That office had once been pristine only an hour ago, but now it was a proverbial slaughterhouse, blood and body parts strewn across the floor. The glorious shimmering silvery red that steadily floods and spatters across her office was nothing short of a masterpiece in its own warped way, pooling in a dark circle surrounded Darcy's feet as though he stood upon the very mouth of hell itself. The intoxicating aroma was like figurative lure to her, the scent of carnage, fear, and the promise of loss of control was like a perfect cocktail for the mistress to enjoy. She could see it in Darcy's eyes, that control of his was waning. It was only a matter of time or a simple gentle push that would have him entirely plunged into the depths of insanity. How much she relished in watching him on that very edge, led there because she had masterfully orchestrated it. Like a siren luring him to the ominous rocks, threatening to obliterate all control. Of course, it is never so simple, it needed just the right finesse, a master in that very gruesome art form she so excels at.

Darcy was not one of her cats, or progeny. Darcy was an animal all of his own. His servitude was brought on by choice, his very actions and dedication and motives were all a culmination of something else but still equally as potent. Time and time again he proves himself better than even the beasts she controls. Yet... how she relishes in that danger. It wasn't often she allowed anyone she didn't reign entire control over so close. It was the sinuous ties of something she could not fully understand and yet she relishes in manipulating it, toying with it as cat paws at yarn. They were two monsters cut from a similar cloth and she only fed those vile tendencies of his into something far more impressive.

But in that very moment Darcy looks like a creature in his element, as red paints his pale face, drenching his form in what little was left of the warlock. Her felines devouring what they could of those dismembered pieces, hungry and greedy. The little man however, was like a veritable feast for her felines and Darcy himself and part of her took great satisfaction in watching what was hers sate those very bestial cravings. But how determined that little maggot seemed so surprisingly determined not to die, considering how weak he was. If only he was equally as determined to do his job. Alas, that was not her concern, his fate already sealed. She was lost in the passion of that brutality and watching her vampire work, all that strength within his body put to use and she feeds on it like he feeds on his meal. He truly looked the part of a creature high upon the pinnacle of that predatory food chain. Vampires so reigned supreme of all the damned souls that walked this earth, she was sure of it. They were destined to be better than everything else and there was not a species that could rival their assets. But tonight.. How much she enjoyed her wind-up toy. Winding him up in such a way until he was so coiled, he had no choice but to spring forward into action into a sea of carnage like it was his sole purpose in life.

It was then that her marauder of life turns toward her, that tantalizing blood smeared and spattered across his once pale face. That very room filled with such anticipation. That very display of brutishness exactly what she was craving, that very itch indeed scratched. She took great pleasure watching that horror but nothing compared to the man that prowled before her, his feasting eyes lingering in that way that said he was far from done. He is cautious in how he walks that line, intimate with her short fuse for those who defied her, tested her patience. He had calculatingly walked this barbed wire tightrope long enough to know exactly how to execute his intentions. He was smarter than the others, not merely a mastermind and not solely brawn. He was a combination of both which perhaps made him the most dangerous creature she kept.

Slowly, but surely he steals that kiss, it was filled with a controlled desire, leading a dance that was designed to appease her. He tastes her like she tastes him in that moment but takes no move to ask for more and if he did in that moment she was sure to have snapped. She was more fickle than her felines, a dangerous ledge to dwell near. And yet how he flirts with death, how he worships it. Perhaps he was the only one true being who could in fact handle her in all that malevolent glory and the thought makes her nearly hum with a sick amusement. But it was not for long because even she couldn't deny that very show before had awoken something deep within her, a different kind of creature that was hungry and wanting. A creature so many had flinched from.

Her very movement are controlled and deliberate, allowing her tongue to teasingly dance between his fangs, taking more of that warlock's taste for herself all while dancing a dance of her own. It was the brush of his own fleshy tongue, the mingle of blood and promise of those fangs that prompt her further. It would have been so easy to pull him into her, to let her fingers rove that blood slick form. But she does not, she is every bit composed, tormenting herself in an unreadable dance into those uncharted waters. That sound of pleasure escapes him was like a catalyst sparking within her, it was almost equal to his cries of pain. But he pulls away all the same, not pushing at those limits that surely were ever changing for the devil woman. So wary not to be too brash.

