Work Text:
Paris
Paris hums electric. The black car threads through narrow streets washed in honeyed light, the skyline cut by church spires and Haussmannian buildings. From the open window comes the city’s pulse, scooters darting between cars, voices spilling from cafés, a siren rising and falling somewhere far off, that sharp, melodic wail that sounds different here, almost romantic.
Astoria’s asleep, cheek pressed to the glass, hair glowing in the last light. Julie’s got her legs draped over Pansy’s lap, scrolling through photos and laughing loudly. Daphne sits beside you, sunglasses still on, legs crossed, humming one of Theo’s songs under her breath, that slow, dirty one that still makes your pulse skip.
And Pansy, Merlin, Pansy’s being Pansy.
She’s behind the driver, leaning in so close her lips nearly graze his ear, her voice like velvet, her French flawless.
“Tournez à gauche, mon cœur… doucement.”
He nods, starts to turn left like she asked, but then her fingers brush the back of his neck, and he jerks the wheel, nearly plowing into a row of parked scooters.
He stammers an apology. Julie howls with laughter.
“She said gently! You’re going to kill us, mon ange!” she yells.
Pansy just grins, lips painted the color of sin, fingers tracing the leather near his shoulder like she’s blessing him. “He’s fine,” she purrs, “aren’t you, darling?”
The driver’s hands tighten on the wheel. He nods, helpless, eyes darting to the rearview and for a moment, they meet yours. He’s young, cute, with dark curls and that soft Parisian accent that makes even traffic sound like foreplay.
“Stop torturing the poor guy!” you call, laughing.
He exhales in relief. “We’ve arrived, mademoiselles.”
The car turns down a quiet street in the 7th arrondissement, lined with sycamores, the first shadows of evening stretching across the cobblestones. Behind the wrought-iron gate, Draco’s townhouse glows, pale stone, tall windows catching the last of the sunset. The moment the wheels stop, the doors fly open and the five of you spill out like champagne overflow, laughter, heels, perfume, noise.
Pansy is the first to thank the poor driver with a wink and a kiss that makes him drop one of the bags. Julie’s doubled over laughing. Daphne’s trying to corral everyone. The air carries a hint of rain and magnolia, warm against your skin.
By the time you reach the front steps, a small elf is waiting, pressed shirt, silver buttons, perfectly polite.
“Bienvenue, mademoiselles. Master Draco will be—”
“Here,” comes the voice from above.
He’s halfway down the stairs, barefoot, hair still damp, tugging a black shirt over his shoulders. The fabric catches for a moment, revealing ink along his ribs and the edge of a rune curling around his hip.
The sight stops the chaos for half a heartbeat.
Then Pansy whistles. “Merlin, Malfoy, you auditioning?”
He laughs, low, unbothered, finishing the buttons as the girls surge past him in a blur of heels and laughter, leaving a trail of bags and coats for the bewildered elf.
“Upstairs, same rooms as last time,” he calls after them. “Don’t break anything expensive.”
Draco finally turns to you, the noise fading behind him, and the corners of his mouth tilt just slightly.
“You made it.”
You’re still laughing when you turn to him. “Hey, Malfoy.”
He bends slightly so you can kiss his cheek, the heat of him smells faintly of soap.
“This place is gorgeous,” you say, sweeping a look around the entryway, marble, gold light, everything humming with quiet money.
Draco smiles the way he does when he’s pleased but pretending not to be. “Paris looks good on you lot. Come on, before they drink my cellar dry.”
He takes Julie’s bag in one hand and gestures you both toward the stairs. Above you, the others are already shouting, Pansy calling for champagne, Daphne scolding Astoria about a dress, as he leads you through the tall corridor lined with old portraits.
Julie’s room is on the second floor, all velvet curtains and balcony light. Draco opens the door with a little bow.
“For you, ma belle,” he says, mock-serious.
Julie grins, delighted, as she steps inside.
Then he glances back at you.
“Yours is upstairs in the mansard suite. Figured you’d want the quiet.”
You follow him up the narrow staircase. The air is warmer here, tinged with cologne and leather. When he opens the door, you don’t need to ask whose room it is.
Theo’s things are scattered in that familiar, careless way, boots kicked off by the bed, one on its side. A notebook lies open on the desk, half a verse scrawled across the page in his heavy hand. One of his silver rings rests on the nightstand beside a vase of your favorite flowers, their petals still dewy, as if someone had just arranged them.
On the bed, folded neatly against the pillow, is a handwritten note. His handwriting, messy, impatient, across the page in dark ink, edges smudged where his thumb must’ve pressed too hard. The paper smells faintly of him, sandalwood, smoke and something uniquely Theo.
Welcome to Paris, love.
Room felt cold without you. I’ll be at the venue all day. Please come to soundcheck later and sit where I can see you.
Shirt on the chair’s mine, wear it if you want. The ring on the nightstand’s yours if you want it.
The rest of me is, too.
—Your Theo
You sit for a moment, breathing it all in. The room feels lived in by him, claimed, and by extension, already yours.
You pull the shirt over your head. It’s soft, oversized, worn thin in all the right places, draping low over bare legs. Nothing underneath but a short black skirt that clings to your thighs when you move. The silver ring catches the light on your middle finger, heavy and deliberate. Not what you’ll wear tonight, Pansy’s already made sure of that.
