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The Catacombs

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The Catacombs


She is back again.


She always comes back.


Poor spoiled little rich girl, thinks this is some type of game that she can play at will. I tell her time and time again that she’s playing with fire and that soon enough, she’ll get burned.


Or in this case, bitten.


She comes back to the club every Saturday night. She knows she’s being watched. She wants it; craves it; revels in it.


But she doesn’t understand.


I sit in the shadows at my usual table - being the boss has its perks - and I watch her. One hand curls around my glass of vintage claret. Every sip is dry and dark, just bordering on the edge of what I really want.


From my table, cloaked in darkness from this second story balcony, I can see everything.


More importantly, I can see her.


That gorgeous dancer; the stupid, foolish girl; that delightful armful. So utterly mine.


My lover comes up behind me and drapes herself over the back of my chair, her head nestled on my shoulder, “Is that her?” She asks softly.


I nod and sip at my claret as I try to reign in my thirst.


I want that dancer, and my lover knows it. She’s remarkably pragmatic about the whole thing, especially since I told her before I began this slow dance of seduction with the dancer. Just so long as I’m playing it’s fine, but no more. My lover may be a jealous woman, but she understands more than most what I need - and, more importantly, knows that I won’t take from her to sate that need.


“Then go, but stay where I can see you. I want to watch,” she murmurs in my ear as she slides away from me and into her own seat.


I slide my glass over to her as I stand, before leaning forward and kissing her languidly. She smells of ginger; sweet with the slightest bite at the end. It’s one of the many things I adore about her. She opens to me easily and we kiss softly, as lovers will.


I pull away and whisper quietly, though we’re the only ones here, “I don’t deserve you, but I don’t think I can ever let you go.”


I drop my black cloak, stand and make my way to the twisted metal staircase; for a moment, I stop and stare.


She knows where to find me.


Her eyes flicker across the room looking for me. And I’m right here, waiting, always watching.


She tosses her head back as she moves to the music. Her eyes catch mine, and I know the moment she recognizes me. She was graceful before, but now that she knows I’m here, her moves become less polished grace, and more sinful – erotic even.


This is the game we play. She appears and looks for me. I watch her and show myself when I’m good and ready. I stand where she can see me and when she notices, she attempts to lure me down to her.


It’s the glitter that gets me every time. Her make-up, her skin, her shoes, those clothes – that body coated in glitter and the spangles on her clothes. In this light, she shines. I almost scoff at the image that comes to mind; a beacon of light in this darkest place.


She’s all pale, glitter-covered skin and a short sexy bobbed haircut, the tips tinted green and silver. She has clear dark eyes and delicate limbs. She is dressed - unknowingly, of course - in a tribute to my old House: red leather hot pants, tall gold-spangled heels, and a metallic gold halter top that shows more than it covers as it's held together by three strings; one low across her back, one across her shoulder blades, and one around her neck.


She’s not overly tall, but is very well shaped, and I know I’m not the only one watching her. I’m not the only one who could tell that she’s going bra-less, but a single glance from me and the other interested parties melt away; she’s mine, and they know it.


I own The Vampyres’ Catacombs; the best and the hottest nightclub in Britain - Wizarding or otherwise. We're not open to the public on nights like these. These nights are meant for us - those of us who walk the night freely, where we gather when our thirst grows too great. Muggles of certain inclinations are only here by invitation on those nights. We make sure the Muggles never remember how they got here; a more, “we find you, you don’t find us” sort of attitude.


Witches and Wizards, well, those of similar tastes know how to find us, should they desire to return. They are allowed to choose - they can have one night and then leave with their memories intact but for the location of The Catacombs…or they can swear an oath by their wands, their magic and their very lives, that they shall not reveal our secrets and they can return any night they like…not to mention receiving special notice of when nights like these occur.


No one has ever chosen just a single night.


The dark, gothic interior is well chosen - it matches both the name and our natures. The architecture encourages the use of side passageways and hidden alcoves; just the way our tastes run. This is my territory; my idea; my palace.


Here, positions are reversed; no matter what I used to be, here, I reign supreme.


I descend the stairs slowly, regally even, and the peons get out of my way. They know better than to accost me.


