Just like that Darcy submits to her demands, no hesitation, no attempt to fight her like so many did. Even though she cannot control him like her prized felines, he succumbs better than any of them. Never did he falter, never did she see that utter flash of hatred within his uniquely hued eyes, a cherished rarity in her vain gaze. He simply understood, understood his place, her desires and better yet, he wanted to please her. Even still as Risque simply watches in that mild amusement while Darcy toys with the man, a sheer testament to the undiluted power their species had been bestowed. How he relishes in watching the man squirm with such cruelty that is nothing short of worthy. How she appreciates the very sadist within him that churns like a monster brewing in wait, but not just yet.

That warlock that had dared to have the nerve to show up here in her very kingdom and waste her time was a matter she wished to deal with, but with distinct care. His pretty little magic tricks and display was wasted upon the vampires. It was clear he relied on those parlor tricks to get a paycheck and perhaps it worked for a time. Only this time the spec of a man had chosen the wrong tree to mark. It was clear that he possessed magic, but the man was weak. Such a pitiful little man that she could not help but wonder how he survived this far. It would appear that Risque hardly had any patience for fools who wasted her time, so she took no additional thought in summoning Darcy to one of his tasks for tonight. He was practically itching for it like a horse chomping at that metal bit. So much pent up energy her Darcy had all cooped up within that virile form she wants to see it come out and play. He was like a wind up toy coiled too far that he very well might burst in that all-consuming ire!

That high-pitched bothersome scream that ripped through the warlock battered her ears. He sounded like a little girl squealing impossibly loud like a tween a concert watching her favorite boyband, it was an unappealing sound, no matter how entertaining it was. It was when she teased her pent-up vampire with grandeur promises of more, suggestive little dreams she places for him to follow like a trail of crumbs leading to what was to come. It was then that Darcy began to play with his toy, watching the little man flail about. She allows it for a time, but she was not willing to let him die because Darcy choose to play with a little extra zeal. While it had a purpose, the time was not now. No, she would be entirely too disappointed if he prematurely ended the man.

While Risque could have watched him play with his prey, it would have been a waste of the potential of that very moment. Surely Darcy was aware of her vision, she was a woman with particular taste and she viewed this very moment a potential for expression. The art of death was no easy feat to execute just right. You needed the right moment, the right temperature, the right ingredients. Time to hone and fantasize how many different ways one man could break her voice breaks through the little play session. Just as quickly as those words were uttered her obedient Darcy stopped on a pin.

She halted this game, only to propose a new one in which she only insinuates by claiming she needs to pay the man. Surely, he must have known what that could have meant, the building potential she weaves, veiled within her very words. Anticipation not only floods her vampire lover but the felines in the room seemed to feel it too. It was near intoxicating as she watches that little warlock struggle as she stuffs each bill with care into his mouth almost to the point, he nearly chokes on it. He seemed so fixed on payment, so why not pay the man? It would be his dying wish. He was lucky his useless existence was getting rewarded at all, she was after all a generous devil. However, the pesky little maggot seemed to so apt to try and bite at her fingers! When she offers him what he so desperately wanted. She bit out a warning to him and her dark-haired vampire smacks him swiftly to the back of his head, jarring the man, nearly causing a crumpled bill to fall from his lips. Once her job was complete, she decided it was time to reward that undying loyalty had seemed to provide, unwillingly so. A mingle of her own blood and the warlock's billowed about that room.

How effortless it was to initiate that frenzy within him, with the scent of blood lingering in the water. Her faithful hound turns into a shark. She uses those predatory urges against him, using that sensual torment upon him while he had his hands full. She could practically sense his want, feeding off of it like a succubus hungry for its next meal. She is ever present and aware of what her actions inflict upon him, gliding closer in that erotic tease. Allowing her scent to act like a lure to her blood thirsty shark, allowing her fingers dance wherever she pleases, knowing he can do nothing to satisfy the itch. How eager he seemed for her touch, it was obvious as he leans into the press of her body like a feline that craved touch. But she does not give him more besides a press of her bloodied lips upon his neck, letting that blood smear against that porcelain flesh. How easy it was to distract Darcy from his victim, although, in that moment it was impossible to know who was the true victim here. Risque seeming content enough to hunt Darcy in her own sick way. The warlock a distant after thought.

It was that violent way he pulled back that warlock back into a hardened grip. He had almost entirely forgot the task at hand, that skilled puppeteer that was Risque relishing in her power over him. It was like she awoken something in him as she perches upon her own throne. It was truly a glorious thing to watch, watch every ounce of humanity die away and transformed into a ravaging beast. She had asked for brutality and she received nothing less.

Perhaps it was even close to a twisted form of foreplay watching him rip the warlock apart, starting with the man's very ear. He tore it away from his head in a seamless fashion that is nothing short of impressive, much like the display of blood that oozes out of him like a dam had finally broke. He spat the chunk of flesh upon the ground with a meaty splat. The very feline beneath her desk brushed up against Risque's legs as though she asked for permission.

