A Black & White Halloween

SERNEA STEELE MONROE

 

A BNWO STORY

A BLACK & WHITE HALLOWEEN

 

 

© Copyright 2025 by Serena Steele Monroe

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

A Black & White Halloween

Chapter One: Uninvited Power

 

Stan tugs the vampire cape straight, not satisfied with the way it settles on his shoulders. The material—cheap, shiny, the edges fraying—keeps catching on his jaw when he tries to flip it up. Red lining glares around the collar, brighter in the candlelight than he expected.

 

The costume’s fangs never fit quite right, but he pushes them in again, tongue poking the plastic, mouth aching already. Spent the whole week talking up this party. Now the room feels too dark.

 

The couch sags with the weight of six pumpkins. To top it off, the air is stale from the fake fog machine by the TV.

 

Lisa moves through the living room with her arms full of orange crepe streamers. She smooths the front of her nurse uniform, fingers tracing the white apron’s edge. Tugging the skirt an inch lower before letting it ride up again.

 

The thigh-high stockings squeeze her legs. The elastic tops make indentations, and she attempts to flatten them with her palm. Obsessively, every few seconds, she must hitch the top of one and check for runs. Her heels click softly on the floor, the only loud noise with the music not yet on.

 

Lisa smiles at the dancing skeleton taped above the fireplace, straightens its paper hat, and glances at Stan for approval.

 

For his part, Stan doesn’t notice. He’s got his eyes locked on the front window, fighting with the curtain so the neighbors don’t spy inside. But he wants them to know. Stan wants this party to matter. Wants guests to talk about it in class for weeks, including the ones he barely knows.

 

Plastic bones hang from the ceiling, catching the dusty yellow bulbs and spinning in slow, lazy circles. Cobwebs cover the lamps. Stan’s proud of those—spent half an hour spacing them just right.

 

The kitchen counter overflows with goodies. Covered with bags of chips. Three family-size popcorn bowls and a punch bowl packed with enough vodka to make one drunk on the fumes. Staring up from the booze, floating eyeballs made of peeled grapes and black olives.

 

The only thing missing is people.

 

“Don’t worry, sweetie pie, I don’t think anyone’s coming this early,” Lisa says. She holds a package of plastic spiders, her voice a murmur, uncertain if she should put one on the cheese platter. Smiles, waiting for Stan to respond.

 

“Yeah, but if you want to do this right, you’ve gotta do it all the way,” Stan says, adjusting his fangs. “They look good.” He means the stockings. He doesn’t say it, but Lisa blushes anyway.

 

A sudden knock at the door makes Lisa almost drop the spiders. She laughs, nervous and anxious, and wipes her hands on her skirt. Stan stiffens, fixes his cape, and stands by the entryway, feigning he’s relaxed. The second knock comes before he can get there.

 

Standing in the hallway, Wesley and Carol. His werewolf arms spill black fur over his wrists, claws made of aluminum foil taped to each finger. Sweat slicks the brown hair plastered to his forehead.

 

Already searching the room for something safer than his own discomfort, Wesley’s pale blue eyes stare past Stan. The rest of the costume is jeans and a t-shirt, but the pointy, hairy ears peeking through the headband finish the effect.

 

Carol appears smaller than Lisa. The witch’s dress is almost too long, and it pools around her ankles. The pointed hat tilts to one side, threatening to fall with every step. Her curls are vivid red, brighter in the light of the hallway fixture.

 

And she’s lined her eyes, heavy and dark, so that every blink seems shy, half hoping not to be seen. The broom bumps against her leg when she walks.

 

“Should’ve come in costume too, Stan,” Wesley says, grinning. The fangs make him lisp. “Oh, wait. You did.” Barely pausing, Wesley steps inside, but the fur on his sleeve catches on the doorknob, and he stops, peeling it free.

 

Carol hovers just behind him.

 

“Damn, girl, smells amazing in here,” she says. “You guys went all out.” Brushing the cobweb off the brim, she lifts her hat and slips inside. The first thing that catches her eye is the row of pumpkins on the coffee table. Jagged smiles, candle guts flickering from the inside, faces carved with uneven pleasure.

 

Lisa beams, proud.

