Kiss of Death

Kiss of Death

Crimson trickled in slow rivulets to the bed, ensanguined satiny ecru and the off-white of already stained-and-cleaned bed sheets, sheets stained by the same warm liquid the threadbare linen had thirsted upon so many times before.

The madness of sadistic glee shone brilliant in sinister pale blue eyes. Pale blue eyes were poorly focused, so enamored of what they saw, what they had seen done, as they studied in triumphant glee the sight before them, the tableau pale hands and glinting and reddened shiv had caused. There was something strangely satisfying about using a blade instead of a wand.

His victim was too weak, too blooded to protest further actions though she watched Malfoy with a wan gaze - she could not turn her head. She could not break her bonds. A glowing win for Malfoy and the Dark Lord.

Lips curved in that sadistic, simpering smirk only a Malfoy could manage. It was something wholly Malfoy, just as this act was wholly cruel and dark in the way only the unstable or a Deatheater could manage. And here was an example of both -- or perhaps all three.

He regarded curiously the bloodied knife. Detached. He looked at it, there in his bloodstained hand, a hand that grasped the handle with whitened knuckles. Dirty blood.

Yet some grotesque, fascinated compulsion forced him to lift the knife to eye level and then to his mouth. His tongue flicked out and he slowly pulled the flat side of the blade across it, wiping it of blood. He tasted the blood. He licked his lips. He reveled in the taste. The Malfoy smirk pulled at his bloodied lips, revealing ever so slightly bloodstained teeth.

He drew the other side of the blade across his tongue. He smacked his lips and wiped the rest of the blade on the bloodstained linens and sheathed it.

With her blood still in his mouth, Malfoy bent over his victim and licked her cheek, reddening it with her own blood. Malfoy may as well have been in ecstasy. He probably was. Here he was, finally dominant. Here she was, finally under his control. He gazed down at her and then dipped his head to her neck, licking the cut there, lapping up the blood. He straightened up to taste the metallic, warm liquid, let it flow across his tongue, ooze through his mouth, between his teeth.

And then he bent over again, smirking into her face, gloating and triumphant. "For you, Mudblood. Taste yourself before you die. Such a satisfying taste..." With that, he forcefully applied his mouth to hers, though she could hardly fight back. He kissed her roughly and harshly, letting her own blood seep across her taste buds.

A satisfied Malfoy stepped back, smirk yet again in tact. But the smirk faltered to be replaced by one of disgust. This victim was no longer fun. She bored him. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and aimed.

"Give my regards to Potter and Weasley, mudblood. Av..."