This is what he left you.
And if he wanted you to behave… he should’ve left something else.
Blaise meets you at the side door of the venue, phone pressed to his ear, his gaze raking over you once, then again, slower the second time. A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, sharp and knowing.
“He’s been impossible all day,” he murmurs, voice dipped in fondness. “Go on in, love. Just… don’t trip over any wires.”
He jerks his chin toward the stage and steps back into his call, but he’s still grinning as he walks away.
You follow the pulse of the bass through the dark corridor, boots echoing softly, hips loose, heart already quickening.
The hall opens into the venue, dark, hot, alive with scattered voices and half-finished sound.
Mattheo’s at the drum kit, twirling a stick, tapping out something impatient and fast. Luca’s crouched near the monitors, cigarette tucked behind his ear, muttering about feedback. The tech’s voice cuts through the speakers: “Again from the top.”
And then there’s Theo.
Center stage. Back turned. Shirt clinging to his spine, shoulders flexing as he adjusts the mic stand. His curls are damp, sticking to the back of his neck. One hand pushes through them like he’s working out a thought he can’t shake.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
But your skin’s already buzzing.
It’s not just the sound.
It’s the way he owns the air.
That easy, fuck-you confidence of someone who knows exactly what he does to a room. Like gravity was made for him. He pushes a hand through his curls, glances sideways at Mattheo, says something that makes the whole band crack up.
Even from across the venue, you feel it. That hum beneath your skin. That ache that whispers, every girl in the crowd is going to want him tonight. And the smug little thrill that comes with knowing he’s already yours.
You lean back against the wall, letting the bass crawl up your legs. The sound vibrates in your chest, through your ribs. It’s all real now, the late-night calls, the scribbled lyrics, the I-can’t-sleep-until-it’s-right madness in his voice when he’d said I need this one to matter.
He turns.
Sees you.
And just like that, the air shifts.
His grin is instant, like you’ve just lit a fuse. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t hesitate. He hops off the stage in one fluid motion, Converse thudding against the floor, and he’s on you in a few long strides.
Hands grip your waist, firm and certain, and suddenly the ground’s gone, he lifts you like it’s nothing, like he likes the way you gasp and grab at his shoulders.
You laugh, startled, legs swinging as he spins you once. The air smells like sweat and stage dust and him, and when he kisses you, it’s hot, fast, filthy with intention. A kiss that tastes like everything he hasn’t said in days.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against your neck, voice dark and low.
“Told you to sit where I could see you.”
The others erupt, hooting, whistling, Mattheo slamming a cymbal for dramatic effect. Luca lets out a long whistle through his fingers. Someone shouts, “Save it for after the show!”
Theo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look back.
His hand lingers on your waist for one more slow, possessive second, his thumb dragging lightly against skin, right where the hem of his shirt meets your skirt. Then he’s gone again, striding back onstage like he didn’t just undo you in under thirty seconds.
He slides his guitar strap over his shoulder, head ducked toward the sound tech, mouth still curved in that grin, the one that promises he’s not done with you yet.
Then he shifts. He’s in work mode now, shoulders back, jaw set, all business. The smile fades, but the heat lingers in his eyes when he glances your way.
A crew member pulls a chair beside the soundboard and you drop into it, pulse still tripping over itself. From here, you watch him take the room.
Every cue, every note, every low word is delivered with that easy confidence he wears like second skin. Theo doesn’t bark orders, he guides them, leads with his presence alone.
Mattheo falls into rhythm without needing to be told, spinning his drumsticks once before snapping into a tight, effortless beat. Luca fiddles with his amp, plucks a few deep notes, adjusts again until the bass hum settles low and steady. Miles tests his pedalboard, hair falling into his face as he runs a finger across the strings.
Theo steps to the mic. “Check, one, two.”
His voice is low, rough, and somehow even that sounds indecent.
They run through half a song, tight, explosive, alive. It stops and starts as they fix timing, lighting, levels, all the small things no one in the audience would ever notice. But Theo does. He hears everything. Notices everything.
He paces the edge of the stage, guitar hanging low, fingers restless. His lips are pressed tight in focus, eyes flicking from one bandmate to the next, always attuned, always in control.
You’ve seen him like this before, late nights, tiny rehearsal rooms, cracked amps and takeaway boxes stacked in the corner. But not like this.
Not with the lights catching on his sweat-slick skin.
Not with his voice echoing through the rafters.
Not with every part of him alive and sure of himself.
When the final chord hits and fades, the tech’s voice crackles through the monitor.
“That’s it. We’re good for tonight.”
Cheers go up, laughter, the metallic clatter of stands being lowered and instruments packed away. The room feels lighter suddenly, all that pressure breaking into relief. Mattheo tosses a bottle of water toward Theo, who catches it one-handed.
“We’ve got a few hours before doors,” Blaise calls out. “Food, showers, and then we’re back here for The Prophet Underground interview.”
The name makes it real.
Not just another night.
The start of something big.
Theo hops down from the stage again, dragging his shirt over his head and wiping the sweat from his chest before tossing it aside. And yeah, you catch the way his eyes flick to you after, darker now, pupils blown.
