How that chaos reigns down upon them, lost in a hopeless blur of pelting sensation, pain, pleasure and a potent fusion of desire that near absorbs them entirely. How that very loss of control is like a relentless cyclone caused between one another and unwilling to let the other go. That savagery as his teeth bare down into her fresh wound drives her near senseless, feeling every groan and sound that dare left his lips spoken like a zealous hymn into her neck. How eager that borrowed blood that once filled her system seemed so entirely eager to leave her as it bursts from her like a broken dam. There was nothing subtle about that overriding sensation, as each near hungry movement of his hips that she met with her own greedy fervor. They are both lost to it, that tsunami that crashes relentlessly, destroying all in its path indiscriminately. How they could have quite possibly taken down buildings in that cataclysmic delight.

How aggressively animalistic he was and how it speaks to her. How eager she was to feed it, cultivate it, watching it blossom like something near beautiful to that she-devil. How she feeds off that chaos within him, welcomes it, bathes in it. It was so simple to harvest it only to unleash it upon the world at large, how others had failed her in this very training and he does not. What a weapon he was, lethal in every way and how she delights in his lack of control in those very moments.

That pounding driving force is their consistent beat that reverberates through their bodies. She seemed to move to that barbaric rhythmic, like pounding of ritualistic drums. Almost creating a shared heartbeat that neither of them possessed. That echo resonates wickedly with her shell of a body. They could have destroyed each other in that covetous passion. Impressively so, he little very little prompting, giving into that mutual mighty abuse of their figures. How even now she is teetering on that cusp, looking over that edge and into that hellish delight with a certain gleam in this hazy desire filled eyes. How he knew what her body craved for and even despite her torment, he was rewarded for it. Their bodies create a building sensation, ruthless and conquering of them both. Just how she gives into that reckless intemperance, wants it. Like a well that would never dry and how parched she was. Not even silver hinders his impressive form, not even when she tears him apart. How she wanted to reduce his skin to ribbons, how she hardly wanted to not leave any part of him untouched by her rancorous ardor. How lesser men would have been devoured by it, would have been unable to handle that misuse that she demands.

That blood soaked ecstasy, as her teeth embedded within his neck and he obediently increases to a near frantic pace. The wall could barely handle that ferocity in their desire, his hips shifting near instinctually to meet that spot that has her near convulsing. It was not much longer before they both tumbled off that precipice they both lingered on, that cry of his name has him coming undone, what a mess they had made. Of each other and their very surroundings. That last dominant act has him pinning her firmly against that wall like he had no intention of letting her go, as though his own dominance dared to meet her own. For but a flash of a moment in time those two vampires were the closest to equals she would ever allow. How her body near quivers with it from the afterglow. Perhaps she too had been ever wound up like she had made Darcy. That release a whisper of what seems like luxurious serenity, if even for a silver of time. How for but that very moment it thrums wickedly through her.

However, Darcy was no fool, he lingers there just long enough before those lucid thoughts came crushing back with near devilish force. How content she seemed in those very moments, a rare emotion like the warmth of blood trickling through her icy veins.

How she nearly comes undone all over again as his cruel fangs slip from her, along with him in one skillful movement, that involuntary shudder against him. A near snarl rips from her throat, but she was lost in that tangle. In those very moments, the ashes of that aftermath they examine each other wounds, taking into account the very devastation they inflicted upon each other. That winding road of perversion knew no end. How normally, she would allow those wounds agape upon his body, enjoying the look of that abuse tattooed upon his flesh, but today she closes all but two, leaving those claw marks of passion upon his back and that ravaged, gaping nightmarishly shredded neck. How it was a portrait of sorts, of course it would heal but that meaning behind it would hardly subside. It pleased her to see that own expert design. How sadistic it was, she was near mesmerized by it.

How easy it seemed that blood was willing to cease from that gentle long sweeping movements from his tongue, like someone had turned off a faucet. When she turns her attentions on him, that insatiable hunger for just one last greedy taste is within her minds forefront. One last taste of his blood. Those other inflicted wounds were inflicted for her very pleasure. All while somehow by leaving that ravaged neck untouched it had left a pointed statement, one she was more than content to leave. That very symbol, that potent mark stark as blood on satin sheets at whom left those marks. The temptress relished in the fact that every brutal bite tore its way through that supple, freshly healed skin. It was like ripping through veal, how tender and not toughened it was by those elements. How she would cherish and stow away his pain, those delicious sounds that escaped him. With Risque, there was always a price to pay. Perhaps there was some sick part of her that wished she could preserve that very music, to produce it whenever she saw fit.

She traces her own slick velveteen tongue upon those deep lacerations, she tastes that blend of blood and sweat. On him, it was almost like a fine wine. Her words slip passed, nearly a sin to shatter that aphrodisiac ladden room. His eyes slid to her own, his words near potent with spearing promise. How that singular, rich delectable word spills passed her lips, like molten honey on flesh. "Perhaps." It was certainly not a no, but even she knows how that utter need for domination rips through her. His hands, despite how appealing they were this time, were power. How much power she wished to give him surely depended. But how those words are tempting all the same.