 

“The skeleton’s Stan’s idea. I did the pumpkins and the punch.” She holds up the bowl, the floating eyeballs rolling against the rim.

 

Shaking her head, Carol laughs and says, “Nope, not drinking anything that gapes back at me.”

 

Near the kitchen, Wesley inspects the snack spread and opens a bag of chips. Fake blood drips from the punch ladle and stains the rim of every cup. The smell of old popcorn hides under the sugar and vodka fumes.

 

With her skirt fanning out, Carol leans over the table and pokes a skeleton hand peeking through the candy bowl.

 

Already thinking about the next knock, Stan closes the door and moves toward the group, cape snapping at his heels. He checks the music. Still dead quiet in the chamber. Thumb hovers over the speaker, but he waits. Wants the moment to last. Desires the costumes to matter.

 

“You really got into this, Care,” Lisa says, tugging Carol’s sleeve. “The hat’s perfect. Makes me think you could actually curse somebody.”

 

Hugging herself a little, Carol laughs.

 

“Should’ve brought my cat. He’s the actual witch in our home. Wesley kept sneezing the whole time I got ready.”

 

Wesley shakes his head.

 

“The fur’s not real, if anyone’s wondering. But these fangs are supposed to glow in the dark.” He smiles, the plastic big and goofy, then bites into a chip and talks through the crunch. “Next year, I’m doing something with less fur.”

 

Stan tries a joke about shedding all over the couch. No one laughs, but Lisa smooths the awkwardness by offering drinks, her voice higher than usual.

 

The music finally comes on—some Halloween track piped so soft it barely covers the crackle of the fog machine and the hum from the kitchen light. The room shrinks around the four of them, shadows twitching across the walls.

 

“Pumpkin seeds or vampire fangs?” Lisa says, holding up the snack trays. The skirt rides up again, and the nurse’s cap slips forward until it covers her eyebrow.

 

Howling, Wesley points at the apron. “Stan, you’re the second-scariest thing in the room right now. Lisa might win best costume.”

 

“Can’t compete,” Stan says, voice muffled by the cape. He drinks punch straight from the bowl, letting the sweet burn fill his mouth.

 

Another knock, sharp and heavy, cuts through the melody as Wes turns up the volume.

 

Stan freezes. Feeling his hand tighten around the cup, punch sloshes over the rim. He sets it down and moves toward the door slower this time. He expects more classmates, someone from his building, maybe a couple of late arrivals. But nothing prepares him for the four figures in the hall.

 

The theme from Psycho plays, the loud sound of sharp violins mimicking stabbing.

 

The first thing he notices is the armor —the brass gleaming, the leather straps, the muscles shifting with the weight. Two men, towering, black as polished stone, gold, and iron strapped across their chests. The one in front seems wider than the door frame, helmet tucked beneath his arm, prop sword slung at his hip.

 

With his eyes—dark, level, assessing—move across Stan and through him. The second man, almost as tall, carries a shield on one arm and a battle-axe on his shoulder. Steady and loud, his boots thud against the welcome mat.

 

Between them stands a woman in black leather. The corset shapes her body into a sharp, hourglass figure, everything cinched tight and perfect. Her boots come up to the knees. The long, spiked heels strike everyone as dangerous.

 

A whip dangles from her hand, the handle wrapped in her palm like she won’t let go of it for anyone. Her skin gleams, amber and alive in the flicker from the hallway. Long hair, black, loose except for a tight band high on her head. Unblinking, her gaze burns straight into Stan’s face.

 

Next to her, the fourth, another woman leans lazy against the wall. Panther suit—slick, tight, full-body black, tail curling almost to the floor.

 

The headband ears twitch from the flow of the hallway vent. Impossible to miss, even in the dim light, her eyes watch everything, and a smirk forms on her lips.

 

Stan stares, mouth dry, cape limp at his side. The black women cause his little, white micro-prick to twitch. The sight of two well-built black men brings a twist to his guts. In his mind, he imagines two long, fat pricks, dangling halfway to their knees, beneath their costumes.

 

Lisa peeks out of the living room, spots the guests, and reacts instantly.