She peels herself from that throne like an ancient being awakened from a slumber, that movement alone was almost uncanny and yet sensual, but her intent was clear and yet languidly meticulous. In that very moment her own desire seeps through her, blood teasing her very nostrils, the very display was entirely fresh within her mind. It would seem Darcy was on his best behavior tonight and it was certainly paying off with the vampire woman with such fickle appetites. Her intentions are for once entirely clear, at least one would think as she presses him onto her desk in a gesture that was almost ravenous. That empty box in which the felines he had bought her was laying on its side on the floor for those cubs to play within once they had their fill.

In these moments she looked at him like he is a gift to unwrap.. But the mark on her broken vampire's neck practically mocks her, glaring at her through the blood that coats his neck. It was a mark of another and she could not have that, no matter how much it had healed. That prevailing possessiveness rips through her so resolutely like a violent shift from man into beast. It wasn't often that she appeared so unhinged, but she was a creature who did not share well. In fact, she didn't share whatsoever. Especially not those closest to her, those leashes kept so figuratively short for a reason, decided of her own whims. Even if they had devoted themselves by choice, there was no way she would let them leave. No one left Risque unless it was in a body bag. Surely Darcy must have known this and still after all this time, his body is so entirely reactive to hers as she slides above his own, effectively straddling him. It is a responsive need she pulls from him, feeling just how much he wanted her against her thigh. But instead of passion within her eyes, she is a mirror of displeasure. No one marks him, not anyone except for her, she fixates upon this small but world-shattering detail. Even despite the coils of desire writhing within her chest she cannot see passed that mark that was not her own. Anger, desire, and possession fold in on itself, battling it out in a thunderdome of sorts. Even now he is careful as he submits to her will despite the pain that he was destined for, the perfect blend of pleasure and pain was an art in itself. She strokes his face she could not help but notice how pretty he was, he almost looked human from his fresh meal, that certain glow to his skin blooming with deceiving life. He even felt luxuriously warm beneath her, like he were human, but there was no mistaking her monster as mortal no matter how much fresh blood swirled through his veins, regardless, that strange warmth what a wonderful sensation it was. Risque growls her order not to allow another mark him. She would not stand for it and yet it was hardly a rational thought but those conflicting thoughts rage a steady but twisted warfare within her. Such emotions that seemed so entirely rare and yet she hardly knows how to make sense of them, so she treats it in any way she knows how. If only he had come to her fully healed, she wondered if he would be spared her own carnal brand of brutality or if he was destined for it all the same.

"Good.." She purrs in a content fashion. "Because I do not share." It was then that she offers him pleasure at first, exploring that wound before the worst was to come. She takes her time, amused with how much damage he had endured upon his skin and yet how it had healed. But that mark was not her own and it was stark upon his neck for all the world to see, she could not have that, for he was hers. It was like some primal predatory urgency that swells within her so suddenly as she begins to let those fangs sink into his neck, those bites turned to near brutal whilst she ravaged his neck. What a cruel mistress she was as she takes her time. If she could have crawled inside of him, strip him from his skin and bone she would have possessed him fully.

She did not stop her painful torment until there was no trace of that scar to be seen. He looked mauled and yet how satisfied it made her. That mark was now replaced with her. It seemed to sate that awful, irritation inside of her as though she could finally let that hate and possession simmer at the back of her mind until it bubbled to the surface again. Darcy, more composed now than ever as she inflicted her abuse on him did not dare to allow his hands leave that desk. It was now that she sunk those fangs in a final time drawing three full mouthfuls of him, her jaw working while she nursed from his ravaged wound. So much more stimulating than feeding from the warlock alone, she was sure of it. A sound of pleasure instead of pain rips from his lips and she could hardly contain that frenzy, forced to exhale. She wanted to eat that sound, it seems to resonate within her oddly as though she took selfish pride in her very actions.

She enjoys the sight of him like this, relishes in the fact that his desire still just as potent that she could taste it in his very blood. She licks that blood from her lips, as if savoring every last drop that threatened to escape her. That very singular word left her lips and it was filled with need and desire, rage and sadistic fulfillment. Yet even despite such agony of having his neck ravaged he still seemed so pleased to offer her more. How much more could one man give? She already took and took, which she hardly planning on stopping, she would soak up every last drop. He kept on giving until she's had her fill and still he offers more. Such undying loyalty, such adoration that remains unshakable. No matter how much she hurts him, pushes him, devours him, demand after demand. He seems to enjoy her sweet abuse. Any other man would crack, any other man would have long since been buried along with the carnage. Yet here he was defying all odds and offering her.. more. So much more than she had ever offered him.