His shirt, draped over your bare skin, that skirt clinging to your thighs?
It’s driving him crazy.
“Come on,” he says, voice rough and low, meant only for you. “We’ve got time before the chaos starts.”
He takes your hand. And for a moment, before the press, the lights, the fans, before the world claims him again, it’s just you.
The last of the crew filters out, voices fading down the hall until it’s just you two in the empty venue. The stage lights have been dimmed, only a few still humming, leaving shadows stretching over stacks of amps and scattered instruments. Cords coiled on the floor, the whole place smelling faintly of dust, smoke, and sweat.
He pulls you into a dark corner behind a row of flight cases, his mouth already on yours, hot, hungry, impatient.
You laugh against him, trying to whisper “someone could come back,” but he just bites your bottom lip, breath warm against your mouth.
“Let them,” he mutters, voice thick and gravel-rough. “I want you now.”
The kiss deepens, messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and need. He presses you back against the cold metal case, hands already on you, everywhere at once, cupping your ass, sliding up under the hem of his shirt, finding nothing underneath.
His fingers are rough, impatient, hungry.
You gasp when he grinds against you, cock hard through his jeans, pushing into you just enough to make your stomach clench and your legs tremble.
“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and shaky. “I think about this all the time, you know that? You—falling apart for me.”
One hand curls tighter around your thigh, the other slides higher under the shirt, and he groans low in his throat as his fingers find your breast, bare, soft, waiting.
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he growls. “Wearing this… fuck… nothing else?”
His thumb brushes your nipple, and your knees nearly give out.
Then his hand slips lower, up your inner thigh, and he freezes.
Eyes snap to yours.
“You’re not wearing…” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head.
A slow, wicked little smirk pulling at your lips.
“Oops.”
His hand tightens. Hard. And he swears under his breath, a filthy, guttural sound, and then he laughs, low, dangerous, completely undone.
“Fucking hell, baby,” he groans. Nips at your jaw. “You really thought I was just gonna let you sit there looking like that?”
You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “I thought you’d be a good boy.”
And that’s it. He loses it, mouth crashing into yours, rougher this time, hungrier. In one swift motion, he grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you clean off the ground, pressing you back against the flight case as your legs wrap tight around his waist. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, rough and open-mouthed, his body pinning you there like gravity doesn’t apply when it comes to you.
His hands fumble at his jeans, one knee bracing between your thighs, and you feel the sound of the zipper like a punch to your gut. He yanks them down just enough.
His muscles flexing under the dim lights, arms wrapped tight around you. The tattoos across his chest and arms shift with every movement, dark and twisting. His curls fall into his eyes, damp with sweat, as he looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world worth burning for.
You feel the hot press of his cock against your clit, thick, pulsing, shameless in how he grinds against you first. Slow. Deliberate. He drags the full length of himself over where you're already aching, again, again, until your breath stutters and your nails dig into his back. He groans at the way your body moves, just to chase the friction.
Then, finally, he pushes in. One hard, greedy thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.
He sinks deep, smooth, and stays there, buried to the hilt, his grip tightening as you arch into him, clutching him like you're afraid to let go.
You cry out, hand clutching at his shoulder, nails dragging across sweat-slick skin. His mouth finds your neck, your jaw, muttering low curses between kisses as he drives into you again and again, fucking you like he’s claiming every part you left bare for him.
“Every night,” he growls against your throat, “I’ve dreamed of this… of you, dripping down my cock.”
Your head falls back against the case, breath catching, whispering his name as he grinds deeper. He hits that spot that makes your thighs tremble around him, again, again, again.
His thumb circles your clit. Slow at first, tight, precise circles. Your body jolts. He watches every reaction, eyes locked on yours, lips parted, jaw tight.
Every twitch, every moan, every gasp, it’s winding him tighter.
“You think I can come without this?” he growls. “Without hearing you?”
You roll your hips, grinding down on him, and his head drops back with a curse. He looks wrecked, undone, and it makes you move harder, chasing the sound. His hand snaps to your jaw, fingers gripping, tilting your face to his.
“Look at me.”
His voice is a command. Ragged. Desperate.
“I want to see you when you come.”
The pressure builds fast. You’re clenching around him, legs shaking, heat building until you’re right there on the edge.
He thrusts up hard, dragging a cry from your throat.
“Fuck, that’s it… baby, yes, yes—” the cases rattle behind you.
You shatter.
Your body locks around him, spasming, gasping, mouth open but no sound left in you. He feels you and that’s all it takes.
Theo loses it, breaks with a guttural groan. He spills inside you with a final thrust, hips pressed tight, forehead to yours, clutching you against him as if you’re the only thing holding him together.
The air is thick with heat and sweat and the ghost of your cries.
And for a long moment, there’s nothing but panting. The low hum of a forgotten speaker still buzzing somewhere in the dark.
He keeps his hand at your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, grounding you.
Then he kisses you soft, slow.
“Tonight’s yours,” he whispers. Still catching his breath. Still inside you. “You hear me? Everything… for you.”
You whimper, “Theo…”
Your hand slides to his cheek, cupping it, thumb brushing along the curve of his jaw. “I know,” you murmur, breathless but certain. “And I’m so fucking proud of you.”
