Bloodlust

Bloodlust

“Their drenched natures lie as in a death.”—Shakespeare, Macbeth

She stands before him with the bloody knife in her hand, smiling dangerously.

She has no other smile, really. It cuts like a knife across her face and the sparkle in her dark eyes is as addictive to him as blood. The lust he has always felt is both for her and the pain she can bring.

There is a body at her feet, and she has one stiletto heel on the man’s neck. The eyes stare unseeing up at her in some sick adoring gaze, lifeless.

“What have you done?” he asks her, walking around the body. She steps away from the body and turns with him, dropping the knife which lands carelessly on the man’s chest.

She likes it when he circles her, as if she is his prey. Sometimes it is him, sometimes it is her—either way, they devour each other completely. The scent of blood and death is heavy in the air.

“I’ve been….bad,” she says in that husky dark voice, throbbing with excitement. He watches her catch her blood-red lip in her teeth—the color does not come from cosmetics. Sometimes the blood is hers, sometimes it is not.

He does not think this time it is hers, as the body is bleeding from a thousand different cuts, the blood swirling around her feet.

“I see,” he said quietly, walking up to her. She is standing at the foot of the bed—she has killed in their bedroom. “You know I don’t like for you to kill at home,” he hisses at her, and shoves her back.

She falls easily on the bed and stares at him, excited. He can feel the heat of her body as he crawls on the bed to straddle her.

“I know,” she purrs. “It’s why I do it.”

He easily strips the clothes from her body; she is dressed in a black bra and black lace knickers. He leaves the stilettos on—he likes the way they feel on his back. He turns her on her stomach and yanks her up against him. They are looking in the mirror and he narrows his dark eyes at her. “Why do you want to make me so angry all the time, Bellatrix? Do you court my fury?”

“Yes,” she says, breathless. He is brutally grasping at her breasts, she pushes herself back against him and he growls. “I have always courted your fury, Rodolphus.”

“I thought so.” Releasing her, he shoves her roughly to the floor on the side of the bed. She sprawls in a tangle of limbs and dark black hair, slipping on the blood of her victim which is slowly spreading across the hardwood floor.

He straddles her on the ground, laughing. “Bella languishing in the blood she has spilled,” he says, forcing her arms down above her head with his strong hands. “How appropriate.”
He leans down—not to kiss her—and bites her shoulder hard. He watches the blood rush to the bite mark; he has not broken her skin, but the purplish bruise forms beautifully on her porcelain flesh.

“Tease,” she mutters, and this time when he bites her, the blood flows freely down her arm.

She watches it, and beneath him he can feel her growing wetter. “My little whore, you will do anything for pain and blood,” he says.

He releases her arms but grabs at his wand and mutters a harsh charm—she is bound and cannot move her arms, spread wide over her head. She likes that, he knows, to be bound beneath him. His body hardens—it is one dark desire among many that they share.

The knife he pulls from beneath the bed—it is not kept there for protection, and the blade is clean. “You didn’t use this one?” he asks as he runs it down her stomach, though the answer is obvious.

She arches into the cold metal. “No,” she gasps, “that one is for us.” The blood from her victim flows around her, framing her head like some sinister halo.

He cuts off her bra and it falls to her sides, sticking on the bloody floor beneath her. He runs the tip of the knife around her nipples; they harden immediately. He makes a few thin cuts, running the blade over her skin so that a thin red line appears and several drops of blood spill down her breasts, covering her nipples. She moans, excited, and he swirls his tongue around them lightly. He repeats the caress on her other breast before drawing the knife down her stomach.

“Such a bad girl, my Bellatrix,” he coos to her as he rubs the knife edge between her thighs. She is whimpering and tossing her hair, saturated now in the warm and sticky blood.

He makes a few cuts between her legs. “Make me bleed, Rodolphus,” she says, frantic. He raises his dark eyes to hers—he knows she likes him to smile with her blood on his mouth, it excites her and her cries are loud in the room.

It is a good thing they have healing potions, or her skin would have a profusion of cut marks. Instead, the beautiful perfection of her snow-white skin remains ever unmarred by the blade. Deftly he cuts her knickers off—she is naked beneath him and the blood continues to flow around her—her own and that of her victim mingling together.

“Hurry, Rodolphus,” she says, frantic. “His blood grows cold.”

He presses the blade against her throat as he unfastens his trousers, and he leaves it there as he slides himself into her. She likes him to fuck her with the knife’s edge, deadly and sharp, pressed against where she is most vulnerable.

He is astride her and pounding furiously into her, they are almost sliding in the wetness beneath her. Her blood marks his body; the sight arouses him to a feverish pitch. They bite at each other’s lips as he fucks her.

“Harder,” she moans, and he increases the force of his thrusts as well as the pressure of the knife on her neck. He knows she asks for both.

“One day I might slip,” he warns her, and she laughs breathlessly.

“You might,” she agrees.

She cannot move her arms, but she rakes his back with her stilettos. They press into him, and he feels a warm and wet trickle on his back and knows she has marked him. “You have to have the blood, don’t you, Bella?” he says, voice tight with arousal.

“Always,” she moans, and comes hard, arching her body into his.

Her body is wet with sweat and blood beneath him, and her previous motion has caused him to nick her throat lightly with the knife. At the sight, he closes his eyes and spills himself inside her—blood, life, and death crashing together in their culmination.

He moves the knife away and collapses onto her, breathing heavily. Fingers groping for his wand which lies beside her head, he waves it and releases the spell on her hands.

She wraps her arms around him, stroking down his back. Her hands sting in the cuts the sharp heels of her shoes have made. He closes his eyes in bliss at the pain.

“Rodolphus?”

At the warm, almost loving tone of her voice he opens one eye, and moves his head from where he has rested it on her breasts to look down at her. “Mmm?” His voice is sleepy and satisfied, despite the mess to clean up and the body to dispose of.

She curls her fingers around his face, and draws his lips to hers. Her kiss is gentle, but he tastes the warm coppery tang where he had bloodied her lip.

“Happy Valentines Day, darling,” she murmurs, and he smiles against her bloody mouth.