Foie Gras

You cough blood violently. A deep, pure red stains the tablecloth, splattering out across the ornately arranged dinner set. Foie gras. How ironic.
How many times did this make? How many years? Eternity has a way of making your lose track of time.
There it was again, the pain below the ribcage. No matter how many times, it never got more pleasant, just routine. You clench your jaw to suppress urge to scream as that whore pulls her hand back, claws retracting back into her nails.
“Ara ara, done fighting already? You're so boring today, Anon.” Tails of silvery-white swish back and forth behind her as she takes a bite out of the mass of flesh that had been your liver.
Red drips down her cheeks, redder than her lips, redder than the demon's tongue that traces its way across her fangs and licks them clean.
You sway, unsteady, forcing yourself to remain in control. The cut is clean today; it won't bleed as badly. Choosing not to resist may have bought you an extra minute or two.
She takes another bite. The juices drip down her chin, staining the white dress like the tablecloth before; white like her outward purity; white like the death that she brought where she walked; white like the death that refused you.
Her expression dulls. The routine wears at her in a different way than it does you. Maybe she wanted you to struggle more. Does she miss the thrill of the hunt that badly? Are these little slips in her guard intentional? You wouldn't be surprised; the whore seems to predict everything you've done before.
Another bite. Fuck it. Now or never. It doesn't matter if she wants it or not, this is what you need after years of dying quietly.
In the moment that her hand is occupied with her food, you move. The human body can produce a surprising amount force once it stops caring about the damage it receives from doing so. Adrenaline is a hell of drug, and what's left of your blood is saturated right now.
Your upper body slams into hers, displacing her center of gravity. The two of you collide with the table, and its feet screech back across the floor in protest.  Wine spills, purple adding to the crimson splotches on white.
She seems suddenly frail, smaller than you, weaker somehow. Gone is the image of murder incarnate that she possessed moments before. If an onlooker wasn't already alarmed by the way you bore down on her, pinning her body and unoccupied arm to the table, they would be by what you were about to do.
Your free hand scrabbles  for the centerpiece. Her surprise would only last so long. You need to make the most of it. The serving knife bites into your palm. You grab it, ignoring the pain. It's nothing compared to the wound in your chest right now. Raising the weapon high, you bring it down upon her wrist, through her arm-length gloves, point between the bones, embedded in the hard wood of the table beneath.
More red.
Less white.
Her shriek fails to arouse sympathy, nor pity, and only a little satisfaction. You've seen her recover from far worse injuries. Her magic might as well have given her an eternity to rival yours. Eternity doesn't matter. Now does. You reach for the second knife. One of the plates is already in free hand, and thrown. The centerpiece slides off the table, accompanied by the sound of shattered porcelain and broken glass. One is good enough.
You catch her wrist as she reaches for another weapon. Her claws are out, but they can't reach you right now. The fox's golden eyes meet yours as you bear down with your weight to keep her body pinned to the table, and hatred meets hunger meets lust meets fear and pain and animal instinct. The sensation of her breasts pressing into you only sets it off further.
Defile. Defile. Defile. Defile. The urge to ruin her fills your mind; paint her in your own colors, shatter that shell of outward purity, consume her spirit like she consumed your body each night.
Her dress gives way easily as you tear the front open, exposing her substantial breasts. Your tongue finds its way up from the base to the tip twice before you bite, not a playful nibble, but with the intention to hurt. She bites back, sinking her fangs into your shoulder. Her ears perk up from the taste of blood, and you pull back, leaving purplish marks across her breasts. Your hand strikes her face. You hope that will leave a mark too as she whips her head around and latches her jaw onto your palm.
Once. Twice. On the third time your elbow catches her in the chest, she relents as she gasps, winded. You take the opportunity to hike the remains of her dress up, lifting her hips most of the way onto the table. She partially suppresses a yelp as several of her tails are caught between her own weight and the surface.  You idly wonder whether the loss of blood will stop your consciousness or your erection first as you press it to the opening between her legs. You pray it's the latter.
Fuck it.
You bring the full force of your body into the first thrust. She gasps, having only just managed to recover. There's blood everywhere now. Your clothes, the remains of hers, the table, the floor, even some on the walls from when you wrenched your arm away. Her moans are interspersed with insults.
“Monkey. Filth. Pig.”
“Dog. Murderer. Monster.” you reply between thrusts. You switch your attention to her breasts, licking and biting like a savage. Her unpinned hand snakes up and claws its way down your back, sharpened nails leaving gashes in its wake. You grab her wrist again, almost losing your grip immediately; your blood has left it slippery.
In your delirium, the thought of kissing her crosses your mind. Anything to insult her further. Your lips meet and she recoils. Your mouth follows. As you attempt to force your tongue inside, there's a sharp pain followed by the taste of blood. She's bitten off a part of it.
Instinctively, you pull back,  hand fumbling for another grip on her and finding one of her tails. The luxurious fur is matted with blood, but still soft to the touch. You take hold, and pull in retaliation. She lets out a howl, the other eight twitch, and her body shudders. Did she just come?
It doesn't matter. Your vision begins to blur as the your body can no longer keep up with the amount of blood you're losing. Feeling the pressure building in your groin, you force your consciousness to remain for just a little longer. With each thrust, you pour your hatred, your lust, your twisted love, your consciousness and your very being into this woman, your jailor, your murderer for eternity as you finish inside her.
Your legs give out. Dropping to your knees, you catch a glimpse of your fluids dripping out from between her legs as her chest heaves and she gasps, pulling the knife from her arm. Her wounds are already beginning to close. You slump back, all your strength expended like your blood, just another spatter upon the floor.
As your breathing slows and vision fades to black, she leans in, checking your body. Satisfied by your lack of movement, she places a hand on your forehead.
“That wasn't  wholly bad, my love,” she whispers to herself.