 

“Hey! You guys are friends of Melissa from my psych class, right? She told me you might stop by—come in, come in!” She pushes past Stan, her hand on his back, ushering the four newcomers inside like she’s always expected them.

 

The warriors step over the threshold first. The tall one—Justus, according to Melissa’s stories, fills the doorway, with his eyes sweeping the accommodations in a single glance.

 

Next comes Elijah, the one with the helmet, who spots Lisa first and lets his gaze slide along her stockings before faking that he glances away.

 

Destiny’s heels click sharp against the floorboards. She smiles, but it’s slow, careful—like she’s already measuring the room and the people in it. Jasmine glides in beside her, every muscle flexing under the thin black suit, tail flicking as she scans the pumpkins and the punch bowl.

 

Carol and Wesley freeze by the food table, hands clutching plastic cups. Lisa, voice suddenly bright, says, “I’m Lisa. That’s Stan—he’s the vampire—this is Carol and her boyfriend Wesley. You guys are amazing. The costumes are just… wow.”

 

Elijah sets the helmet on the end table, nods once, and says, “Thanks. You’ve got the best snacks at this end of the building. Or so I heard.” His arm brushes Lisa’s shoulder as he steps in, and Stan notices the touch but says nothing.

 

Justus barely glances at Stan. He’s already checking the ceiling, the walls, the webbing, as if he’s looking for something besides the fake decorations. When he smiles at Carol, she catches her breath, hat wobbling.

 

Destiny rakes her gaze down Lisa’s nurse uniform and grins. “Didn’t expect the theme to be ‘naughty hospital staff,’ but I can work with that.” Her voice is liquid, soft, but lands hard. Stan’s knuckles go white, and he stiffens more.

 

Jasmine circles the table, tail knocking an empty cup to the floor. She crouches by the pumpkins, fingers grazing each carved face, then sits sideways on the couch, stretching out like she owns it already.

 

Wesley stands behind Carol, half-hidden, but everyone witnesses him staring. No one says anything. The women stun him, while the men frighten. The old inferiority creeps in.

 

The air thickens. The song Voodoo Voodoo, plays but seems to fade out, replaced by the click of Destiny’s heels and the soft thump of Justus’s boots on the linoleum.

 

Lisa grabs another round of cups and holds them out for the new guests.

 

“We’ve got punch, beer, snacks—help yourselves. Really. Don’t be shy.”

 

Elijah says, “I never am.” He smiles at Lisa. She stares at the floor, cheeks hot.

 

Cape twisted in his fist, Stan hovers by the door, unsure. Destiny steps close, fixes her eyes on Stan, and holds his gaze just long enough to make him drop his eyes. She doesn’t smile this time.

 

Jasmine purrs catishly, amused. She sprawls deeper into the couch, pulling the tail across her lap, watching Wesley.

 

Carol fidgets, the hat nearly falling off. With her eyes on the ground, she tugs at her sleeve.

 

Plastic skeletons clack together on the ceiling every time the heater kicks on. The fog machine belches out another puff, slinking along the floorboards, curling around Justus’s boots.

 

Stan finally manages, “So, um, you guys, uh—costumes are cool.” The words sound small.

 

Justus says, “Yours too.” He doesn’t glance away from Carol.

 

Destiny moves toward the drinks table, hips rolling in the leather, and eyes the punch bowl. Not realizing he’s done it, Stan steps back.

 

Lisa offers Destiny a cup, but Destiny doesn’t take it—makes Lisa move closer, lets her arm brush Lisa’s hand before accepting. The eye contact lingers.

 

Carol shivers. Wesley clears his throat.

 

Jasmine holds her hand and moves her side to side and says, “This place is cute. Cool decorations.” The tone and her wobbly hand movements say nothing is cute or cool.

 

Towering over her, Elijah stands next to Lisa. Her nurse hat slips, and he reaches up, quick, fixes it back in place for her. When she stares at his hand and up at his face, he grins.

 

Lost in his own apartment, Stan watches everything. The air in the room is hot, cramped. The music’s noise now. Stan wonders why he feels outnumbered, given that Wesley and Carol are only a few steps away.

 

Lisa talks to Destiny about the drinks, her voice less steady. Carol and Justus talk about witch hats. Jasmine doesn’t speak—just watches.