Languidly Risqué's fingertips slithers across the skin of his arm to grab that ravaged hand. Her pale eyes examining how that appealing torn flesh looked utterly obliterated. How his body, even now, worked desperately to heal it yet still, it was hardly enough. How she lets her tongue examine those deep groves, tasting the flaps of that ravaged skin to her own contentment, of his newly blossomed mark. A reminder of how she had made him crack. Her eyes peer at his own, as she does in a moment that almost seems entirely intimate before allowing that tongue to simply cease its efforts and dropping his hand altogether. That rare smile danced across his lips and perhaps in that rare moment she liked it there, tailored only to his face and what they had done. That simple brush of his lips upon her blood wet own before his drawling words reach out to her.

How it amused it, that way she could drive his body and mind into madness, to draw forth that chaos that thrums wickedly within his veins. She does not respond, simply relishing in that pulsing dulled pain, those endorphins that sang throughout her. Their proximity close enough to curl into one another like embracing felines and yet cuddling was hardly their thing. How close they were and yet that woman seemed incapable of that tender affection, perhaps she would have in life, but now she is akin to stone. Yet she still reaches for him, traces random morbid patterns within that blood-soaked chest, as though she wrote answers into his flesh. Those idle finger tips dance along upward to that chain around his throat. The temptress easily uttering out a sentence of passion, that strange afterglow seeming affect her or perhaps it was from that spark from that very wound he came with upon his neck. How quick that very man seemed to reach up for her hand, pressing his lips against the smooth surface of the back of it. That moment almost romantic if only that dead heart were still beating to truly appreciate it. Yet those very words seemed to fuel that ever growing, hungered possession. Those pale hypnotic eyes flicker across his form, as her hand was released.

There is only you, those resonating words seem to please her, sickly satisfied for a moment. "Then no one is safe." Those purposely obscure words drip from her lips that simultaneously curl into something near anticipation of something only known to her diabolical mind.

That moment was short-lived when their attention shifted toward that battered wall, how it had taken the brunt of their violence. His shoulder rose and fell in a shrug that prompted sharpened lure of a sound at his pain. That predator she was honed in on that sound instinctually, near seizing on that moment. "I know exactly what I want." She declared, but how that applied to everything in life. Yet, that wound still remains like a nagging sensation in her mind, rolling about, unable to simply forget about it. She moves around him, even though to move felt entirely sore, her body torn apart, bruised and yet what a curious sensation it was. One she hardly minded at all. Yet even that dull pain was not enough to hinder her examination. She moved her way toward that Victorian inspired couch while he dispersed to find his phone. The velvet felt scrumptious along her sprawled naked flesh. What could he possibly want to show her now? That anticipatory fashion she viewed him then, near scrutinizing then. It had better not be displeasing, how she would loathe for that luxurious mood to fade prematurely and how quick it could have been obliterated.

She snatches that phone after a moment of making him wait there, simply because she could. What she had seen staring at her upon that screen surprises her, she could barely keep it from her face. How rare it was to truly be surprised and yet he had surely done it. Upon that screen of his phone was headshot of a lopsided lynx kit. He muttered something about the price after the reveal at just how costly those rare beings were to own. As he had already known considering those clouded leopard cubs have always possessed such a steep price tag on their unusual patterned furry flesh. "Price is always negotiable, besides somethings are worth cost." A woman of means, how easily it was for her to splurge, if anyone who would justify the cost it was her. Clothing, shoes, cars, pets, accessories. The list went out and yet she hardly bat an eye.

How that disobedient phone seemed to near challenge the feline queen, that frustration with that delicate yet annoying technology that was hardly as snappy as she would have liked. Even if that very fault lay onto herself. Technology, one would think by now that it should be perfected. She hisses at it acerbically within her mind before wiping off that blood upon the velvet dark red couch, maintaining control of her composure if only to see more of those photos. Thankfully, for the fate of that phone, it began to work while she took in that sights of that unique rare Iberian kitten. Those massive ears seemed far too big for its head and yet it was decidedly cute all the same.

Darcy seemed to ease himself upon the edge of that very couch, as a sudden unanticipated convulsion of his body had him sitting up straight followed by that curse. Those pale eyes drawn near from that very action, a fleeting amused look darting across her blood clad face. "That is not even my best work." A dark melted chocolate chuckle escaped her as that curse muttered under his breath. The very positioning of those gouges on his back clearly deeper than she had thought.

He so desperately seeks for that control, that struggle evident upon his features before finally answering that question. How oddly patient she was, as though she were temporarily soothed from that severe lack of patience. That answer was not wholly informative, but it was enough.

