sangria
eyes of the hunter
She's a pretty little thing, he thinks to himself as he watches her from across the crowded room, all pale skin and tempting, sinuous curves in a tight black dress that leaves very little to the imagination, exactly the sort of girl his mother would like — or could like, perhaps, if he ever bothered keeping one around long enough to introduce her to his family. But that is only a detail, and a minor, negligible one, at that. After all, no one ever really comes to these sorts of places under the pretense of finding the perfect person (or persons, as was sometimes the case) to bring home to their family. Unless it is for business, of course, in which case it became nothing more than pure strategy and manipulation at its finest; perfect examples of a family trait, as it were, that he has spent his entire life honing and perfecting, until it is sometimes difficult, even for him, to discern where the prodigal son ends, and the living, breathing, hot-blooded man begins.
And it has been quite some time since he was last able to go out as nothing more than a man, albeit an incredibly intelligent and attractive one, always cognizant of what his looks — and his various connections — can get him. He glances at her again, at the way the muscles in her legs flex when she crosses one over the other, and how the delicate manner with which she held her martini glass belays a hidden, almost secret sort of strength, and when she finally seems to notice his gaze upon her, she looks directly at him, and smiles. For a moment, he's taken aback by the intensity of her smile: it is a self-assured smirk, no doubt a reflection of his own confident and calculating mind and desires, but something hungry and predatory seems to lie in wait just below its surface, and he can't help but shiver a bit at the sense of trepidation her expression causes him. But then he blinks, and that predatory gaze is gone, replaced by one he knows well: a pent-up need, a burning desire, and just enough alcohol to set things into motion.
He tosses back the rest of his scotch, melting away the traces of hesitation and uncertainty that had begun to gnaw at him mere seconds earlier, sets it down with a decisive chink upon the dark countertop before standing and making his way through the crowded room, across the dance floor, only a single purpose on his mind as his eyes met with the dark ones following him intently. Around him, fellow patrons moves about in time with the heavy rhythm pulsating around them, the bass thrumming through their bodies as it travels through the dark walls and floor, and he grins as he feels it take ahold of him just as it has those around him, and when he finally reaches her table, he can't help but begin to sway in time with the beat.
Perhaps it is just as well, for even in the dim lighting he can see how lovely she is, and he is momentarily at a loss for words. And so he continues to move to the rhythm, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at her. She really is beautiful, both by standard convention and in a way that is, for lack of a better word, haunting: her skin is fair and smooth and hair as dark as a raven's wing, lips colored a vibrant red to create a striking contrast against the paleness of her face. A memory, long-forgotten and hazy, stirs in the recesses of his skull, and he remembers vaguely the tales his grandmother had murmured in his ear to lull him to sleep, folk stories and legends of the strange creatures and beings that were said to walk the earth in the darkness that only night could provide.
… but you will know one when you see her, child, because her beauty will be strange and unsettling. Her skin will be whiter than a bone bleached by the sun, and her lips as bright as fresh blood on snow, and her touch colder than the most frigid winter wind, and while she may be the loveliest thing you have ever seen, you must remember one very important thing: to her, you are nothing more than prey.
There was a touch, the light weight of a small hand resting easily on his forearm. Cold seeps through the point of contact, through the material of his shirt, and he starts at the suddenness of the sensation. Something inside him, buried deep within his core, clenches, tightens, with some strange emotion he can not name, and she smiles at him once more. Hungry. Predatory.
"Aren't you going to ask me to dance, handsome?" Her hand moves, trailing up his arm until it is resting comfortably on his shoulder, as if it has every right in the world to be there. "Or has chivalry really died, like they say?"
It is then that he finally catches himself, and he smirks. "I was not aware that being remiss in asking a lovely lady to dance was considered a lack of chivalry," he tells her, "but if you allow me to correct my oversight, perhaps I may be able to convince you otherwise."
Her amusement is evident, and her smile grows wider, though it seems to fall just short of her dark eyes. "You talk pretty," she begins, "and you're not half-bad to look at, either, but let's see if you can put your money where your mouth is." The fathomless dark eyes flicker down briefly, glance pointed and obvious in its insinuation, before meeting his own once again; he sees her tongue, watches it wet her lower lip as the predatory gleam in her eyes seems to intensify, and it takes everything in him to suppress yet another shudder. "Or even something else, maybe."
The blood is pounding in his ears, now, heart threatening to leap out of his chest with the ferocity of its pounding — no one has never done this to him before with their words alone, and he finds himself drawn to her, not at all eager to let her out of his sight. And so he bows slightly at the waist, offers her his hand. She takes it, and though her skin is surprisingly cool to the touch, it is nothing the feeling of ice he thought he'd felt earlier. Briefly, he wonders if he had merely imagined it. "Shall we dance, then, chica?"
"Chica?" She says the world slowly as she stands, as if tasting the syllables, turning them over delicately in her mouth. Then she leans in close, and her lips are hovering barely a hairsbreadth over the pulse beating in his neck, where the lifeblood flowed thickest. He can feel her breath on the fine hairs on his neck, and when she speaks, her teeth rasp across his skin deliciously. "I like it."
I haven't really written in this sort of style for Total Drama, I think, but given the entire set up, I figured I may as well try something new. You're all lucky, too — I initially didn't even think of posting this to tumblr, let alone this much (even though it's not much at all), but I think I may end up posting it to FFN+AO3, as well, and just have another casual sort of fic to work on. Because who doesn't want an excuse to write or read about the antics of Heather and Alejandro with a decidedly vampiric sort of influence, you know.
Speaking of: Alejandro, as of now, is a regular human dude (albeit the son of a notorious crime leader) while Heather is a vampire, à la the likes of Count Dracula and succubi, and as such is out to seduce her latest victim. Or something like that, I suppose. I may leave this fic as is, or I may add on to it casually, but in any event, that's the general sort of vein in which this thing is headed.
I really have nothing more to add; I really should get to bed. So, that being said, I hope you do enjoy this, and as always feel free to leave any feedback and such.