I claim no ownership to the characters, settings or anything else related to The Simpsons universe. A non-profit fan fiction.
Warnings: slash, slight profanity, sex, adult situations, don't waste your time reading if you don't like Burns/Smithers love.
Chapter One: Idol Hands
Being Burns' personal assistant was a constant duty that Waylon Smithers held to the utmost importance. Often described as being the equivalent of about 2,800 smaller jobs, it was more than just a job to Waylon; it was his whole reason for even waking up every morning and something that he was especially good at. He prided himself on things like knowing just the right ratio of sugar to lemon juice in the man's lemonade and knowing just the right time to shut up when he felt as if he were pushing the man's buttons too hard during their discussions.
It was no secret amongst most citizens of Springfield that Waylon also fancied his boss and that his love was sadly unrequited. It would have been a thing of tragic romance, the likes of which were immortalized by the most illustrious and beautiful works of literature if only it wasn't such a source of comedy and snickering from those that knew him. Sometimes it seemed that only Burn's himself was the only one that wasn't privy to Waylon's affections and it felt like a double edged sword for poor Waylon.
Though he rarely found a time that he wasn't busy fulfilling all of Burns' numerous demands, he'd fallen into a routine over the years where he could fit his own interests in between the lulls and doldrums of those moments that Burns didn't need him and just then happened to be one of those moments.
Smithers headed up the stairs to his office and shut the door. Finally, away from the noise and chaos of the plant and into his own little immaculate office, he could have a bit of free time and a thing that had become an interest of his lately was writing. He wasn't a necessarily gifted writer, but he found that his sole source of inspiration was always his love for his boss, Mr. Burns. While his characters never an exact manifestation of Burns and himself, some tiny bit of them always seemed to retain some aspect of Burn's personality and there was often a dutiful assistant that looked up to him. His current project was that of the vampire romance genre, with plenty of horror as well as fluff to appeal to a broader audience.
Not that he planned on publishing it any time soon. It seemed a bit too personal to be subjected to the harsh critique of those who deemed worthy enough to ridicule something that was so close to his heart and only written to vicariously live out scenarios that he could only dream of with his beloved Monty Burns.
The sound of typing filled the office. Fingers, accustomed to years of office work, deftly grazed the keyboard and sentences quickly grew to paragraphs then pages.
- o - o - o -
Bloodlust
Chapter One
It was the autumn of 1812. Near Oxfordshire, in a modest ivy-covered home, lived a young eleven year old boy by the name of Wallace Sylvie. He was rather small for his age with unruly, light brown hair. He was learning to become a proper young gentleman by the lead of his mother and stefather; an 'old soul' they'd call him. He wasn't particularly special or outstanding, but he was more of a loner, being much more content just to sit in his room and read or play quietly by himself.
His parents regarded him stiffly and rather than spoil him with superflous affection, they pushed him to excel and always pressured him to be at least one step ahead of his peers. Sure, he knew they cared for him, but their overly zealous meathod of parenting ways made him somewhat envious of his classmates.
With strife over the war that was raging on between the British and the New World becoming a constant topic of conversation over the dinner table, his mother and stepfather often got into heated discussions over than and many other political topics of which they always managed to butt heads, never agreeing on anything.
The family had just eaten dinner and as soon as Wallace had excused himself from the table, he could hear the familiar tension building from his parents; an argument was inevitable. Wallace grabbed one of his books and sat on the bottom step of the staircase to read, not even bothering to excuse himself from the table. Maybe the book would take his mind off of the raised voices.
There was a terrible storm outside that seemed to shake the whole house and it was terrifying for Wallace who happened to have a fear of thunder and lightening. Wishing that he were somewhere else entirely, he dreamed of escaping into some other world somehow. Little did he know, he was about to get his wish.
No sooner than he'd had that thought, an abrupt noise erupted from the living room like a gunshot. The family stood transfixed with horror as the window shattered, showering the room with tiny shards, wind now blowing violently into the living room and outing most of the candles and knocking over an oil lamp.
Surely it must be a tree branch or some other rubble, one would think. That is, until the real source of the impact came into view. From the dimly lit room, they could see the figure of a man standing amongst the shards of glass. Not until the lightening struck could they see the full image of the stranger; his cold, sinister face highlighted in a most dramatic fashion by the intermittent light.
Dressed in ornate formal attire, a cape draped gracefully around his lithe, yet regal frame. In one quick movement that was beyond the capabilities of a normal human and too fast to detect, the dark stranger grabbed the father and promptly sank his sharp fangs into his neck with very little struggle, rendering him unconscious in a matter of moments. The mother barely even had the time to shriek at the sight before she too felt the fateful sting of teeth against flesh and joined her husband on the floor. He was very reminiscent of the vampires of folklore that Wallace had heard about.
