After Freddie’s snowed-in detour in the Bayou, she was relieved to finally have made it to visit Ally. If there was any place in all of Auradon that was gonna have weird shit to see this Christmastime, she had a feeling she’d find it in her friends home, and her first night there, she had the feeling she was about to be proved right. Either that, or Ally was messing with her -- woulda served her right if her friend was, for Freddie assuming that everything would be all upsideadown and backwards here. “Wait, so if it’s not horses, then what the heck’s pulling the sleighs around here?” she asked as she trudged along a snowy street, following Ally to where they were supposed to start their tour through her hometown. “Don’t tell me it’s gonna be giant rabbits, because I don’t care how pretty y’all’s other decorations are, if we’re getting dragged around by giant bunnies insteada horses, I’m out.”
Warnings: Badly written smut, mild gore, mild violence, suggested and mildly graphic character death. It is just all mild.
Note: Ally is a character who left the RPG. Her player gave me permission to kill her. Thanks.
The door shook violently when kicked shut; his eyes remained on the girl standing a step in front of him, her bony fingers clutching onto the fabric of his shirt. His vision was blurred by the effect of alcohol and the blood-thirst clouding his conscience. He wasted none of his time with appreciating the dusky, bronze hue of her skin, or the way her bright eyes glimmered in the otherwise dark and shabby room. Rampant as he was with carnal desire, he didn’t give a fuck what she looked like, or who she was. He could smell her blood. The sensation licked his senses and drove him near madness. Had Lysander no taste for drawing his kills out and torturing them to their very breaking point, she would have been dead. Dead, with her hair splayed out underneath her cold body and blood pouring out of her throat in glassfuls of sweet wine. AB, laced with alcohol and other scum mortals shot up their veins. His pale eyes flickered up from her throat and met hers. Those plush lips parted to say something the whore would think was enigmatic but he cupped her jaw roughly, his fingertips pressing into her skin hard enough to leave bruises in their wake. A hitch of breath passed her lips but no words, and he leaned in to taste all the things she never got to say.
She gave too much too soon, that was the first critical observation of their lip-lock. As soon as he’d pressed his mouth over hers, he felt the wet muscle of her tongue attempting to trace the shape of his mouth. Almost as a warning to improve her performance, he bit down on the centre of her tongue, eliciting a pained yelp as he did so. His grip on her jaw tightened, and he dragged his teeth along the length of her tongue. Rust and iron spiked his taste buds, and with a groan he released her mouth to allow the whore to breathe. He licked the blood off his teeth, eyeing the dark, crimson beads which peaked out from the corners of her mouth. Her lips twisted into a snarl, but the words she tried spitting out game out garbled and incoherent. “I think you’ll find that it’s difficult to speak, love.” His voice disturbed the silence of the crummy motel room. Its sound velvety and out of place amidst the harsh, dying light, the stained carpet and dirty bedsheets. A smirk tugged at his lips at the look of pure horror that struck her face.
Ally began backing away until her shoulders hit the wall. She looked strangely at home, with the backdrop of a dirty wall and peeling wallpaper. The smell of alcohol and sperm widespread around the room. He moved toward her until their hips were touching and met her eyes. He could practically taste her fear on his tongue, but there was desire as well. Evident in the dilation of her pupils, and the dark, lustful glint in her eyes. He didn’t doubt that she was terrified, not only of him but her attraction as well. If it weren’t for his impatience, he would have taken the time to drawl about how she wouldn’t be able to resist him even if she tried her very hardest. It was that certain vampire something, the one thing he would truly thank his deplorable father for. He tilted her chin up, forcing that lush pout to fall open. “Let’s try this again,” he said smoothly before he kissed her again. Her blood was pumping beneath his fingers once more, and it felt disturbingly like pleasure. The embrace began slowly and calmly, an attempt to educate the woman before her inevitable death. Her tongue darted out again, this time hesitantly and he soothed the fresh cuts with his tongue. Heat seemed to shoot down his oesophagus and travel directly to his centre. The taste of blood being his only aphrodisiac, and the only allure she held for him was that which a lamb holds for a lion.
