Work Text:
It was quiet in the hall.
The floor was textured white marble, smooth and cool to the touch, the walls were painted white, as was the ceiling. There were no windows, and the only illumination came from the spotlights set into the ceiling, all presently turned on. There were no human touches beyond the large wingback armchair, black, stood in the exact middle of the hall, and a red cushion set on the floor in front and slightly to the right of it. The overall affect was striking: a pristine, perfect area, rarely touched and unsullied, but also a bit too clean, a bit too perfect, a bit – sterile.
William Herondale (property of Lord James Carstairs, let’s not forget that) stood in the doorway of the hall, staring fixedly at what was beyond the threshold, and blinking only occasionally as he tried – and failed – to process what he was looking at. When Frank had woken him that morning and told him that today he would be collared by Lord Carstairs, he’d expected some kind of dungeon scene with latex and lots of buckles. Not…this.
He’s still standing there when measured footsteps sound out in the corridor behind him, and he knows without turning that it’s Carstairs. Frank stiffens into a straighter stance next to him, which is another clue, but Will knows who it is because Carstairs is the only member of the household that walks like that. Slow, measured, confident.
Carstairs stops about a pace away from him, and Will turns around automatically, as does Frank. But whereas Frank continues to look unruffled and perfectly composed – fuck him – Will ’s eyes go a little wide and, well, his jaw drops. Because James Carstairs, with his perfect hair and deep dark eyes and a slender, toned body, is wearing a suit, again, and Will has never wanted anything more than he wants the man in front of him.
Well, shit. This is certainly going to complicate matters.
Belatedly, Will realises he’s still staring, and quickly shuts his mouth, hurriedly transforming his expression into something resembling mild interest. He immediately knows this isn’t right, because Carstairs is already looking amused, and he looks steadily more so as Will struggles, but before he can fix it, he is brushed to one side as Carstairs walks into the hall.
Will turns as if on a string, watching him cross the space to the armchair and take his seat, lifting one leg to rest the ankle on his other knee. The trousers he is wearing cling to his legs from hip to ankle, and the shape they form when he walks is almost obscene. And when he settles onto the seat, looking as if he belongs there, his gaze landing unerringly upon Will, it’s a little too much for him to take at this time of day.
Will’s mouth is dry.
A discreet coughing sound steals his attention from the sight in front of him, and Will glances sideways at Frank, who looks unbearably smug. “I was correct,” the servant informs him gleefully. “I knew he would wear that tie.”
Will looks confused.
Frank is practically exhaling smugness at this point. “Your clothes,” he expands, in the kind of tone that a teacher uses when they come into contact with a student that is being ridiculously slow. “They match.”
Will looks down at himself, and, yeah, he’s right. The dark grey shirt he is wearing: long sleeved and clinging to his torso, is the exact shade of Carstairs’s tie, the trousers, slim-fit as well, are a complimentary lighter shade, and his shoes are an immaculate black. All in all, it works perfectly, but Will can’t stand to give him the satisfaction. “You’re clearly wasted here. You should be working in fashion, Frank. Models dancing to your tune. Rolling in money. Enthralling the masses with your wondrous creations.”
Frank glares at him.
This isn’t exactly unusual, so Will beams back.
He would say something else, but then a cool voice fills the brief silence. “As much as I like to watch my people chat, I am operating under a tight schedule today. If we could get on?” Carstairs doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even sound annoyed, but Frank flushes with embarrassment, and becomes all business. He nods at Will, who, knowing not to push too far, steps into the hall and begins walking towards the chair, trying desperately not to think of wedding ceremonies and brides walking down the aisle and to remember everything that Frank had told him that morning.
Will stops in front of the chair, and sinks gracefully to his knees, gaze settling firmly on the flawless marble in front of him, hands linked together behind his back. The cushion is next to him, and Will imagines for one wild moment that it is mocking him with the comfort it offers in comparison to the unyielding marble.
And then he realises why this had been so unusually long in coming. He would never have been able to sustain this pose with his injured ankle – even attempting it would have been agony. And Carstairs had apparently been content to wait for him to heal sufficiently rather than stake his claim. That was…kind.
Will almost startles when a cool hand touches his jaw, fingers slipping beneath his jawline to press lightly against his neck, but earlier training reinforced itself and he remained still, focusing carefully on keeping his breathing even, his muscles relaxed.
There’s movement around him, Frank handing Carstairs the collar and stepping back again, the sound of a buckle being unclasped, and then the hand on his jaw coaxes his head upwards. Blue eyes trail up slender legs – now both Carstairs’s feet are on the floor – an equally slender, though not childlike torso, and finally stop on the collar.
And that’s when Will forgot everything Frank had drilled into him that morning.
“I think you’ve got the collars mixed up, Frank. That’s for a girl.”
His tone isn’t as flat as it should be – there’s an undercurrent of stress there that Will had been doing so well at hiding, but this is his first collaring ceremony, he figures he’s justified in being a little stressed out – but his natural response to situations he’s unsure about is humour, albeit in this case dubious humour, and that’s inevitably what comes out. In the middle of a serious ceremony that will establish him as Carstairs’s property, he’s trying to make a joke.
Somewhere, his ancestors are laughing.