You kiss him.
Soft. Deep. A kiss that lingers like a vow.
He exhales into it like it’s the only thing holding him together.
You let your fingers trail down the sweat along his spine, the dip of his lower back, the tattoo across his ribs that you love, then sigh against his mouth.
“I should go,” you whisper.
You don’t move.
Theo groans like the idea physically pains him. “Stay five more minutes.”
You smile, brushing a hand through his hair. “You’ve got an interview. Eat something. Get ready.”
He exhales hard, pulling back just enough to look at you. Skin flushed, curls a mess. Utterly ruined. But his eyes, gods, his eyes hold nothing but softness.
One more kiss, lingering just a second too long and then he lowers you gently to the ground, your legs still unsteady as you cling to his shoulders.
Before you can adjust your skirt, he reaches for his wand.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, and you feel the flick of magic sweep between your thighs.
“Can’t send you out dripping with me,” he mutters, voice rough. “Even if I want to.”
Your breath catches.
Then his hands are back on you, gently straightening your skirt, adjusting his shirt on your body. His thumb traces just beneath your bottom lip, still swollen from his kiss.
“Too pretty to let you walk out looking fucked,” he says.
You roll your eyes, flushed and wrecked, and start toward the hallway, his warmth still clinging to your skin. You feel his gaze follow every step until the second you disappear around the corner.
You Apparate into Draco’s with a soft crack and the unmistakable hum of music already vibrating through the walls.
It’s chaos. Beautiful, glittering chaos.
You head upstairs toward the guest rooms, boots echoing on polished floors. The doors are all open, of course they are. Makeup strewn across vanities. Wardrobes hanging off chair backs. The scent of perfume thick in the air.
Julie’s in a silk robe, hair half-straightened, makeup done. “Where the fuck have you been?” she yells, spotting you. “You look wrecked, and also unfairly glowy, bitch.”
“Shower!” Pansy calls from the hall, strutting past in a towel and dripping body oil. “Did you ride him on the that stage? Just say yes, we’ll respect you more.”
Astoria leans against a doorframe, glass of champagne in hand, already dressed to kill. She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “You’ve got forty-five minutes. Tick-tock.”
Daphne’s on the floor, legs in the air, trying to zip one of her boots. “We picked your dress already. Pansy says you don’t get a say.”
You laugh, breathless, pulse still misfiring from Theo’s voice in your ear.
“I need ten seconds to breathe,” you say.
“No time,” Pansy sing-songs from her room. “You’ve got five to shower and forty to let me ruin your life with hair and makeup.”
Julie waves you toward the bedroom without looking up from her makeup mirror. “Your dress is on the bed and there’s a little something extra in the bag. You’re welcome.”
You duck into her bathroom to shower, still feeling Theo between your legs. The moment the door shuts, you peel off his shirt and toss it over the counter, heat blooming in your cheeks.
In the bag, a tiny lace thong and a matching bra that might as well be decorative. Julie’s doing God’s work.
Your phone buzzes on the counter as steam begins to curl around the mirror.
Theo: You naked yet? I’m picturing you wet, dripping, thinking about how I’d have you on your knees if I was there.
You bite your lip, grinning like a deviant, and snap a photo, bare, defiant, middle finger up.
You: Video next, or do I make you wait?
Another buzz, but you’re already stepping under the water, still grinning as it scalds your skin. I’ll make him wait.
You don’t rush. Let it run over you, washing away the sweat, the ache, the sound of your own moans echoing off the flight cases.
When you step out, you slip into the lingerie, black and sheer and entirely indecent. Then you open the bathroom door, water still dripping from your hair.
Pansy’s sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of rosé and zero shame.
She raises a brow. Smirks.
“I knew that set was perfect.”
Forty minutes later, the bedroom looks like a battlefield of silk, lip gloss tubes, and scattered heels. Champagne everywhere. Glitter in the air. Heat in your veins. The air smells like perfume, weed, and bad decisions.
Julie’s lining her lips in the mirror, dancing with her champagne glass in hand. Daphne zips you into the dress, black silk, backless, thigh-high slit. Pansy’s draped across the bed already a few drinks in. Astoria’s dressed, lounging legs crossed, idly scrolling through her phone.
There’s music blasting from someone’s speaker. A beat that rattles your ribcage and makes everything feel loose.
Someone hands you a joint. Daphne’s lighting a second one. Pansy’s spraying you with perfume, something dark and expensive.
You’re adjusting your heel strap when the door slams open.
“Time’s up,” Draco says.
He’s in all black, shirt unbuttoned just enough, sleeves rolled. Hair a little messy, jaw tight.
“You have thirty seconds to be in the car or I’m locking the fucking door.”
No one moves.
Draco sighs. Loudly. Dramatically. Swipes Daphne’s drink and downs it. He walks in, kisses Astoria on the cheek like she’s the only sane one here, then marches to you.
“You.” He drapes the coat over your shoulders. “Come on.”
His eyes drag down your dress.
He herds you all out of the room with the energy of a man who’s so used to this it physically hurts. He’s dragging Astoria by the wrist, shouting for Pansy to put the joint out.
By the time you reach the stairs, you’re laughing so hard your ribs ache.