The boy, now crouched behind the staircase, watched between the wooden railings in horror as the man dismissively wiped the blood from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. He willed his heart to remain silent, almost fearing the man would somehow hear its frenzied rhythm. The tall figure walked slowly towards the area where the trembling boy was attempting to hide.
- o - o - o -
"Smithers, where are those reports you promised would be on my desk before four o'clock?" I know you're in there! Are you hiding?" came Burns' demanding voice from his adjoining office.
"Uh, no sir. They're on your desk. Check the folder under your paperweight." Smithers scratched his forehead as his train of thought returned. He was actually somewhat appreciative of Burns' occasional interruptions. Just hearing the man's voice provided him the extra push he needed to keep his villain very much in character. He even provided enough archaic vocabulary to keep the characters speaking as they would have back in the old Regency era of the nineteenth century, or as best as Waylon could manage after reading as much of Jane Auston's works as he could get his hands on.
- o - o - o -
"Boy, I know you are in there. Are you hiding?" came the smooth, calculated voice, finally breaking the deathly silence. The boy folded himself tight. His arms securely wrapped around himself in a futile effort to will his body to disappear, his eyes squeezed shut as he could hear the man approaching.
"So would be... Wallace Sylvie I believe?" he said with the calm, stately voice of a gentleman.
"H-how did you... know my na-?"
"It's not important." the man inched ever closer to him and knelt down on one knee, his cape billowing around his crouched form like some morbid prince, now at eye level with the boy.
"P-please... do not kill me!" he uttered through broken sobs.
The man reached out one gloved hand beneath the boy's chin, gently lifting his head and making eye contact. "You are in no position to make requests, young lad." Baines chuckled lightly. "I suppose I could have entered through the door, but that would have been terribly dull. Mortals are so easily stunned by a flair for the dramatic."
As his blurry vision cleared, his eyes began to focus on the stranger before him. He looked to be about the age of his father, but with classically, regal, handsome features which was surprising given the folklore of vampires that he knew of. His short, silvery hair came to a widows peak and his fierce, steel eyes were quite unnerving and for a split-second, Wallace thought he'd seen a hint of remorse in those cold eyes as the man looked away quickly. Finally, he withdrew his gloved hand and stood back up as if he had come to some sort of important decision.
"You will come with me," he stated firmly.
"What?" Wallace was taken aback. Was this man serious?
"Do you not constantly wish to be taken away from this filthy mortal hovel? Away from parents that don't even love you?"
"My parents! You killed them!" Wallace cried.
"They are fine and will awaken soon." He walked towards Wallace. "My name is Mr. Baines. I can take care of you, give you everything you've ever wanted. All I ask for... is your blood." Baines reached a hand out to him.
"M-my-" Wallace stammered.
"Give me your hand and I shan't kill you, for your blood has a scent that is unbearably attractive." Baines closed in and before Wallace knew what had hit him, he felt an intensely sharp pain in his left wrist; The intense sting of fangs piercing flesh. He struggled but found that this only made the pain worse.
"Please!" Wallace pleaded.
Baines merely grunted a response, fangs still connected to the boy's fragile wrist. With his free arm he grasped the back of Wallace's jacket, bunching the material fiercely between his fingers as the pleasure derived from the youthful blood began to wane. Finally releasing him, Baines fell back to the floor with a thud. The energy from this child was surprisingly more invigorating and it made him feel a sense of dread along with euphoria. He'd been affected like this before by the blood of a particular mortal. Once afflicted with this particular brand of bloodlust, a vampire would do anything to keep on getting it.
Wallace stood there, frozen from fear. It took the man several seconds to compose himself as the effects of the blood wore off. He sat up on his hands and stared at Wallace, a mischievous smirk across his face.
"I gave you a chance, my dear." Baines grabbed onto the railing of the staircase to steady himself as he stood, "Now I am afraid that I have no choice but to take you by force!"
He could hear the possessiveness to that silky voice. Wallace mustered all the wherewithal he had to escape and quickly made a dash for the door but the nimble man was much too quick for him, jumping in front of the door and effectively blocking his escape. He found the strong arms firmly gripping him as he kicked and struggled.
"I have taken claim of you and will do as you're ordered!" he scolded, his mind partially clouded by the bloodlust affliction that urged him on with such voracity.
With such finality to the man's words, Wallace didn't dare anger him further and soon found himself hoisted up into the strong arms. He didn't even have a chance to look back at the ivy-covered house on Mill Lane before Baines gracefully stepped out of the window from whence he came and took flight into the grey, storm riddled sky. He clutched desperately to the man's jacket, afraid to look down at the trees and houses whizzing by below. The boy, now a captive of this mysterious thief on one of the darkest of nights.
A. N. - This is my first fanfic so please be kind and I will try my best. To be continued.