Deepening the kiss, he ran his tongue over her cold teeth, drinking up her moans along with the blood that kept gushing from the cut on her tongue. Euphoria would an apt word to describe the prickles which spread across his skin and pushed against his nerves like knives. The knowledge of imminent and approaching pleasure, the lust for the first mouthful of fresh blood. These were the thoughts which plagued Lysander’s hazed mind as he released her mouth for the second time that night. The walls of her mouth had been hot and wet, the cuts from his earlier bite brushing against his own tongue with an enjoyable roughness. Hands settling on her hips, his fingers pressed against the soft swell of flesh wrapped around her protruding hipbones. He felt the breath of a satisfied sigh wash against his chin; his smirk deepened as he pressed her up against the wall. Those bony arms wrapped around his neck, and his mouth found hers, lips pressing against.her heated throat. He could feel her pulse throbbing against him in soft, sweet vibrations. Almost in acclaim of the moment between them. Betwixt the raspy breathy and raunchy moans, it was hard to register the crunching sound of his teeth biting into her shoulder.
The moment in which his teeth pushed into her skin for the first time was glorious. He wasn’t sure if the responsive noise was a scream of pleasure, pain or a blurred sensation of both, nor did he care. His hands found her ample breasts, fingers deftly stroking and rubbing in the places which seemed to make her purr. A careful combination of brutality and sensuality was stitched into his every movement; while his hands kneaded her chest the way any ordinary man would, his tongue pressed against the pearls of blood pushing out of the wound and cascading down her shoulder. When he slowly detached his sharp canines from her body, the blood seemed to gush out into a steady steam, staining her creased halter-neck, almost tracing the curve of her left breast as it flows down her side and past the waist band of her ratty shorts. His eyes followed the trail of blood lustfully, darkening considerably. The overwhelming need to taste the whore’s blood, sense every sin that she’d ever committed by carefully savoring each blood cell was almost too much to bear. Whatever grip on patience that remained saved him from rushing to the finish. Instead of ripping her apart and finally sating himself, he pushed her down. Her back slid inharmoniously against the wall, and she sat against the back of her heels. No words passed between them; Ally’d been in this position enough times to know what to do, he figured, and he was proven right when she began. Leaning forward to unclasp his belt, she tugged down the barriers of clothing that separated her from his heat.
The press of her mouth was clumsy and inexperienced, its corners settling awkwardly around his heated and engorged flesh. The wetness of her mouth surrounded him comfortably and he bucked into it, but it wasn’t enough. Even if his dazed trance of sex and bloodlust, his mind took note of her clear lack of finesse. He pushed her back further against the wall, and she choked uncomfortably against him. The small whine trying to pass as a gag was sufficient, and his fingers dug deeper into her skin. He wasn’t there to enjoy her. It was difficult to lust for a whore, but the anticipation that laced his bloodlust drove him onward. The feeling of being unable to wait, and forcing himself to practice restraint only made his desire escalate to even higher levels. He felt vociferous aggression in every bone in his body, and it took all his conscious mind to keep himself from finishing the job in a violent mess of heat.
He dragged his hands down her back, where there were bruises the colour of rotten gooseberries blossoming on her shoulder blades and along her spine. The dark circles of coin-sized bruises were scattered evenly, but in his stupor, Lysander couldn’t even recall when he’d caused them. The fresh, coxcomb red wounds which were left in the wake of his fingers movements down her back looked more erotic than her mouth felt. Hot and pulsing against the blanket of desert flesh. His gut twisted, but he needed her more mindless than she already was. There was something erotic about the way that blood boiled and shook when a mortal’s body was quivering with quakes from an orgasm. Something delicious about the feeling that overtook him when they were on the very brink of reaching the cathartic, blissful stage of post-orgasmic recovery, that deep breath before a sigh of relief in which he would make his kill. She groaned against his member, gagging uncomfortably again, and he shivered in mild appreciation of her efforts. But it was still terrible. Atanas should know to pick better meals. Allowances were given based on the fact that his platinum haired friend probably just wanted to see him fed, and gave no real mind to how torturous the prepping would be.