 

Halloween’s all about scary stuff. Nothing’s more frightening to Stan than two black men standing next to his and his best friend’s girls. The two sexy and powerful black women’s a close second.

 

It’s illogical, irrational, but at that moment, he feels emasculated by their mere presence.

 

Standing near the door, Stan doesn’t want to move. However, he doesn’t want to stay. Plastic spiders slip off the cheese tray and land by Destiny’s boots. The song changes; Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s “Monster Mash” plays.

 

While the party’s underway for real, it isn’t the one Stan planned.

 

The drinks table empties in seconds. Jackrabbit fast, Stan swipes up plastic cups and shoves them into people’s hands without asking. Punch sloshes; red streaks drip onto the cheap linoleum, sticky and sweet.

 

Elijah watches Lisa over the rim of his cup, focus never drifting from the white curves of her thighs, bare above the top of the stockings. As she senses his glower, her legs go hot, toes flexing in the high heels. The room’s breathless, waiting for what Elijah does with it.

 

Leaning in, close enough for his scent—clean, sharp, something expensive—to cut through the vodka haze.

 

“That nurse outfit is something else,” he says, eyes not leaving the strip of skin above her knee. High and nervous, she laughs, hand shooting down to tug at the skirt. But the fabric rides up again when she lets go, exposing more than before.

 

This time, she doesn’t pull it back down. With her mouth open, she watches Elijah, as if she’s forgotten what she wants to say.

 

Watching, Stan stands by the punch. Every muscle in his neck goes rigid. The cup in his hand dents from the pressure. The cotton in his mouth grows thick.

 

As if going in for the kill, Justus moves smooth, violating Carol’s space. His hand finds her waist, thumb pressing into the silky black fabric. And his fingers wander over the curve like it’s made for him.

 

“The material feels nice,” he murmurs, voice deep. He doesn’t let go. Carol blushes so hard it spreads to her ears, the freckles on her cheeks standing out. Though she shivers, she doesn’t pull away. Her eyes go half lidded; the witch hat wobbles on her head.

 

Wesley flinches. Not a dramatic move—grinding teeth, the way his fingers curl around his cup. He watches the hand on Carol’s waist but says nothing, as Justus’s fingers flex, digging in.

 

All this time, Jasmine and Destiny hang back by the drinks, trading glances. Both smiling like they knew this would happen. With tail flicking, Jasmine stretches across the counter. While Destiny leans against the fridge, hip cocked. They don’t need to speak.

 

Near the table, Elijah edges closer to Lisa, making her step back until the backs of her knees catch the couch. With knees tight together, she perches on the edge, skirt hiked high. Elijah sits next to her, so close that the sides of their thighs touch.

 

“You always dress up like this for Halloween?” he asks, but the way his hand grazes her knee says the answer isn’t important.

 

And Lisa giggles again. The sound comes out breathless, startled. As if on cue, her face glows, so red that the color almost matches the punch.

 

Trying to keep up, Stan pours more drinks. But his hand shakes, punch splattering the countertop. Destiny slides her cup beside his.

 

“You’re such a good host,” she says, voice seductive and syrupy. Stan barely manages to nod. Not sure where to land, his eyes dart everywhere.

 

The panther suit is shiny and stretched tight, Jasmine sprawls on the couch. With her gaze locked on Wesley, who watches Carol, she thinks about how sweet dominating him will be. The tail flicks again; she spins her wrist, slow and deliberate, the tail moving the same. For some reason, fearful, Wesley glances away first.

 

Justus compliments Carol again about the hat, but his hand stays fixed on her waist, fingers stroking her through each word. Tremors surge inside, Carol’s voice disappears—she just nods, lips pressed together, eyes huge.

 

Primal instinct kicks in, and Wesley tries to move closer. As if he might shield he. But Justus barely acknowledges him. Instead, Justus pulls Carol another inch nearer, their bodies flush. When Carol’s breath catches, Wesley’s hands ball into fists.

 

At the punch bowl, Destiny and Jasmine laugh silently, enjoying the show. Jasmine motions to Destiny, and they trade a gaze. Destiny’s smile widens, seeing the room changing shape, feels the shift hit everyone at once.