Pale, ice blue hypnotic eyes peers down upon that handsome chiseled face, dragging her hand along the side of his cheek gazing into his mismatched eyes, each eye unique in its own way intricate in its design. He offers her to mark every day and truly those words were like candy for her ears. "Oh my poor sweet hellion, you may not survive me." Her words are almost sweet, caring before he props himself upward, his blood spilling down his neck now, in between that collar and his shirt as if beckoning her to follow. His mouth drawing forth her lip within his mouth. That mouth so eager and seeking her kiss, how she almost gives into that craving, instead she allows her tongue to draw over his fangs. Those maiming murder weapons within his mouth she had wanted to pierce and tear into her own unmarred flesh. Like some mutual branding. How she would relish in that agony, how her body craved that punishment that she rarely allowed herself to receive. But Darcy was nothing short of cautious. Especially as he presses those devouring kisses with that same mouth that had ripped a man to shreds mere moments ago was now peppering her skin passionate mementos upon her skin. It nearly drives her to a cusp as his fangs brushing wherever he pressed those controlled kisses. How she presses into him then, her slow methodical hips moving with extreme precision, allowing him her vulnerable neck, accepting that worship his lips provide and yet she aches for that sweet pain of those mauling teeth.

His hands began to dance across her thigh, feeling the straps of her garter belt. It was in such a way that almost in a way that seems hesitant at first as if dancing on some fine line that could easily snap her out of that passionate reverie. He knew her body, knew what she wanted before she needed to ask for it. Risque having no patience for a man who fumbled through anything. Those hands hesitated upon those latches, he could have ripped them for all she cared.

"Do it." She hisses a demand, her mind made in those heart-wrenching moments, all while those kisses continue, coaxing and baiting that anticipation. It was unsure what she even meant by that. Bite her? Remove those straps that so lingered upon her bone porcelain hued thigh? Take her upon this very desk? It was truly anyone's guess and surely it would leave his own mind guessing.

She grinds into him again, feeling him through his pants. As though she wished to rattle his composure, to make him break through that figurative leash she placed on him. Just how good is that composure she wonders near devilishly. "Don't make me ask you twice." There was a demand once more as her hand rises. Ready to use that silver clad talon, the tip possessing scalpel blade sharpness. In between those fervent kisses that feels like fire against her skin, his body still warm from his meal even as he bleeds upon her, feeling that blood run down along her shoulders and between her breasts like he purposefully smeared his sin upon her eager skin. Her hands move easily, gliding to those buttons upon that blood-soaked shirt. She begins to pluck at those threads that possessed those buttons, slicing them free. She felt for them each of them as she frees them like she were unwrapping her blood clad gift, she is almost precise, feeling for one button after the next and she listens to those buttons scatter to the ground. It was by the third that the blade pierces too far, that silver hissing against his skin as though it bit him. How easy it could have been to split him open, to see what lay beneath that durable skin. Darcy's inner workings a glorified mystery and yet while she relished in his pain, she does not maim him further even though her mind certainly crawls into those dark recesses of her wicked mind.

She presses away for but a moment with a hand placed upon the smooth hard plains of his chest, her eyes once filled with a hypnotic apathy chased away by the snapping jaws of want. She moves those hips once more in that nearly serpentine way, intentional and torturous. It was not completely as surprising as those words that dared to leave her bloodied lips. The only time she had ever offered him such a thing. She is almost curious of his intentions, as though it is this answer alone that could doom him or give him his wildest desires on a silver platter. If it were a trap, it would have been the most wicked. "Tell me my sweet vie après la mort... if I were to offer you one thing this night of your own choosing and it could be yours.. Tell me what does that unbeating heart of yours yearn for?" That voice was dark and sinful. No tricks, only treats in this deadly charade it would seem. At least for now. She leans forward, pressing her chest against his bare chest, allowing her lips and tongue to lazily savour and lap at that blood that remained as she waited his answer. It would seem that the she-devil was in a better mood than one would have thought.

Risque

just face the moon and put your death mask on