“Do it properly,” he commanded dully, one of his hands delving into her thick, dark hair, threading his fingers into her curls and yanking them roughly. Navigating her head further along to the base of his cock, he rolled his hips against her mouth, hoping encouragement would make her perform better. His blue eyes focused on the blood sliding along her collarbone and spilling between the cleft of her firm breasts. He wanted to clean her filthy blood off her whorish body with his tongue and throw the rest of her away. Human waste. Again, he reminded himself to wait, though the reminder felt more daunting each time the thought flickered through his mind persistently.
The blood stained her top in the shape of big, freshly bloomed flowers. The visual feast of watching a dying girl try to provide the most corporeal form of pleasure from struck him into a drugged torpor. Without acknowledging his own stupefied movement, he found himself pulling her up again. Her arms coiled around his neck and her heart thrumming against his chest. He could almost swear he felt her heart beat pounding in his own ears as he maneuvered them toward the bed which smelled of stale sex and decay. Her back hit the mattress with a thud, and when his lips made their way to map out her abdominal muscles, his brain fell into a play of lazy gypsy music from his childhood. He registered the paling of his flesh, as it normally took on that chalky colour during those almost purely psychedelic moments prior to the breathtaking moment in which his hunt would finally be complete. The dusky, brown flesh of her abdomen mixed with fresh blood felt salty against his tongue, and it lit his nerves on fire. He could feel every hitch of her breath as his fingers wrapped themselves around the waistband of her shorts and tugged them down, and every shiver that coursed through her body against his with almost agonising clarity.
What happened next was akin to a blur of flurried senses and moans. He’d discarded her ratty jean shorts, long fingers pressing against her moist core, stained with her lust and the blood which still flowed down her body. As he worked his calloused fingertips against her centre in slow and carelessly rough circles, he began tracing the trail of blood with his tongue, raking his fangs against her skin. The gush of plasma, his own choice Heroin, caressed his taste buds the way the sweetest lick of nectar would. His icy eyes flicked up to her face, contorted with pain and helpless desire. Ebony hair was spread out underneath her head, damp with sweat. Her skin which had been almost golden in colour now seemed pallid. On the edge of death, as it were, and even though her wet folds were heated and fluttery against his hand, her the rest of her body grew gradually colder.
Slender hands moved to wrap around his member, and while he bucked into it, a mocking smirk graced his lips knowing that he would not be complying by thrusting into her whorish cunt. It would be no different from fucking a corpse, he thought as he pushed his fingers in, impatiently pumping her sensitive core. Her body was almost ice cold when he finally felt her buck and quake against him, a defeated moan passing her lips.
Not even a split second after he’d retracted his fingers and licked them clean, his hand had cupped her wrist and practically tore her limb off, pulling her up to drink her dry. He heard the creaking of the door behind him, but didn’t stop what he was doing until she was cold as a statue and limp in his arms. He himself felt warm and replenished as dropped her back onto the mattress and pulled up his trousers in order to refasten his buttons and belt.
“Plamen wants ye.” His intruder’s voice was more of a growl, and Lysander knew who it was even before he turned around to face him. “He wants to talk to you over dinner, though he’ll be quite miffed to see you’ve already eaten.”
There was a wolfish grin on the soldier’s face, and Lysander mirrored it with his own, lopsided version. He got up, first making his way toward the filthy bathroom to wash her scum off his hands, before drying his rough skin off with a towel. “That so?” He finally responded. He couldn’t even see his own reflection in the fogged and scratched mirror, but he could just imagine the feral look in his eyes. Leaving the room, he found the man waiting for him by the doorframe. He smelled of rotting corpses. They’d been up to their deranged rituals again. “Best not keep him waiting then. I do hate disappointing my clientele. Hope you don’t mind cleaning up for me, Ridgely.”
Ridgely eyed the abandoned corpse on the bed warily before a smirk tugged at his lips. “Maybe we ought to bring her along as dessert for the lord,” he cackled. Lysander felt the first laugh of the day bubble up in his chest. He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder as a parting gesture before walking past him and apparating away. Wearily he braced himself for the decked halls of the Romanian slaughterhouse, knowing that his prior activities were just a taste of the brutality which graced the floors of that castle by the hour.