The car is waiting at the curb. Black, sleek, and ready to burn.
As you’re stepping in, Draco tugs your hand and lowers his voice.
“You walk in like that?” He pauses. Smirks. “You’ll break him.”
You wink. “That’s the plan.”
The venue hits like a thunderclap, lights flashing, bass vibrating through the car before the doors even open. People are lined up outside in short skirts and wide eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse.
When the car stops, the driver doesn’t even get a chance to open the door.
It swings open, and there he is.
Blaise. Dressed in head-to-toe black. Security detail behind him. Phone in one hand. A smirk that could ruin someone’s life.
“Well, fuck me,” he drawls, eyes dragging slowly over all of you before landing on you last. He whistles, low and appreciative.
He offers a hand, and you take it.
“Come on, vipers,” Blaise says. “Time to set the place on fire.”
Security parts the crowd like a knife, and you move through it like a storm in heels.
People stare, of course they do. Seven of you, backlit by the venue glow, dressed like sin and carved from gold. The energy shifts around you. Hunger. Jealousy. Awe.
You’re led to the front, behind the low security rail where only you belong.
The lights drop.
The scream of the crowd is immediate, feral, explosive, bodies surging forward in the dark. For a moment, you can’t see anything, just a sea of hands and flashing lights and heat.
Then the stage hums.
A low, vibrating sound. Almost a purr.
Smoke begins to spill out across the floor, thick, white, laced with red and violet lights pulsing beneath it like something alive.
A single spotlight hits the mic stand.
Then another on the drums.
Then the bass.
Then nothing.
The crowd holds its breath.
And—
Boom.
The lights ignite.
The crowd explodes.
Sound hits like a shockwave, Mattheo’s drums pounding like war, Miles tearing through the first riff like he’s summoning demons, Luca grounding it all with a bassline that thrums straight through your ribs.
And then, Theo steps forward.
The spotlight curves around him, catching the sweat just beginning to glisten along his collarbones. His shirt is undone just enough to show the ink sprawling across his chest. His guitar low at his hips. He’s a in black, sharp, magnetic, utterly untouchable.
Until he looks at you.
Eyes lock. Everything else blurs.
He doesn’t smile. Not really. Just that slight tilt of the mouth, the one he gives you when he’s about to ruin you.
Then he leans into the mic.
“Bonsoir, Paris. Êtes-vous prêt?” he says, voice low and slow in perfect French.
The crowd loses its mind.
They’re ready.
You feel Julie’s nails dig into your arm, the girls shrieking behind you.
But Theo? He’s still only looking at you.
He drops to his knees at the front of the stage, guitar solo ripping behind him, and sings the bridge like a confession. Eyes blown wide, jaw clenched, mouth brushing the mic like he’s whispering it into your skin.
You’re breathless.
Utterly wrecked.
And he hasn’t even touched you.
The song crashes to its final chorus, and when he finally throws his head back to let the last lyric fly, gods, it sounds like release. Like he’s chasing something he can’t have. Like he’s already gone.
When the lights flicker and fade, and the roar of the crowd takes over again, he’s still standing there, chest heaving, mouth parted.
And for a moment, it’s just you and him and every word he didn’t say written in sweat and sound.
The lights slam harder now, gold, white, and then a flash of green, venomous and wild. Red spills across the smoke like blood in water.
Theo is unhinged.
Shirt hanging open, soaked with sweat, clinging to ink and muscle. His curls are a mess, sticking to his forehead as he bends into the mic, hips rolling with each brutal strum like he’s dragging the sound straight from his bones. He’s not just playing the song. He’s bleeding it.
Mattheo flanks him, shirtless, hair whipping, drumsticks a blur. He’s grinning like he lit the fuse himself, like he wants the place to burn.
The band is locked in, tighter and louder than ever. The sound is huge. Ruthless. It’s the kind of noise that lives in your chest, vibrating through every nerve. You know it’s the final song. You feel it. They’re not finishing. They’re detonating.
The crowd is a beast, screaming, thrashing, girls pushing forward, arms reaching for the stage like it might save them or destroy them.
You’re right there at the front, tangled with the girls, breathless and wrecked. Glitter streaked down your cheek. Sweat slick on your skin. Your voice is gone, throat raw from singing every lyric.
Julie’s beside you, howling, eyes full of light and wickedness, absolutely feral every time Mattheo cracks a snare.
Pansy’s got one arm around Daphne’s shoulder, the other in the air, mouthing every lyric like a curse she cast herself.
Daphne’s laughing, flushed, dancing like her drink never spilled, hips rolling, body golden under the lights.
Astoria’s pressed close to Draco, his arms around her waist, the two of them moving slow and hypnotic in the chaos.
And Blaise, the most composed of you all, still manages to look like sin in motion. Flask in one hand, the other casually riding Daphne’s hip. Shoulder to shoulder with Draco. Jaw tight. Head nodding to the beat like it belongs to him.
You’re all in it. Drenched in noise and light and heat.
A knot of limbs. A kingdom of chaos.
Tonight, your crew, rules it.
And up on stage, Theo finds you again.
Even in the noise. Even under the lights.
His eyes pin you in place like he could pull you up there with just a look.
You feel it every time.
Like a hand sliding up your thigh.
