I will possess your heart - Rhys Montrose X Reader

───Part 1.

You didn't remember the last time you let your best friend drag you out your usual haunt - an underground club blasting industrial goth music filled to the brim with reckless and irresponsible twenty year old's and upwards. It hadn't changed much in your time away; the dance floor was still sticky and cluttered with trash, the occasional lost purse and plastic bag of pills sticking out briefly before trampled to death by the crowd. Neon lights, flashing between a wild array of colors, lit up the area, beams surging through the crowd, highlighting the inebriated dancers that lost their rhythm, the creeps ogling their newest target or getting told off by one, the talented and occasionally enigmatic dancer that stole the breath of anyone that found their gaze away.

The music was blasted to the highest volume, the bass reverberating in your chest in a comforting and familiar way - you'd missed this part. Feeling the music flow through your entire being, heart tapping along its notes and a smile forming on your lips.

This was your element. Your type of club, not the shitty high-class soho club you worked at. Where you had to endure nasty comments and rich babies taking advantage of your lower class statue that was put on display by the waitress uniform that didn't fit your body at all. Even thinking about your job at Sundry house made your skin crawl, but it was good money. Fuck that, it was amazing money. Flirting with a man thrice your age and a fat bank account was nothing you couldn't handle, not when their tips were so generous that they kept you well-fed for a week.

But enough about your job, you reminded yourself. You came here tonight to let off some steam. To get the roaming hands of a misogynistic and entitled arsehole that made you nearly snap yesterday out of your mind. You needed this. Dancing with your best friend, chugging drinks like no tomorrow and dancing to the music, hair wild and swinging around, freed from the usual bun your boss demanded all the women in the workspace to wear. You all knew why he did it - to store mental images you all in his mind, twisting them to fit his perverse fetishes. He could've at least put some effort into trying to hide this, but he got off on the power trip whenever someone dared to try and argue with him.

"Babes," your friend interrupted your train of thought, the two of you closely pressed together as you danced in the little space you had. "I think I'm going to go home," she had to yell loudly in your ear to be heard, blue eyes swimming with guilt and stealing glances off someone behind you.

You knew that look. Knew what it entailed, and she didn't have to explain as you nodded and encouraged her, following her retreating form into the embrace of a woman a few years older than you. She was going home, but not alone. Not without a stranger to wrap her legs around and feverishly press her lips against.

You watched as they made their way off the dance floor, a pant of jealousy surging through you at the woman's beauty - you were happy for your friend to have found someone to fill the empty space of her apartment with, but god you'd kill to look like her companion.
She wasn't as tall as you were, a feature you'd come to accept over the years but had hated with a passion growing up as no boy wanted to be with a girl taller than them. It has been a big hit with other girls, non-binaries and gender fluid people though to your surprise. An advantage you were glad to use when you set your eyes on someone shorter than you.

The woman's body was the same, if not better, as those models you'd see plastered at every corner of the city - slim, with curves in all the right places, and a chest enunciated by the risqué low cut dress she wore, one that left little to the imagination and let everyone know that she wasn't wearing a bra. She didn't need to.