She hardly cared for the reasoning why, it was still an interest that was not there before. She claimed to would gift it to him, a pet for him alone with that singular catch that he train the beast himself. Risque was the only being within that building allowed to have her pets, perhaps offering Darcy that opportunity to see what he had learned from in all those years they had spent together. However, how rarely was a gift merely a gift and not some twisted test of her own making? There were enough unruly felines scampering around Syn as it were. That fleeting look of displeasure hardly went unnoticed by that ever astute vampire, how aware he was of even the slightest nuances of her vacillating moods. Yet she was hardly as attentive to that man who seemed to be swept away in a reverie of sorts, fueled by the tendrils of hatred from the one being who nearly rivaled him. In those very moments, Risque began to drone on about that very lynx, sharing that impressive knowledge that dwelled within that active mind of her. Yet, the man probably never heard a damn word of it. She looked at her manicured hand, a nail had broken in the heat of their passion with mild disinterest. No that wouldn't do, she peered at them noncommittally. She would need to see to it fixed before she left Syn. Risque was a lot of things, unkempt was not one of them. When that final word dripped from her lips her gaze shifted toward him near expectantly. She hardly anticipated that fixated stare boring into that very wall like he could utterly obliterate it. Just what he was thinking of was completely lost as she is met with a sudden rise of irritation. She snapped an order, ready to give him a jab of those silver spiked heels within his thigh. How dare his attention waiver from her when she was not through. He suddenly snaps out of it that irritation hardly soothing but just enough to utter those words.

"I anticipate you wont disappoint me." How that vile woman did not do well with disappointment in any shape or form, how aware of it the man truly was. Not even with her lover whom was afforded with somewhat more leniency than the rest. There was simply no other option, unless she took pleasure in finding a way to make up for that failure. How she was sure he wouldn't enjoy it, but how she would take pleasure in it all the same. There was a sick part of her that enjoyed that torment she creates, craving for that failure so she could execute her mastery of absolute domination. Darcy had managed to be quite adept at circumventing her torturous habit, always so quick to please and submit to those whims. How there was so very little room for error in her eyes. What a perilous path he walks, his fingers dare toy with that blood slick skin upon the exposed expanse of her leg. How easily she could become that praying mantis in the afterglow of sex, perhaps out of blood loss, exhaustion or even the pleased fashion she views him in, she allows it.

That vicious flash as part of her reveling in thought of those deep gouges upon his back while he dresses himself, she was afforded with another glimpse while he did so. How it served as a wicked aide-mémoire to her, at least until that skin was pristine once more. How she would have enjoyed for him to suffer with those nonfatal wounds while he was forced to be reminded of them repeatedly. However, even she was no fool to the distraction they would surely cause, and she hardly wanted to hemorrhage money unnecessarily, considering that warlock was a complete and utter waste of it. How she stretches out onto that velvet couch, like that very furniture seemed crafted just for her. That sprawling slender, alluring form so much alike those felines she wields with adept precision as she settled within its embrace.

He moves across the room, now somewhat clothed to easily dip down toward her, that very action must have inflicted pain and yet he does not let it hinder him as his lips brush against her own. How she delves into that mouth with velveteen caressed of her tongue, tasting the aftermath on his lips one last time. How inviting that chest had seemed, how easily it would have been to rake her fingers a final time across his front to match those deep gouges of his back, just because she could. Yet the taste of his lips seemed to distract her from those darker thoughts, the irritating pangs of hunger gnawing within her gut, she would need to feed soon. He seems to hover as those words escape him and those pale depths gaze into those mismatched irises.

"Busy night." She muses interlaced with that dark ambiguity, that sinful quirk of her crimson lips near growing into that wicked smile flashing those pointed fangs. She pauses before speaking again. "I have to pay a certain, associate a visit.. since that warlock made better entertainment rather than usefulness." It was time to call in a favour and she was quite certain they were not prepared for her visit. Which was entirely the way she liked it, so much easier to manipulate that dialog. That wicked she-devil was adept at making a lasting impression if nothing less. Tonight, would be no exception.

At last, after another moment of keeping him on her proverbial hook she releases him. "Very well, send them in, I am famished and I suppose I cannot go looking like this. Such a pity though." She gestures to her bloodied bodice a masterpiece in its own right, and while she was certain she would turn heads, that was not the impression she was going for. Just how irritable she got when the mistress' baser appetites were neglected, she would take that offer for food, enough to reluctantly heal away some of that hindering damage done. It would be impossible to do anything if she did not. As much as she would like to revel in that sensation, there was business to attend to. That night was still fresh and thrumming with potential and there was still so much that needed doing. As reluctant she was, the time to strike was now and she was not one to let an opportunity slip by her ensnaring fingers. "Until next time.." Those words are lost in a stir of ominous promise as her eyes follow him out that very door, those sensual lingering notes seem to follow him he left behind the wake of that utterly ruined office.

Risque

just face the moon and put your death mask on