He removes that limb from the warlocks shoulder with all the precision of a surgeon and yet- one lacking the delicacy of a sterilised instrument. Darcy instead merely tearing that limb with strength and fang from its socket with a wet and meaty crack and crunch of sinew and bone that seems to echo even within that small space of Risque's office. That blood flows like a veritable fountain from his victim. That scent only further intoxicating his already predatory passion into a veritable frenzy that slithered and curved just below the surface. One baited into existence by Risque herself and the allure of both her body and blood. There was nothing in all this world that so seemed to bring Darcy to the very brink off his control like his Mistress herself. Some part of him, surely, knew that she baited him on purpose. That she plucked and played at his strings like a puppeteer upon a stage. Bending and twisting him just the way she desired and yet if any part of him resented that very control she exacted upon him it was surely smothered beneath his near sickening obsession over her. He craved her attentions and her affections even when those very things only brought him pain in turn. Perhaps he was no better then her precious feline pets. Darcy a veritable slave to his own species and hunger in turn. That territorialism within him far more potent then normal, that jealous over any and everything that strayed into the cusp of what he deemed his own all consuming. The vampire a victim to his own bloodlust time and time again and yet how Risue only added fuel to that fire each and every time. She fed that monster and oh how dangerous a monster he had become.
His mismatched gaze lingered upon that limb within his hands, that protroduing bone and blood-drenched muscle that hung limpy from its end only seeming to coax that simper to his lips. The creature so genuinely enjoying this free rein she had allowed him to display his talents for her. His own brutality in that moment perhaps increased if only for the knowledge that her eyes lingered upon him. How...arousing it was to have her watch him. To have all of her attention upon him as it should be. That veritable creature within purring its supreme satisfaction in that carnage and blood and attention he all but revelled in even if no more then that simper upon his lips so betrayed the depths of those very feelings that twisted within his fractured thoughts. Love and lust and desire and hunger so contorting within him then. Darcy distinctly aware, on some level, of that predatory want within Risque in turn though she hardly slid from her throne. She never did. Her features a near impassive mask that gave nothing away off her internal thoughts upon his destruction and yet how he relished in that game too. In so attempting to appeal to her with this foreplay in the form of a carnival or carnage. A bid for her favour. For her pleasure. Darcy not in the habit of disappointing her in any fashion.
That low, keening whistle easily left his lips. The she-panther rushing forward for its prize only to be forced to sit before him. The vampire demanding that very respect that had so seen him claw his way to the veritable top of the totem pole amongst every other creature in Risque's coven. That limb was tossed easily to the cat then as it dove back beneath the desk with its prize. That crack and crunch splitting the ear for several moments before those leopard kits hungary mews seemed to permeate that air with a striking innocence of sorts. The small creatures desperate to join the larger one in its feast. Darcy's own mismatched gaze drifted away from those creatures then and back toward his very victim. That warlock so wretchedly still alive. The vampire content to finish unleashing his veritable disdain for the man then in that blur of violent intent that saw piece after piece of the man torn from him in a horrific display bloodied glory before his own hunger would wait no longer. Darcy so finally allowing that control to falter now that he was satisfied with that display he had offered his mistress. Those large, violent fangs burying into the warlocks neck to ravage those veins and cut off that life in an instant. The only sound that existed then the very sounds of Darcy feeding. Mouthful after mouthful off that heated blood swallowed greedily before that husk of a body was allowed to fall atop that pile of flesh already torn from it.
How readily that satisfaction seemed to find him then, soothing those metaphorical heckles now that the other man had been eliminated. His lips parted once more, his tongue running over his fangs and lips to lick at the droplets of blood that remained before he turned back to that chair to reach for his jacket. That leather coat was shugged back onto his bloodied figure. That fitted black shirt beneath stained darker from the blood that still lined his arms and side and neck. The red liquid still warm. The very blood that filled his veins now affording his body that same warmth and illusion of life. His mismatched gaze appeared all the brighter, that pallor of death all but chased from his skin as his hand lifted to his lips to wipe away a little more of that blood. That hunger readily satisfied and yet- how potently those other desires still tugged at him. Those far more physical wants prompted a near ache within him. Those heightened emotions, that hunger and blood and baiting so readily entwined with that want for her. This, by far, the most.....difficult part off that very dance. Darcy so daring to walk that tantalizing and ever tumultuous line that was Risques moods and desires in turn. He wanted more from her and yet how he had paid for being to forward before, for falling victim to her fickleness. A misread action, a misunderstood word.He had all but mastered reading his mistress far better than any other and yet even he still made mistakes- rare and infrequent though they were. That veritable display he had offered her surely enough to coax some manner of good mood.
He is careful even in that approach, his toned, bloodied figure looping wider around her to come from the side. To come at her directly, after all, would be near akin to a challenge in itself. Darcy careful to tow that line of boldness and submissive all at once in this delicate, dangerous dance. What remained off that warlock all but forgotten now. His want, his desire, his attention.....fixated upon Risque alone. He had no sooner reached her side then his lips find her own- and how he relishes in their perfection! That taste off her own blood still upon them prompted a renewed vigor. That very kiss laced with lust and want that left no room to doubt his desire and yet- he presses no further then that. Darcy daring to instigate that very flame and yet he is not nearly so foolish enough to flare it. A veritable question of sorts offered within that affection. A line he would not cross without her direct consent. Whether or not those wants for intimacy were to be met were for Risque alone to permit. That brush off her tongue so silken and teasing upon his own lips readily sees him part them as obedient as he does near all else. Darcy letting her tongue slip between his fangs to brush against his own and taste that very warlock that lingered there still. The vampire unable to prevent that soft sound of pleasure that intimate kiss alone draws from him before he pulls away. Darcy lingering beside her then as he leans upon her desk and yet remains within her reach all the same in that submissive and yet....respectful display that offers no cowardice for his daring and yet still seeks to command her attention. That southern drawl upon his lips then.