 

So, Elijah leans into Lisa’s ear, voice barely a whisper.

 

“You wear the hell out of that uniform, you know?”

 

And her giggle cracks, turns shaky. Not pushing Elijah away, she puts a hand on his arm. Elijah’s hand lands on her knee, thumb brushing circles.

 

Hoping for something, Stan finally looks at Wesley—a rescue, a joke, anything. But Wesley just stares at his cup, jaw clenched tight.

 

The only sound is Destiny’s heels on the floor, her body brushing by Stan as she moves closer to the group. She stands behind the couch, fingers light on the vinyl, watching Stan and Lisa. She doesn’t talk, just takes it all in.

 

Jasmine rolls onto her back, stretches, with her legs over the arm of the couch.

 

“You all right, Stan?” she says, voice sugary and sharp. And repeats, “Stan,” draws out his name, lets it hang, demanding he answer.

 

When Stan tries to answer, the words get stuck. He grips his cup so tight that the cheap plastic crumbles and splits down the side. Punch leaks onto his wrist, drips onto the floor. But he doesn’t let go.

 

Lost in Elijah’s voice, Lisa doesn’t notice, blushing, trying not to smile too wide. With their foreheads almost touching, Elijah leans in. Palm on her thigh, his hand moves higher, fingers spread. Lisa shivers, legs opening a little.

 

At the other end of the room, Justus lets his full hand cover Carol’s waist, resting heavy. With her head tipped up, Carol leans into him, barely breathing.

 

Wesley appears sick.

 

Destiny and Jasmine stand behind it all, poised, the real hosts. Jasmine says something, and Destiny laughs, eyes locked on Stan. The white men seem smaller—shoulders hunched, arms drawn tight, quivering hands around plastic cups, voices gone.

 

At this instant, Stan can’t take his eyes off Destiny. She’s not looking anywhere else. With a warning, maybe, her smile softens. The lights flicker, shadows stretch across the walls, and for a second, it seems like nobody else is breathing.

 

As Lisa’s skirt hitches up higher, Elijah’s hand doesn’t stop moving. Lisa lets it.

 

When Carol whispers something to Justus, he bends down to hear her. The hat falls off and bounces under the table. Justus picks it up for her, sets it on her head, and brushes Wild curls back from her face, hand lingering on her cheek.

 

Wesley doesn’t move. He knows he’s lost.

 

Destiny pours herself a drink and downs it in one long swallow. She eyes Stan, waiting for him to raise his eyes, then grins when he finally does.

 

“You going to have a seat or stand there all night?” she says, not mean—amused, certain he’ll listen.

 

As Stan’s mouth works, he can’t make the words come. Destiny’s attention pins him where he stands, body rigid, knuckles white around the cup.

 

The decorations don’t matter anymore. Pumpkins flicker, but nobody pays attention. Skeletons swing from the ceiling, ignored.

 

Jasmine sprawls wider, tail draped across Wesley’s shoes. She nudges him, and he jerks his foot back, embarrassed, but Jasmine laughs.

 

Then Lisa leans on Elijah, giggles again, her hand searching for his on her thigh. Elijah lets her find it and squeezes gently. Lisa’s breathing goes fast, her cheeks flushed, and her lips part. Elijah traces her bottom lip with his thumb.

 

Stan watches the scene. He’s not part of it, not really. His cup deforms further, the punch now pooling on the floor. Destiny and Jasmine are the only ones who notice; they exchange a glance and nod, satisfied.

 

With his hand moving in small circles at her waist, Justus keeps Carol close, sometimes moving lower. Without warning, he moves his hand between her legs, and Carol’s voice is gone; she lets her head rest against his arm, eyelids fluttering. His fingers press into the private space where her legs meet.

 

Inch by inch, Wesley retreats, like he can disappear if he just stands still long enough.

 

Destiny circles the room, eyes never leaving Stan’s face. When she passes behind him, she trails a finger along his cape, not gently. As if she touches him with a live wire, he flinches.

 

The fog machine coughs out another white cloud; it crawls up around everyone’s feet, cold. Elijah and Lisa don’t notice.