Permission she hardly allows as she the makes them wait, not yet. No, the show had merely just begun and Risque fully intended to soak in all its carnage. The muffled screams flooded through that office once more, it was much more acceptable this way, she was assured. Like trash, Darcy allows the man to fall upon the floor. How he so desperately clings to where his ear once been. Ever the voyeur, Risque watches with that mild indifference even though her inner predator wants to join in on that feeding frenzy, drawn into that craving that ecstasy this very moment could provide her. She watches him remove his jacket with an appetite, noticing that button up shirt Darcy had worn just for her. It hugged his form, so she could allow her gaze to linger over it, she was ever appreciative of attractive things and Darcy was just that, especially with that near murderous glint into his eyes. He is salient in that moment, especially when he hovers over that insignificant creature bleeding just at his feet. A ravenous anticipation sparked within her in that very moment, on the cusp of sheer and utter brutality. There is a breath of contemplation and the wait is but a tease in itself. She almost couldn't stand the torture and yet she remains ever still, not even moving a fraction that it was like she was fashioned of marble. It was with brutal precision that in an instant the arm is ripped clean from that warlock's arm. That sickening wet crack was nothing short of delicious. She could feel her mouthwatering, her felines lost in a trance of their own yearning.

There was so much blood, more than one might anticipate how it all fit inside one body. It seemed near endless as it shoots a spraying stream. That smile that brandished his lips then was purely his own satisfaction of his handy work (no pun intended). How gleeful that smile seemed, a man in his element. A monster enjoying the carnage in a way that is almost too alluring. It was when that whistle came from his lips she releases her control over her panther so that she could obey him, like Risque had demanded of most of her felines. They knew to respect him or fear the very consequences. Darcy and Tetradore were afforded more privileges than most after all. Cobain would one day get there too, if he could get over his tantrum. It was impressive the way that creature seemed to obey him, even if only barely. The she-panther was a slave to its own hunger in that moment. Its tail lashing back and forth as it sat like a perfectly trained pet. Darcy threw the feline that arm and it barley touched the ground before a hungry snarl escapes the cat, hovering over that arm protectively, eagerly tearing into that offered flesh, to gather her fill.

Those new leopard kits were almost falling off the ledge and in turn it caused Risque's gaze to fall upon them. That desperate mewing escaping their parted maws, their necks outstretched as far as they could go. The warlock was still surprisingly conscious, the warlock's eyes gaping at the horrific scene of his body being torn apart. The excruciating pain mirrored in his words as that blood loss and agony nearly takes him then. It was a brutal sight to watch your own body get ripped apart and then eaten. The eagerness is like an alluring pull to her, wanting nothing more than to join that carnage again and yet she is not short of discipline for herself and the ones she commands over. Despite how greedy she is, she enjoys that inner torment for herself as much as she enjoys it for others.

One by one she scoops the kittens off her desk whispering something obscure in the back of their heads, her lips burying in their fur in what seems like a kiss but truly it was a mark, declaring them her own. She places them onto the ground, before clumsily running toward the fallen pieces of human meat.

She had never seen such a rabid display and it pleases her so to watch Darcy ripping the man apart and the glee he gets from it then. It stokes the flame of some perverse desire within her, a dark sinful smile tugging upon her lips as she leans into the gory scene before her. Her eyes watch the two kittens fighting over a piece of the warlock's side, their coats greedily soaking in the hue of that crimson blood with only a hint of silvery sheen. Darcy looked like a creature forged from the same hell she had come from in that very moment. Blood soaked his shirt that now clings to his every muscle that lay beneath. How she could see his defined torso beneath. It was truly a beautiful, that should have been immortalized in a very painting. It should have, it was a sin it wasn't that pitiless malice was a prize to behold for her eyes alone.

Finally, the brutal vampire gives into his own need to fill his belly, surely that magical blood would help in healing that massacred neck. That life draining the warlock in almost an instant, to soon to Risqué's liking. But what amuses her was how his face still remained contorted. Even in death his face did not hold that ecstasy, that sweet release of death but still mirrored the horrors that have been done to him. As though he would still feel it in death. It appeared that the only one finding peace in that moment of the gruesome aftermath was Darcy. For a moment it was like the room sighed, the only sound that met her ears were the content sound of her feasting felines, devouring their share greedily. It was a sheer pleasure to see how hungry those leopards were, they were strong, a decidedly worthy gift. Not meek little cowering things like that warlock had been and the more they feasted the bolder they became. They would be suitable pets.