Then someone shouts.
Too close. Too loud.
French-accented and shrill.
You turn.
Her. Again.
Tall. Glossy. Drunk. She’s laughing with her friends, climbing onto the barrier like it was built for her. She’s been trying all night, yelling Theo’s name, waving her arms like she’s the star of the show.
And now? She’s pulled her top down.
Bouncing on her toes. Screaming.
Pansy watches with a cold, venomous smile. "She’s about two seconds from getting her jaw rewired.”
Julie clocks it too, glancing your way. You try to laugh, to look away, to pretend it’s nothing.
But you feel it, that twist, that familiar ache behind your ribs. Anger creeping up your spine.
Julie leans in close, her voice low and grounding. “Hey. Eyes on him, not her. He hasn’t stopped looking at you. She doesn’t even exist.”
You nod.
Try to ignore it.
But the girl keeps going, louder, sharper, desperate to be noticed. And then she reaches under her skirt, yanks down her underwear, and flings it onstage.
“Je vais le baiser ce soir!” she screams, locking eyes with you, smiling like she’s won.
You all stop and turn. You may not be fluent anymore.
You know exactly what I’m going to fuck him tonight fucking sounds like.
Your vision goes white.
You don’t move, but Pansy does.
She takes one step forward, and spits venom with perfect Parisian bite.
“C’est sa meuf, connasse. Recule avant que je t’éclate.”
The girl just laughs, eyes glassy, mouth twisted. She couldn’t care less that you’re his. And she isn’t backing off.
She smirks. Doesn’t move. Says something in French you don’t catch.
You’re about to lunge, but Julie moves first.
Punches her, clean, hard, right to her mouth.
Chaos detonates.
The girl shrieks and lunges. One of her friends grabs Julie’s hair. And then Pansy’s there, wild-eyed, nails out and screaming in French so filthy even Draco flinches. The crowd erupts.
You push forward, try to get to Julie, but someone elbows you hard. Your head snaps back. Pain cracks across your face as your nose takes the hit.
You’re seeing stars. Blood floods your mouth.
The music falters. But doesn’t stop.
Theo’s voice chokes off mid-lyric. His guitar drops out.
He sees you.
His eyes go wide, wild, and he takes a step forward, muscles coiling like he’s about to leap off the stage when—
“Keep playing!” Blaise cuts through the noise like a blade, appearing in front of you, both hands up. “I’ve got her!”
Mattheo’s still playing, now standing, watching, shoulders tense. The rhythm holds, barely, as Theo falters, caught between the mic and you.
He’s torn, eyes darting between Blaise and you, blood running from your nose as you shake your head, mouthing over and over “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m sorry.”
He holds your gaze, jaw clenched, then turns, roars into the mic, and slams back into the music. It’s angrier now. Faster. Violent and precise. Sweat and rage and blood and you.
His voice isn’t singing, it’s bleeding.
Draco grabs Pansy from behind, arms around her waist, dragging her back as she kicks and screams, hurling insults that make the crowd gasp. Blaise has Julie now, his grip locked around her arms, voice low and lethal in her ear as she thrashes and spits blood down her chin.
Then he turns to you. Eyes scanning your face. Your nose. The blood.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Alright. Come on.”
He hands you off to Daphne and Astoria, one on each side, your nose throbbing, face smeared with blood and glitter dragging you toward the exit as the pit roars around you. Blaise hauls Julie up and throws her over his shoulder like it’s nothing.
Security floods the floor. The French girls are screaming, cursing, kicking as they’re dragged off, one still reaching toward the stage, clawing through the air like she thinks she belongs there.
And Theo is still onstage, playing like a storm, like a god, like he’s trying to burn your name into every note.
Like he’s playing just for you.
The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the roar of the crowd like a guillotine.
Silence crashes in, thick, heavy, still vibrating with echoes of screaming fans and the sound of Theo’s voice bleeding through the concrete walls.
The hallway smells like metal, smoke, and adrenaline.
Blaise sets Julie down carefully on the bench outside the greenroom. Her lip is split, blood glinting at the corner of her mouth, and there’s a red bloom under one eye where she’s already starting to bruise.
“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters, brushing her hair back, checking her jaw with two fingers.
Julie grins through the blood. “You say that like it’s new.”
He just huffs, presses his flask to her lips. “Drink this, Rocky.”
Then he winks, teasing, just enough to make her grin wider despite the pain.
You’re still swaying, breath shallow, blood drying on your lips.
Draco catches you before you can stumble, sets you down beside Julie. Hands firm around your waist, then sliding up to cradle your face with surprising gentleness.
“Let me see,” he says, already pulling his wand.
You flinch as he tilts your chin up, but his touch stays featherlight.
“Hold still, Love.”
A murmured spell. A warm, sharp pulse of magic. The pain blinks out like a light being switched off. You feel the cartilage shift, the blood clean itself, the crack in your nose smoothing under his palm.
When he’s done, he doesn’t let go. Just stares at you, thumb brushing a smear of glitter off your cheekbone.
“Still gorgeous,” he says softly.
You let out a laugh, raw, shaky. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts to smile.”
Across from you, Pansy’s perched on a bench, legs crossed, cigarette already lit. One hand holds a bloody tissue to her cheek. Smoke spills from her mouth like a spell.