 

Jasmine watches the men—Wesley crumbles, Stan cracks. She knows they understand it. And they know she knows.

 

Destiny’s on the prowl now, smile electric, hungry. Even at the edge of the action, she’s in charge. Stan finally sets the ruined cup on the counter. His hand trembles. He wipes it on his cape, avoiding Destiny’s glare.

 

But Destiny doesn’t care. She just raises her other cup to him, toasts his discomfort, and downs the punch. Jasmine licks a drop of red liquid off her finger, eyes on Wesley.

 

Lisa sighs, relaxed now. Elijah owns the space, and Lisa seems to like how it feels. Stan watches her—lost, jealous, unsure.

 

Carol’s body molds to Justus, clutching his suit. Wesley’s lost in shadow now, forgotten by his own girlfriend.

 

The room’s hot, crowded, slightly damp. Every inch smells of vodka and sweat. The eerie Prelude and Outer Space movement from The Day the Earth Stood Still turns to noise. The theremin provides background to the larger story unfolding. As the aliens have arrived and taken control.

 

Standing alone for a long moment, Stan hovers as Destiny and Jasmine watch, waiting for him to shatter. The cup in his hand wilts, crushed almost flat. He closes his eyes, just for a second, and lets the new rules settle in.

 

In this one second, Stan realizes he isn’t in control of anything.

Chapter Two: Territorial Challenges

 

Thriller, by Michael Jackson, throbs harder. In the next minute, someone jacks up the volume, maybe Destiny, because she likes the way the sound fills the apartment. The air goes thick with the smell of vodka and fake fog.

 

All the cheap decorations droop now, sweat and heat wilting crepe and plastic. No one looks at the pumpkins anymore. The room’s real reason for being there stands pressed together on the couch, and no one’s pretending.

 

Never one to tread carefully, Elijah doesn’t hesitate, slides beside Lisa, their thighs flush. The white of her stockings almost glows against the deep, high-yellow of his skin. A golden god and his pale, Aryan slave.

 

A hand grazes her knee, upward, and the skirt bunches higher until the hem flips close to her panties. Breathing slow and measured right into the shell of her ear, he leans in.

 

“That sexy, witch’s dress should come with a warning,” he tells her, voice so low the music can’t hide his intent. Intense and startled, Lisa giggles. Her fingers fly to her lap and bounce off, not bothering to cover herself this time.

 

The way Elijah places his hand on her lower back, it doesn’t seem like she could get away if she tried. Possessively, his grasp spreads, thumb pressing through the thin white cotton of her panties. Lisa twists, caught between embarrassment and wanting. The nurse’s hat slips to the side, almost falling.

 

Elijah catches it before it hits the floor and sets it just so, patting her hair. The whole movement says he owns the space—he possesses her, too, if he wants. A dark spot blooms on her crotch.

 

This moisture isn’t unnoticed. Stan stares, doesn’t blink. The party came from his hands. Those cobwebs, those pumpkins, the playlist, all he’s doing. Now every inch hijacked by the newcomers—by Elijah. The vampire cape hangs limp off his shoulders. Fangs dig, plastic cuts into his gums. Shoving the pain down, but it burns Stan anyway.

 

And his girl, Lisa, doesn’t so much as glance at him.

 

Lisa’s face turns almost pink. Eyes go glassy; she doesn’t make believe her focus isn’t on the snack table. Slick as the vodka on her tongue, Elijah’s voice melts in her ear. Each time he leans in, her chest rises. Her laugh goes breathless, little bursts of sound she can’t seem to stop. The dress rides higher with every wiggle.

 

Elijah’s hand follows her jiggle, always a step ahead.

 

Destiny circles the edge, listening, not watching, gathering data. With her tail knocking over another empty cup, Jasmine sprawls on the couch. But she only grins, eyes tracking the movements between Lisa and Elijah.

 

Everybody knows Lisa’s lost and Elijah’s won.

 

Near the drinks, Justus doesn’t waste a second. Arm sweeps Carol into the dim, cleared space by the TV, a patch of open floor nobody decorated. He doesn’t ask. Guides her—one hand wrapped around her waist, heavy fingers locked on her hip. The other hand squeezes her palm, pulls her close.