I stand at the foot of the stairs, watching her. Her eyes never leave mine as she continues to dance, body moving, neck arching, arms weaving, hips gyrating - everything, in a show just for me. Once she knows I’m watching, everything else melts away, for her; it’s just the two of us.


The crowd that always gathers to watch her parts before me, until there’s nothing there but open floor between us. I can see her lick her lips, both in nerves and anticipation. Maybe she can feel it too; tonight things will change - after this she won't be just another dancer.


The music grows louder as I begin to move towards her. The music is hot, rough and gritty. It’s just what I like, and even as I stalk my newest prey, I can feel my blood respond to the sound; turning my predatory stalk into a calculated, seductive swagger.


Her rhythm never falters, but even from fifteen feet away I can sense her pulse skyrocketing; her eyes dilating, and her breathing quickening. She turns her back to me, finally breaking eye contact with me as she dances to the beat of the music. It’s my move now.


Even though she knew it was coming, the gasp that I felt more than heard was gratifying, as I slide a white gloved hand over her middle and pull her back into the curve of my body, slipping easily into the grinding motions of her dance.


I hate the assumption that just because I walk the night means that I must wear black everything. I wear the black cloak simply for camouflage; recreationally, my choices are much different. White leather is my preference; trousers, corset, gloves, belt, and tall boots - all in perfect white leather. A white silk ribbon in my long hair and a white silk shirt are the only exceptions to my leather rule.


Not ivory, not cream, white. The symbolism of supposed innocence is my own little joke - I’m far from innocent now.


Her breath hitches when her nearly-bare back comes in contact with the cool, supple leather of my corset. These boots make me taller by a good two inches -her own heels notwithstanding - and I lean in and speak softly in her ear, “I warn you time and time again, last chance to run away. Last chance to flee before the fire burns you.”


She shivers and arches back into me, “Then burn me to ashes for all I care, just do it!.”


As one of her hands rises to try to catch hold of me, my hand snaps out of its own volition and catches her wrist, “Naughty, naughty,” I whisper as I feel her trembling, “I can’t have you doing things like grabbing me. It just wouldn’t do … especially without permission. Don’t touch. Understand?”


Her hair brushes my cheek as she nods; I let her wrist go and she obeys, keeping her hands off of me … for now. I lean in a bit further and breathe in her scent, heady and musky, like some foreign spice, and I can already see myself becoming more addicted to it - and quite possibly, to her.


The girl is shameless as she presses back against me, grinding that sweet ass into me. One hand stays possessively wrapped around her middle as I slide the other around her and up her body. Her breath hitches again when my hand passes over the lower portion of her ribs and between the valley of her breasts. I can feel her heartbeat - strong and rapid against my hand, I can hear her blood pulsing through her veins as I lean in closer. The richer, darker scent of her blood just below the surface calls to me. I press my lips to the side of her neck, not biting, simply resting there to see how she reacts.


She moans almost inaudibly - the only reason I hear it is my enhanced hearing - and tilts her head in abandon. I smile; I knew she would yield.


The music is loud, but I believe her heartbeat is louder. I lift my hand from over her pounding heart and trace a finger delicately over her skin, just above the neckline of her shirt. With a little wriggling and shifting, the minx is straining upwards to press her breast into my hand.


I pause and pluck at the nipple I can feel hardening through her thin shirt and my gloves. The soft cry that escapes her sounds louder to me than the song we’re currently grinding to, but is so much more pleasant. I pull her back against me once more so I can continue to torment her yet not have to fear her overbalancing the both of us.


“So shameless,” I murmur against the skin of her neck as I continue rolling the hardened peak between my fingers, “so brazen and wanton. Getting me to touch you like this, right here in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Just what should I do with such impertinence? I don’t know what I’m going to do with you ... decisions, decisions …”


She pants, trying to catch her breath, and implores me, “You’re not going to make me leave, are you? You can’t - I want-“


I let go of her breast, tangle my fingers in her hair, and pull her head back, forcing her to arch her neck further. My tongue traces a delicate line over the curve of her neck and I say against her skin, “No, no, I won’t do that. What I will do is much worse.”


I slide the tip of my fang against the pulsating vein in her throat and I purr, “No, my willful little dancer, I’m going to do exactly as I please, and you’ll just have to hang on for the ride; there’s no going back now. I will break you, but that doesn’t mean I have to fix you.”