“She was lucky I didn’t stab her,” she says coolly, completely unbothered.
Astoria gasps. “I broke a nail!”
Pansy rolls her eyes. “Oh, the horror.”
“You don’t understand,” Astoria whines. “It’s gel.”
Daphne snorts. “Tragic. Truly. Should we call St. Mungo’s?”
Pansy flicks ash onto the floor. “Call my stylist.”
Draco sighs like a man burdened. “You’re all children.”
“You love it,” Pansy purrs, exhaling smoke.
He doesn’t deny it.
Blaise catches your eye across the room, half-smile tugging his mouth as Julie takes another swig. “You good?”
“She’s fine,” Julie says, reaching for your hand, fingers lacing with yours like it’s second nature. “But I expect applause next time.”
“Next time I’m selling tickets,” Blaise jokes.
“Yeah,” you say, sure. “She’s got me.”
Blaise laughs, shaking his head, but you catch the flicker of real relief behind it.
Draco tucks a stray strand behind your ear, pulls a clean handkerchief from his pocket, and blots the last streak of blood from your collarbone.
Blaise gives a nod toward the door. “Take them to the Bastille. Get them cleaned up before someone sets another bitch on fire.”
We all laugh, breathless, still riding the high.
“I’ll stay. Talk Theo down,” he adds. “We’ll meet you there.”
You catch his eye before he turns. “Blaise. Make sure he knows I’m okay.”
Something flickers in his expression, soft, serious beneath the smirk.
“I will,” he says. “Promise.”
No one argues. The girls are bruised, glitter-streaked, vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Draco’s already moving, gathering girls, pressing a hand to the small of your back.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “We’re done here.”
Pansy smirks, blowing out smoke in a slow curl. “You heard him, girls. Daddy says we’re leaving.”
Astoria gasps, scandalized and delighted. “Pansy!”
Daphne snorts. “Oh, please. You’ve been calling him that for weeks.”
Pansy grins wickedly. “Who hasn’t?”
Draco stops in his tracks. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Merlin help me.”
“You love us,” you say, brushing his arm as you pass.
He exhales through a laugh he’s clearly trying not to have. “Unfortunately.”
“Come on, I need a drink,” you say.
“Let’s go get fucked up, bitch.” Julie grins.
And with that, glitter still clinging to your skin, bruises blooming under the pulse of hallway lights, you follow your friends out the door like the victorious, feral little queens you are.
The car pulls up to Rue de la Roquette just as the street starts to throb with life.
It’s rowdy, electric, open doorways spilling music into the night, cigarette smoke curling through the air like a spell. Crowds surge between bars, groups shouting in French, heels clacking over cobblestones, hands tugging each other into the next drink, the next mistake.
Draco helps you out first, fingers ghosting over your waist again. You’re cleaned up now, mostly, a faint tenderness left where your nose throbbed.
Julie slides out next, her busted lip already fading under a soft healing charm, though the swelling will bloom violet by morning. She flicks her hair over her shoulder like she’s proud of it.
Pansy and Daphne emerge together, laughing at something dark and filthy in each other’s ears. Pansy’s face is touched up, but her eyes still burn from the fight. Astoria smooths her hair back, fussing over everyone like the calm after the storm.
“Alright,” Draco says, his voice cutting through the din like it always does. “Pick your poison.”
Julie grabs your hand, and takes off toward the nearest doorway pulsing with bass. The sign overhead is faded and crooked, glowing blood red. Le Cercueil.
“That’s a vampire bar,” Draco mutters, already following.
“It’s Paris,” Pansy shrugs. “We’re dressed for it.”
Inside, it’s dark and dense. Velvet booths, black chandeliers, and absinthe flowing like water. You down something green and burning, then something gold and sweet. The floor vibrates under your heels. The music is hot, fast, fast, faster.
Pansy presses something small into your palm with a wink.
“Tonight’s for chaos,” Pansy says, grinning.
You don’t ask what it is. You don’t care. You pop it on your tongue and chase it with Julie’s champagne.
Then you’re stumbling into the next bar.
Then another.
And another.
Each one is hotter.
Darker.
Louder.
The air hums with magic and sweat. Your skin sticks to itself in the best possible way.
Pansy dances on a table, cigarette between her teeth, her heels carving poetry into the wood.
Daphne kisses the bartender like it’s a dare. Astoria talks her way into a bottle of something expensive and French, doesn’t even need to speak the language.
Julie wraps an arm around your waist and spins you toward the bar, both of you flushed and glimmering, laughing like you own the night.
You lose count of the drinks.
You lose your voice screaming lyrics.
You lose time.
And you don’t care.
You’re high on adrenaline, on magic, on the sharp glittering edge of something dangerous and free. Everything you didn’t know you needed.
And then someone touches your wrist, fingers circling gently.
Draco.
“Blaise says they’re pulling up,” he murmurs against your ear.
You nod, your heart starting to pick up again.
A commotion near the entrance pulls your attention.
The band arrives in waves.
A cluster of them enters first, Luca and Miles, a few roadies trailing behind. The energy shifts as they walk in, still electric from the show but dressed down now. Clean, sharp. Mattheo’s in a faded vintage tee and rings on every finger, hair damp, curls pushed back. His eyes flick across the room, until he spots Julie.