 

And Justus doesn’t move like a man in costume.

 

The sword, the shield, the leather bands, everything molds to his body, making him appear larger, more dangerous than ever. Carol stumbles against him, but Justus doesn’t let her trip, catches her, holds on, and moves in for the kill.

 

The music fits—Jackson’s monster hit, but Justus ignores the beat. Slowing the entire room down, like he shapes time however he wants.

 

When Carol folds into him, curves matching the armor, her head tilts so her hair hangs down. Her witch hat wobbles, threatens to fall, but Justus tucks it back onto her scalp, careful but not gentle.

 

Carol’s hands float—first, they hover at his chest, not sure what to do. Her fingers twitch over the straps, brush the buckle, then grip tighter, nails leaving marks. She can’t decide to push him away or pull him closer.

 

When her cheeks flush, the freckles stand out in the dark. Not a single word escapes her mouth, shivery, little breaths every time Justus’s hips pin her to his leg.

 

Wesley can’t handle it. He remains stock-still behind the punch, eyes watery but furious. Each time Justus spins Carol, Wesley grinds his teeth together. His drink forgotten, all focus lands on where Carol’s hips press into Justus’s hand, or how the witch’s dress clings to her curves.

 

The werewolf ears feel stupid, and the foil claws seem lame. Each time Justus pulls Carol closer, Wesley’s knuckles bleach bone-white. He tries to speak, but nothing happens.

 

The couch sags with Jasmine and her tail, and next to her, Destiny leans on the wall, arms folded, eyes on Stan. They wait. Stan doesn’t fight it. He tracks Lisa’s lips, the way Elijah’s hand never leaves her skin, the look of Lisa melting with every word whispered in her ear.

 

Lisa doesn’t look confused anymore. The first giggle seemed forced—now, she’s following Elijah’s lead. Her knees drift apart, and Elijah moves his palm higher, fingertips slipping past the hem and tracing the inside of her thigh.

 

Lisa’s breath stops. She rocks her hips up enough to invite him in, then squeaks at her boldness, covering her mouth.

 

Elijah doesn’t mock her. Grins broad and hungry, and dips his face close until their noses nearly brush.

 

“You get off on people staring? Or do you only like it when I do?” he asks, voice pitched so only Lisa, and a few unlucky listeners nearby, can hear it.

 

An O forms on her lips, but Lisa can’t form words. Pressing her thighs together, but her hand finds Elijah’s wrist, and she doesn’t push him away.

 

Taking a deep breath, she sighs, her eyes go glassy. And she mumbles something incoherent.

 

Finally, Stan moves, but only to press deeper into the kitchen nook. The cape scratches his chin, and the fangs pop loose. But he clamps them tighter, chewing down until blood almost beads on his gums. While he hates himself for it, heat rises in his body. Hates how he can’t look away from Elijah’s hand moving between Lisa’s legs.

 

When Destiny pours herself another drink, she doesn’t drink it. Swirling the cup, letting the red liquid catch the light.

 

Understanding exactly how to get attention, Jasmine flicks the panther’s tail. Neither one of them needs to do anything; the room shifts on its own.

 

Across the small dance floor, Justus wraps Carol in both arms now, cage tight. Deliberately, he tilts her backward, making her lose balance, so she grabs him to stay up. The dance isn’t a dance anymore—it’s more like Justus is showing everyone he does whatever he wishes.

 

The gold and leather flex when he moves; Carol’s body molds to his, feet barely scraping the floor. The witch’s hat finally drops. Justus catches it, holds it on her back like a trophy.

 

Eyes gone wide and lost, Carol shivers. Her hands don’t stop moving—she strokes his arm, his chest, and tries to brace herself on the shield. But her body shakes so bad she nearly misses. Sweat beads on her upper lip, a shine that matches the hunger in Justus’s eyes.

 

The ache crawling up his back, Wesley drags in every detail. He wishes to shout across the room. Desires Carol to break free. But Carol isn’t scared or recoiling. She’s conquered and barely holds her ground. The lust in her eyes makes Wesley sick, but he can’t move to help.

 

Finally, Lisa’s words slip through her teeth.

 

“Elijah—what are you doing?”