Silly thing’s so distracted that she hasn’t noticed I’ve been maneuvering us slowly across the floor and into one of the darker alcoves. I spare a glance upwards and I can see the faint gleam off of the ice blue silk of my lover’s dress, still watching from my darkened table.


I turn my attention back to the girl in my arms, and I smirk as I turn her around and press her against the wall. Her eyes are wild and desperate; we’ve been dancing around each other for weeks, and the waiting and anticipation have only made her wilder.


“This is what you crave, isn’t it?” I demand, pressing her back against the stone with nothing more than my presence, my arms planted on the wall beside her, effectively caging her in. Though from the way she’s panting, I’d say she’s enjoying herself, “You crave being watched; being the center of attention; being the most desired thing in the room. And here you are, in the center of my club, the center of my attention.”


“Such a pretty little slut,” I say with relish as I lean forward and latch my mouth to the side of her neck once more, nipping and sucking at the line of pale, delicate skin exposed to me.


She presses her palms flat to the stone, in accordance with my earlier order, yet her body arches into mine and her mouth opens in a breathy whimper. I smirk against her skin and press closer, one leather-clad leg slipping between her own and pressing hard at the apex of her thighs.


She whines and tries to wrap a leg around my hips, opening herself to me. I allow it because it makes her that much more vulnerable.


I abandon my train of thought and give in to my darkest desire; I pull back slightly and then sink my fangs into her jugular. Her blood pulses hot and bittersweet over my tongue; the girl whimpers and curves her body to mine in an attempt to get closer. Her hips begin undulating, as she rubs herself against me, rutting against my thigh. Even as I drink my fill, I’m carefully monitoring her vitals. Her heart beats rapidly, and I’d have to be dead – well, deader than I already am – not to smell her arousal. In a carefully timed move, I reach up and twist one of her nipples savagely just as I wrench my teeth out of her neck. Her whole body stiffens and tenses, her mouth open in a silent scream as the blood-loss-induced high drags her over the edge.


She slumps backwards against the wall, and I easily slide her boneless leg off its perch on my hip and lean her back against the cool stone. Her eyes are practically rolling up in her head, when a chair appears out of nowhere for me to drop her into. I push her hair out of her face and I smile; she fainted on me … of course that could be because she’s still bleeding from my bite. Gently, I lick the still seeping wounds and watch them close before my eyes.


“Pretty Pansy, such a flower should never have come to the dark of the Catacombs – you won’t survive down here,” I murmur, brushing her pale cheek with my knuckles, the music and the club forgotten.


“She as sweet as you’d hoped?” I hear my lover ask from behind me, the silk of her dress rustling softly as she moved about. I should have known it was her when the chair appeared out of nowhere. My darling doesn’t like to see anyone hurt, especially if she could do something to prevent it.


“She’s very sweet; I believe I may keep her,” I reply, licking my lips and running my tongue along my teeth, searching for any last droplets of blood.


She merely smiles and steps past me to pour a Blood-Replenishing potion down my dancer’s unresisting throat with the slightest amount of coaxing to make sure she swallows. That’s the sort of she person is, always considerate. From her pocket she pulls a small piece of parchment and presses it into Pansy’s hand, curling her fingers around it so that even in a faint, she’ll still hold the parchment.


She straightens up and steps into my arms, pressing close to me despite the fact that only a moment before I held another in my arms. “Let’s go home, love,” she murmurs, “Your dancer will be back next week as always. I’ve made sure of it.”


“As you wish, my heart,” I reply as we turn and walk out of The Catacombs, my arm around her waist and her head leaning on my shoulder. As we walk through the masses of dancing bodies, I turn my head and ask my raven-haired beauty softly, “Just what did you give her?”


She laughed softly and answered me easily, “Simple: while she had full permission to return to the club whenever she wanted, that was her page of a charmed set of papers, the other of which I shall give you later, that will allow you to invite her anywhere at will. Not just here in the club, but elsewhere when your thirst grows too great…or whenever you wish to play, my dear Hermione.”


I throw my head back and laugh, “Sometimes, my heart, I think you would have been a better Slytherin than Harry would have made.” I looked down into her dark eyes as she laughed with me. My Ravenclaw love, as a Slytherin?! I shook my head again. Cho and I laughed as we made our way back up to my quarters.