Her own words come swiftly, a veritable purr as she comments upon the bitter sharpness of that blood. Darcy not inclined to disagree with her. That Warlock had been weak too. Weaker blood so often prone to a lack of flavour that satisfied and yet so often lacked those finer textures to be truly enjoyable. Warlock so hardly his favoured taste. Darcy, in turn, finding little pleasure in Were blood the way his mistress did. That animal taint equally unfulfilling to his own tastes. Darcy so preferring human as his favoured meal- if only because the blood of Fae was so distinctly rare it was near unattainable- even upon that black market. Fae blood.....was beyond anything else and yet even in his near two centuries off life he had never met a living Fae. His very thoughts upon that blood so hardly last however as Risques near velveteen voice ensnares him once more with the insistence she would rather taste that blood through him. Her figure rises smoothly from her throne then. That hand is upon his chest near suddenly, forcing him backward and onto her desk, several papers scattered aside with that very action.
There is little gentleness in that embrace and yet how he relishes that touch. So few of those sexual encounters between them ever gentle in any sense. She is atop him then, as dominant in this as she is in all things, forcing him to stay beneath her as her sensual figure slides languidly against his own. His very body physically responding to her sheer proximity until his jeans feel....unformforatbly restrictive. How temptingly her dress slides up her pale thighs in a sinfully alluring promise and yet for now he waits, his hands remaining upon the polished wood of that desk. That displeasure upon her features was hardly missed as her hand rests upon his chest only for her nails to suddenly curl and bite into his flesh, forcing that near wince from him before her free hand reaches to stroke at his face. How utterly cruel that mix of pain and pleasure is! Those conflicting desires prompted a soft groan of want from him all the same before she wrenches his head to the side. That very action forcing that equally soft growl of displeasure from his lips and yet he keeps his head turned as she desires. That vulnerable neck exposed. That fucking scar. She was fascinated with it still. Fucking Tetradore. Those hissing words were growled from her lips then as his gaze cut back to her own as best it could. She commands him not to allow another to mark him again.
"It won't 'appen again, Darlin'."
He offers her those words he knows she desires to hear. Submission and compliance to sooth that irritation. Her lips easily find that scar then, her tongue trailing after them in a languid, glorious touch that brings that shudder of lust to his figure again. Those very nerve endings were near on fire with that need and yet he knew, how readily he knew, it was not pleasure alone she intended to offer him. Not tonight. That sudden inhalation was all the warning he was afforded before her fangs bit sharply into his just-healed neck, that pain lancing through him white hot, forcing that sharp intake off his own breath in turn. That bite was far different to those given in those passionate moments at the height of sexual euphoria- the very kind he all but welcomed. This bite was aimed to hurt. How ill-satisfied she was with that singular mark. Her teeth finding his flesh over and over until she all but ravages it as if aiming to rip that scar from him entirely. Perhaps she does. Darcy's left hand tightened upon the edge of that desk as that pain radiated and yet he hardly dared flinch and any more then he dared move. That vampire simply accepting those bites she offered him before she paused to feed. Darcy stilling once more beneath her now. That very action of so having that blood drawn from his veins seeming to have a near....sedative effect upon the man. That feeding action in turn prompting that sound of pleasure again from within his throat. That very state of arousal so hardly having faltered throughout. Darcy, perhaps, near addicted to that pain as much as he was that pleasure if only because it came from her.
She pulls away then, that blood still running from those wounds she had hardly bothered to lick closed until he can feel that wet, sticky liquid pooling against his neck and soaking through the fabric off his clothes and into his shoulder. He would be hungry again soon at this rate. Most of that meal all but running from his own veins now. That hiss of possession echoed from Risque then as she straddled him still. That sound laced with lust and so much else all at once. Darcy taking that opportunity then to lift himself upward just enough to balance upon his elbows atop that table slick with his own blood- how very poetic. Those southern lyrics finding him then.
"Always yours, Darlin'. I'd sooner 'ave your mark than anyone else's. Yar can give it to me every day if it please ya."
How readily he sought to sooth her own possessive tendencies by giving her those words she desired to hear all the same. Darcy leaning upward once more to take her bottom lip between in his own. That taste off his own blood decidedly unusual upon them and yet no less appealing as he stole another off those kisses and yet- he was so hardly done this time. His lips drew smoothly from her own then with a languid ease. Darcy daring to press his lips to her jaw then before dipping his head beneath her own to press those ardent kisses to her neck and throat as if near revelling in that taste off her skin, affording her that worship she surely deserved. His own fangs could hardly help but grace her skin and yet he was not near so bold enough to bite her in turn- at least not yet. Not without that consent. His each and every action so measured and controlled even now lest her mooods shift. Darcy, for now, ignoring that ache in his newly mauled neck as that flesh begun to heal anew. Tetradore's scars well and truly replaced with Risques own bitten brand. His right hand lifted then, his fingers daring to grace her exposed thigh, lightly at first, if only to assure she knew his hand was there before those touches become firmer, bolder and more pressing. His hand moved with practised precision to grace the straps of that garter belt- how common they had been in women off his own time in turn. Darcy nothing short of near expert in removing them, those massaging fingers gliding upwards to tease with the first off those clips in clear indication of just what he intended and yet- it is there he pauses again. Something of that southern gentleman within him still it would seem. His lips continuing that teasing trailing over her own sensitive neck and toward her collorbone. That blood near coating them both now, its scent so potently intoxicating....
d a r c y
and i'll stay alive, just to follow you home