Dorian Marcellis

The neon fangs of Get Bit slashed silver and crimson across the throat of the night, a deliberate, jagged wound in a city that usually belonged to the heavy scent of fur and claw. Inside, the atmosphere was a thick, heady soup of filtered air and expensive synthetic musk, meticulously scrubbed of the outside world until only the copper tang of desire remained.Then, the heavy doors parted for him.

Dorian slipped into the fray from the shadows of the alley with the effortless, liquid grace of a creature who had never once sought permission to exist. His black coat flared around his calves, the silk lining catching the strobe lights, excessive, tailored, and entirely unnecessary. A smirk was already carved into his chiseled features by the time the first regular caught sight of that shocks of wavy white hair and screamed his name. He spread his arms wide, indulgent and theatrical, as if his very presence were a benediction he was graciously deigning to bestow upon the unworthy. His pale throat bared itself beneath the sweep of the lasers, his fangs catching flashes of red and silver in equal, lethal measure. “Darlings,” he crooned, his voice a ribbon of velvet wrapped around a core of slow acting poison, “did you miss me?”

The response was a physical wave. Dancers slid down their poles like ritual offerings, glittered mouths pressing desperately against the sharp line of his jaw while manicured fingers clutched at his lapels. Dorian laughed softly, a sound like benediction and damnation and caught one girl’s chin between his ringed fingers. He leaned in, his breath cold against her ear, murmuring just for her, “Perfect set, pet. If you keep behaving, I’ll have you later.” She shivered with a violent, full body tremor, caught in the delicious limbo between a promise of heaven and a threat of hell. He didn't stop at the bar to order, he simply leaned over the mahogany counter, his slender, ring clad hand snaring a bloody mary meant for someone else. He lifted the glass in a mock salute to the room, his eyes, redder than the liquor, glinting with a smarmy, triumphant heat. The bartender didn't protest, he only offered a thin, trembling smile, his expression a frantic cocktail of religious devotion and primal terror. “To survival,” Dorian toasted lightly, the crystal rim clicking sharply against his fang as he drained the glass.

The staff bowed their heads like practiced courtiers as he passed. The regulars pressed closer, their heartbeats a frantic, staccato rhythm that he could likely feel against his own skin, each one aching to be the one he finally noticed. With a flourish of dark fabric, Dorian dropped into his throne overlooking the dance floor. He slung one leg over the velvet armrest, his coat spilling around him like the tattered wings of a fallen angel. Tap. Tap. His rings struck the wood, and the club didn't go silent, it focused on it's king. The air grew heavy with the weight of a thousand held breaths, all eyes were dragged into his orbit, caught in the gravity of his smug, magnetic cruelty. “Now,” he purred, lifting his chin to survey his kingdom with the bored lethality like the king he felt he was, “who among you pretty little things wants to be my blood slut for the night?”

The room erupted, a chaotic symphony of laughter, gasps, and the desperate, high pitched cries of “Me! Please, Dorian, me!” He bared his fangs in a grin that was nothing but pure, unadulterated hunger and practiced showmanship, his gaze sweeping over the heaving crowd. He licked a stray drop of crimson from the rim of his glass, his voice dropping into a low, mocking drawl. “Step lively, pets. I’ve been gone far too long... and Daddy’s thirsty.”