There’s a weighted pause, and Will can feel Frank’s gaze on him as well, and the guy probably looks horrified or even furious, and then it’s broken before it can become unbearable, by, of all things, a soft laugh from the man sat upon the armchair in front of him. “But you will look ever so fetching, William.”
Will blinks in stunned surprise and then in chagrin – nobody calls him William, and who the hell even says ‘fetching’ anymore? – but Carstairs is smiling at him, and it’s open and genuine and a touch amused, and Will finds himself smiling back.
“Now that we’re agreed,” Carstairs continues smoothly, in that effortless way he has of sounding mild and pleasant while undeniably establishing his authority, “I’d like to return to the script. As much as I enjoy the look of surprise on you, William,” there is it again, “I do have to return to work.”
Will must look surprised again – he needs to work on his facial expressions if Carstairs can read him that easily – because the man actually clucks impatiently. “I am the headmaster and founder of a music school,” he explains briefly and modestly, without exaggeration. “I personally teach a number of students the violin, and I have a class in just over an hour.”
“Now.” His gaze sharpened suddenly, and Will caught a note of real danger in his tone. “We will continue.” It’s an order, and Will obeys automatically, dipping his gaze while keeping his head where it is.
The hand on his jaw softens, one finger smoothing over his cheek in a brief caress, and then it leaves. There’s a short moment in which Will feels curiously bereft, then there’s smooth leather around his neck, the sound of a buckle being closed, and the collar is in place.
It’s…good, actually. The leather is soft and doesn’t chafe, and the black ruffles around the edges of the tan-coloured leather band – ruffles – barely touch his skin, and are far from the irritant he feared they would be. And when Will lifts his head and meets Carstairs’s gaze, the heat he sees makes it even better. There’s possessiveness in that look, want as well, perhaps even a touch of need, and Will’s body flushes with heat even as his expression, finally under control, remains calm, mild, and submissive.
Carstairs nods, and Will shifts sideways, onto the red cushion. Take that, you smug little shit. I’m here now.
He can practically feel Frank inhale close by, but the word comes out all by itself: “Master.” He doesn’t throw up. He doesn’t even want to throw up. Because Carstairs doesn’t look mocking, or superior, or bored. He looks like this is something he wants, genuinely and simply, and he’s looking at Will as if he’s everything he’s ever wanted, and it makes something inside him melt like warm chocolate.
Then Carstairs’s attention shifts away from him, up, towards the door, and he nods, slightly. Seconds later, new, unfamiliar footsteps sound out – heels, Will notes – as whoever it is walks briskly towards the two of them, as if they’re in a hurry, and this is a chore they need to complete before they get on with their day.
Whoever it is stops a few paces away, and Carstairs gestures at Will to turn around. He does so, leaving him facing the rest of the room, and finds himself situated in front of a young, fair-haired woman wearing a very tight dress, ridiculously high heels, and a profoundly disinterested expression. “So this is him,” she sniffs, and she couldn’t sound more high-class if she tried.
Will doesn’t react, though he wants to.
He can’t see Carstairs, and he doesn’t realise how much that bothers him until a now familiar hand settles on the back of his neck, the index finger sliding into the gap between the collar and his skin to linger there. It’s nice, and he relaxes.
“Yes. Jessie, this is William Herondale."
Jessie studies him critically, then tosses her head, fair hair cascading back over her shoulders. “I suppose he is pretty enough. But, James, I expect to be consulted about these things. He is your first, and you didn’t think to ask for my advice?” She sounds peeved. Actually peeved.
“I do know what I am doing, Jessie.” Carstairs – well, James, actually – sounds as mild as ever, but Will can hear the smile in his voice even as he preens under new attention.
She looks dubious. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. We have a certain reputation to uphold, after all, and he looks like he might be difficult.” She sounds as if she’s discussing the weather.
“I know.” Now James sounds weary, and Will, unthinking, leans into his touch. The grip on his neck tightens momentarily, and James sounds as unflustered as he did before when he speaks again. “Goodbye, Jessamine.”
“James.” She spins on her heel and stalks out, not offended, exactly, but determined to make an exit as the delicate material of her dress flutters out behind her, an entrancing vision to anyone interested. It’s something of a pity that no one in the room is.
“My cousin,” James murmurs, as if he’s still processing what just happened. Will can relate – she said he was pretty.
Then James releases Will’s neck to stand up, smooth and unconsciously graceful. “Will,” he says softly, and Will’s gaze snaps up, “you have the rest of the day to yourself. Do what you wish with it, but do not leave the house, and,” he pauses, and there’s an unreadable emotion in his eyes, “keep the collar on.” Will nods, and James smiles warmly at him before he turns and strides away.
When he’s safely out of the room, Frank appears by his side. “That went well,” he comments loftily, “despite your best effort to put us both into an early grave.”
“Frank,” Will replies with far more dignity that someone sat on a cushion, wearing a collar, and staring after his Master with clear affection should have, “you underestimate and wound me with your total lack of trust in my abilities. I’ll have you know, the sound of my voice is all that is required to make even the most aloof lady swoon.”
Frank gives him a very knowing look. “Ah, but it’s not a lady you’re wanting, is it?”