 

But the words are soft. Not angry, not complaining. Elijah laughs, hand slips higher, fingers tracing the edge of her panties through the thin cotton. Quick and high, Lisa moans, and slams her knees shut.

 

But Elijah pries them open again, slow and easy.

 

Stan drops the cup. It bounces, rolls under the sink. He notices the puddle of punch but can’t care. All focus drills into Lisa’s lap, Elijah’s hand, and the way Lisa’s breath fogs in the air. Every minute, she inches closer to collapse.

 

No one tries to look away. Even Destiny seems pleased, soaking up the slow crack in the white boys’ armor.

 

The song changes, and I Put a Spell on You seeps into the air. Moans and groans of pleasure rush from Lisa, her legs quake, her breasts shake, as she climaxes.

 

On the dance floor, Carol and Justus lock together. The dance slows to almost nothing. Justus rests his chin on Carol’s shoulder, mouth close to her ear. He whispers—too soft for anyone else—whatever he says makes Carol gasp, and her body go slack.

 

Pleased with her reaction, Justus grins, lets Carol dangle in his arms. And drags her upright and backs her up to the wall, warrior armor scraping the paint. Carol sags, lets herself get pinned.

 

At this moment, Wesley’s hand twitches, and he wants to intervene. But Justus’s body blocks every path. That smile never softens. It only dares Wesley to “do something about it.”

 

 

The silence breaks into ugly little pieces. The music can’t hide it. Wesley jerks forward—he can’t watch another second. Carol’s hem hikes higher every minute, her breath short, hands trembling over Justus’s flexed arms.

 

First, Wesley grabs the witch hat, yanks it up, and tries to wedge himself between Carol and Justus.

 

“Let her go. Okay? You—you’ve made your point.” The words come out cracked, one octave too high, but Wesley stands his ground.

 

Justus doesn’t flinch. Spinning Carol up and away makes her skirt flare like a black waterfall, and tucks her behind his shield arm. No hesitation. The space between them vanishes. And Justus blocks every angle, body turned so wide Wesley can’t see around him. Carol teeters, breathless, caught between the two men.

 

The gold on Justus’s costume pops in the poor party lighting. Every strap on his chest tenses up, like his clothes side with him. Justus leans in, jaw set, only a fraction taller than Wesley, but he uses every inch.

 

“She’s enjoying herself,” Justus says. Voice soft as a threat. Wesley tries to push back, but Justus meets him head-on. Leather creaks. Nothing gives.

 

Palms out, Wesley’s hands shoot up, but his eyes lose the fight before it starts. Carol peeks over Justus’s shoulder, eyes wide, pulse visible on her neck. She doesn’t speak, not to Wesley.

 

On the couch, Lisa slumps against Elijah—open, limp, her rucked-up hem to her waist. Elijah cups the back of her thigh, thumb drawing slow circles, never letting Stan out of his sight.

 

Stan can’t hold back anymore. He slams the cape off his shoulders, fangs clattering to the floor, and plants himself in front of Elijah. “Enough. You need to back off, now. Lisa’s with me.”

 

Pressure buzzes in his voice. Wants to sound mean, but the heat in his throat cracks every word. Balling his fists, he refuses to look at Lisa’s legs—exposed, inviting, not his anymore.

 

Elijah doesn’t move. He stretches, careful, unfolding upright until he towers over Stan. The gold in his skin picks up every ember of fake candlelight. Lips curl, and he drops his voice to a gravel-filled rumble.

 

“White boy, she doesn’t mind. Matter of fact, watch and learn, boy.”

 

He leans in, chest to chest with Stan now, with only the drink table between them. The taste of blood mixes with panic as Stan bites down on his tongue. Can’t bring himself to look away from Lisa’s flushed face, her hand clamped on Elijah’s wrist.

 

Elijah never blinks. His eyes drill through Stan’s confidence, dig up every old fear. Lisa watches the standoff, but her eyes don’t plead—they beg for the next move.

 

Wesley bounces to Stan’s side. Tries to puff up next to him, fists balled tight, chin high. Together, they try to be the hosts again. But Justus steps in before the pose can hold.

 

With muscles tense under the leather and brass, Justus blocks them both with his body.