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[center][color=474F44][sub]Location:[/sub][/color] [color=gray][sub]The Pink Room [/sub][/color] [color=8C2C23][sub]◇[/sub][/color] [color=474F44][sub]Time:[/sub][/color] [color=gray][sub]Dusk[/sub][/color]  [color=8C2C23][sub]◇[/sub][/color] [color=474F44][sub]Interactions:[/sub][/color] [color=gray][sub]N/A[/sub][/color] 
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The private room dripped in red, not the red of love or blood, but of appetite. Raw, ravenous, and unrepentant. The color of lust without shame. Overhead, lights painted in crimson slid over Luna’s sweat-slicked skin as she wrapped herself around the pole, boots to the ceiling. Her platform heels kissed the light with every spin, the red soles flashing like a warning or a promise.

She danced like gravity had forgotten her name. Every movement poured like silk through flame, slow, hot, irresistible. The lace clinging to her hips barely held on, soaked with the efforst of her performance and the weight of four men's gazes, each of them looking at her like she was both saint and sin.

Her matching bra was gone, tucked into the birthday boy’s pocket with a wink and a whisper that made him forget his girlfriend’s name.

Her thighs gripped the pole as she spiraled downward, hair flying, lashes low. In that moment, she might as well have flown, and maybe she did, in her own way. Dancing was the only thing that made her feel untouchable, like she wasn’t just a beautiful tragedy bound in blood and centuries of men’s worst ideas. Up here, she wasn’t even real. She was smoke, rhythm, power.

The music slowed. Her heels hit the floor with a soft thud. 

She prowled toward the birthday boy with the rhythm pounding through the floor. Her hips rolled, her chest rose and fell, and her lips parted just slightly, revealing two elongated canines. Her tongue flicked out to lick scarlet lips. Her hands traced up her hips, her stomach, the swell of her chest.

Faint, just above her left breast, lay a near-invisible scar, the mark of the one who made her. Her sire. Her damnation.

She could feel their eyes rake over her nakedness. Their hunger fed her. The heat between her legs was only outdone by the fire in their gaze. She could smell their arousal, bitter, cloying, desperate. Like communion on a Sunday morning for a sinner starving for salvation.

[Indent][I]Perdóname, Señor, por el placer que siento bajo sus miradas. Por cómo canta mi cuerpo cuando me ven. No soy más que polvo y deseo, ten piedad de una pecadora que ya no sabe cómo arrepentirse.[/i][/indent]

She straddled him. The last bit of lace brushed against his jeans. Her fingers curled beneath his jaw, tilting his face up as if to offer confession.


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She sat at the bar. A thin red robe clung to her damp skin, the same shade as her drink and her underwear, though the latter was long gone. She doubted Mr. Birthday Boy would return the bra. Not that she cared. It had been bought wholesale, downtown, during a clearance sale. If she had to choose, she’d rather spend her money on imported Chunghwa cigarettes than on new lingerie.

Celeste sipped her syrupy cocktail with deadpan disinterest, letting the sugar and faint iron coat her tongue, masking the acid that churned in her gut.

Across the bar, a man gnawed on a chicken wing like it owed him money.

She watched him with thinly veiled disgust. That chicken was two weeks old. Not frozen, just... kept. The sauce was likely a toxic blend of expired hot sauce, liquefied margarine, and whatever dripped from the ceiling when the AC broke. Which was often.

She turned away before she gagged.

Not her problem.

Her hand slipped through her dark hair, curling a damp strand around one finger. The music shifted to a bass-heavy rhythm. Her body still hummed from the last dance. Her muscles ached in that beautiful, burning way that only being desired could summon.

Then she smelled it.

Something rich, metallic, alive.

Not cologne. Not sweat.

Blood.

Probably from a broken nose. Juan liked braking the noses of the bastards who could not keep their hands off the girls. 

Her tongue slid over the sharp curve of her teeth, before she bit the inside of her cheek. 

How long had it been since she fed properly? Since she’d sunk her fangs into a warm neck and tasted something divine? The body of Christ, in the form of blood.

Her eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

Maybe she’d visit that little church at the corner of Pine and Findlay, the one she saw on the news the other day. 

She was overdue for confession.
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