She watches him with that voracious observation, her eyes dare not to leave his, she is almost entirely turned on by the monster before her. Wanting to play with that evil inside. She appears nothing short of twisted, cruel queen upon her throne, her lips even curled into a slightly amused forbidding smile. She does not move from her spot, still purposely dragging that idle finger across the armrest of her seat, even as he approached her. She does not betray that want her body felt in that very moment, the very craving to make her monster submit to her every fervent whim. That very way he stalked toward her would have been considered a challenge if he approached her directly, but he knew this very line so intimately and he so carefully tip toes upon it. She knows his action before he steals it. It was nothing short of bold. It was when he dared to press his lips against her own, that very kiss is alive, charged from desire and that recent brutality. She could taste it, only more so as she tastes that blood on his mouth. That kiss was surprisingly wanting even though he doesn't dare to cross that line without her distinct orders. That blood high must surely be getting to his head and perhaps for a moment she considers it, considers what he could offer her. But he had taken distinct care to prepare himself for her and it did not go unnoticed.. clad in blood and leather would appear to be a weakness to her. But there was something, for now.. all but one nagging tangible thing that slowly dissects and needles into her mind. She allows her tongues to run across his lips and into his mouth to draw a taste of his recent meal. It was satisfyingly still warm on his lips. He pulls away, remaining in reach to her as if in submissive invitation for more.. More of her violence, or more of her, she wasn't quite sure yet. But the greedy mistress, in her very own way wanted both.

"Warlock never satisfied my tastes, too bitter and sharp." She considers it for a second, but she has another dark thought upon her mind, something demanding and refusing to acquiesce. "Hmmm, I would much rather taste him through you." She mused darkly like a passionate incantation, in reply while she slowly ascended from her throne.

She drew close then, a singular experienced step toward her loyal Darcy, her eyes flicker over the blood that splattered across him with a hunger. That leather jacket seemed untouched, that supple leather begging for her touch. There was a fleeting moment where she took in that very carnage, reveling it. But her eyes continued to rove over that mangled scar that still blemished his skin. A mark of sorts that Tetradore had give him as if he dared to brand what was hers! There was a striking pang of jealousy that snaps like a whip within her, her eyes turn almost hateful then. It was such an animalistic instinct and it was gripping like a steel claw of vivacious ferocity. Sure, those marks would fade but she would not unsee it. Not unless... Her mind rips him apart like that starving cat who ravaged that warlock's arm. Risque would always see him as something her cherished feline marked, unless she did something about it. Her eyes vacant from that usual hateful indifference, showering in that high from that display of utter brutality. She was drunk off of it, but she is no less vicious.

Risque pushes him back onto her desk with certain force, taking only what she wishes to take, her actions are far from gentle as that possessiveness ravages her then, so suddenly it almost appears out of nowhere. The action itself causes much of what was upon her desk flying off of it. In the moment she hardly cares, she is a creature possessed. She is atop him then, crawling on top of him, languid and controlled like a domineering force of nature at her disposal. Her dress has no choice but to hike up her thigh exposing the straps of her black garter belt. Her lips curled in that displeasure as she bestrides him, one hand pressed firmly against his chest, her nails curling into him viciously like she threatened to rip out his very heart if she so chose to. Her other slender hand seems to stroke the side of his face through the blood that painted his skin. The gesture almost loving as she stared into his mismatched gaze before jerking his head to the side to expose that ravaged neck to her once more. She fixates on it, overcome with blood lust and selfish possession, like a dragon hoarding her treasure. Of what she deemed to be hers. She drew her face downwards fluently, the very movement controlled by no fluidity that a mere mortal could posses. She drew in the scent of his carnage. Hunger rips through her then.


"Do not let anyone else mark you again." A growl rips from her, hiss through a barrier of teeth, her voice low and vicious as her lips run across the damaged skin, her tongue soon after trailing across those alluring grooves. It is only a split fraction of time before her lips peel back, exposing all four of those sharped dainty fangs but no less brutal. They were almost petite in comparison to the very instruments of torture Darcy possessed within his maw. She inhaled sharply before her fangs plunge into his throat, marking him through that still healing thickened flesh. She felt that borrowed blood rise to the surface as obediently as his. She lets her tongue run across those puncture marks as though she wanted to crawl inside of him to explore what lay beneath the surface. It was still not enough, she wanted, no needed more. She bites him over and over until there is not a place on his wound that isn't covered with her bite, she nearly rips that very skin from his neck, just to see what his neck would be like naked for her. It was then she drinks, deeply at first as though she is famished. But only about three mouthfuls of his blood, her jaw working to pull that eager blood from him. She pulls back just enough to view the massacre she left behind upon his neck, it was so slick with blood, it started to create crimson a pool upon her desk. Saturating her papers and whatever remained there. She hardly cares, her body a coiled killing machine then.

"Mine." She hisses with the similar vehemence of hatred itself but it was flooded with lust, but it was so much more than that. As it always was with this complicated but malevolent devil.

Risque

just face the moon and put your death mask on