her hair dismissively. "You know I hate it when you speak French." She pressed her lips together in the pretence of a pout. It was too much to hope that he hadn't noticed the shiver of desire that his words had sent through her.
The right corner of Bertrand's mouth curled upwards in a smirk, he curved his arm around her waist, his strong fingers splaying out across the small of her back. "You know I hate when you speak at all." His smirk only widened at her gasp of mock outrage. He met her halfway, leaning upwards, the icecream falling with a plop into the waters of the fountain as his other hand swept into her hair. The way his lips caressed hers made Ingrid impossibly breathless. If anyone knew that Vlad's chief advisor was capable of such gentleness...
She pulled back abruptly, deliberately smoothing the stickiness of her ice-cream covered hand on his impeccable uniform. A move calculated to provoke Bertrand's temper given his fastidious nature. "My coffin room. Five minutes," she hissed into his ear before gracefully straightening up.
Bertrand leant back again on the ledge, seemingly unbothered by the mess she had just made of his clothing. "Five minutes?" He gave her a questioning look.
"Hmm." Ingrid nodded briskly. "You'll need it." She turned away from him and took a tentative step back onto the damned cobbles.
"Whatever for?"
Bertrand's tone was suspicious and as Ingrid half twisted around, knowing that this angle displayed her curves perfectly, she saw his dark eyebrows come together in a frown. She cast her eyes towards the brightly coloured van parked on the kerb. "To get the ice-cream," she purred with a predatory smile.
Bertrand's eyes widened slightly then suddenly he smiled. White teeth flashing against the golden hue of his skin, his gorgeously full lips curving upwards, his smile temporarily dazzling her. He said nothing more, simply nodding in reply, that glorious smile still lighting up his face.
Ingrid turned away. She hated Bertrand du Fortunesa. She really did. She hated everything about him. She hated his softly spoken endearments. She hated the gentle kisses he pressed against her throat. And most of she hated the way he smiled. Mainly because he didn't do it often enough.