He beelines, grin widening, bumping her shoulder as he passes, letting his fingers trail down her arm like a secret.
The others scatter, grabbing drinks, saying hello, slipping to the bar.
Then the door opens again.
Blaise steps in first. And behind him Theo.
Black from head to toe. No stage grime now, just a soft black tee that clings to him like a secret, dark slacks, boots. Clean. Expensive without trying. But his mouth is tight, his shoulders tense like he hasn’t unclenched since the show.
Until he sees you.
Everything in him softens, not all the way, but enough to breathe. Like the only thing he’s needed since stepping off stage was you.
You don’t move. You don’t have to.
He’s already crossing to you.
His hand finds your arm first, warm and steady.
“You alright?” His voice is low, roughened from the set, eyes searching your face like he’s still trying to find the blood.
“Draco healed it,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”
He nods, but the tension doesn’t leave him. Not yet.
“I wanted to come down the second I saw you get hit.”
“No, no. Really,” you say gently, fingers brushing his. “I’m fine.”
He lifts your chin. His thumb traces along your jaw, careful. You lean into his touch.
“Still hurts?”
You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Not when you look at me like that.”
A breath of a laugh escapes him. Just barely.
Then he leans in, and kisses you like he needs to feel that you’re okay.
Like you’re the only real thing in the room.
The world blurs around you, heat, lights, sound collapsing into pulse and skin. When he pulls back, he studies you again, closer this time.
“You’re high,” he murmurs amused.
You laugh, loose and glimmering. “Maybe a little.”
Theo huffs a laugh. The last of the tension rolls off his shoulders as he presses his forehead to yours.
“You’re glowing,” he says. “I can tell.”
“I feel… good,” you whisper.
His hand cups the back of your neck, steady, reverent.
“I’ll take care of you, baby,” he says, low and sure, no hint of worry left.
A few feet away, Blaise checks his watch, then leans in to murmur something to Draco. His voice is low but amused. “I’ve got to meet someone. Lets head to the next spot.”
Draco nods, already moving. He claps Theo on the back, then lifts his chin to the rest of the group, sharp and efficient. “Let’s go. We’re crawling, not nesting.”
A flurry of motion follows, Julie links arms with Pansy, Luca downs what’s left of his drink, Matty’s dragging Daphne away from the DJ booth with a grin and her middle finger raised. Miles is nowhere to be found until he suddenly is, appearing with two drinks and a wink. Astoria is already draped around Draco’s arm, head tilted as she murmurs something close to his ear that makes his mouth twitch in response. They move like they’ve done this a thousand times, sleek, practiced, dangerous.
Theo takes your hand, fingers laced tight as the group spills back onto the street in a tangle of laughter and glitter and limbs.
The next bar is tighter, louder, red lights bleeding down the walls, velvet and brick and sweat. Someone’s singing low over a dark beat, and the floor pulses with movement.
You barely make it ten steps inside before Theo’s hand finds your waist, greedy, certain.
“Dance with me.”
He pulls you in, flush to his body. Your breath stutters as his other hand slides low across your back, lips brushing your ear as he moves with you, syncing your hips to the rhythm. You let go. Let your hips roll with his, chest to chest, his breath hot against your throat.
The music throbs, thick and slow, pure pulse and heat, tangled in sweat and tension. His hands won’t stay still. They roam. Your hips. Your ass. Up your spine and into your hair, tugging until your head tips back, offering your neck.
He grinds into you, deliberate and deep, like he’s making a point.
The bass drops, low and filthy. Some song you don’t know, all rhythm and hunger.
Theo presses closer, breath brushing your ear, and starts to sing along, voice low and rough in your skin.
“You tell me you’re a good girl…”
His lips graze your neck like punctuation, his mouth so close it makes you shiver.
“But you don’t see the way you fuckin’ move, girl…”
He kisses the shell of your ear, humming the next line against it, like the lyrics were written for you, like he’s never letting you forget them.
You smile, wicked and breathless. “Yours.”
He growls low in your ear, kisses your throat, bites just enough to make you gasp. One hand snakes beneath the slit of your dress, fingers dragging slow and deliberate up your thigh until they find bare skin, and you melt into him like wax meeting flame.
No one’s watching. Or if they are, let them.
Across the room, Blaise lounges at the bar, a drink in one hand and his smile in the other, talking to a woman with olive skin and dark curls spilling down her back. Her dress clings to every curve, and her lips a berry-stained smirk. She catches your eye just as Theo’s mouth lands hot on your collarbone, and smiles like she’s been watching the whole damn show.
The music shifts, the tempo thickening. You feel it in your spine. A ripple of movement cuts through the crowd, and suddenly you hear your name, Julie’s voice, followed by Mattheo’s laugh and the unmistakable rasp of Draco saying something that makes the girls shriek.
You turn to see them weaving through the crowd, Julie leading the way, her arm slung around Pansy, both glittering like sin, Astoria and Daphne with Luca and Miles trailing after them, drinks in hand and eyes already scanning for mischief.
Draco catches your gaze and tips his chin, this way.
You take Theo’s hand and guide him towards them.
The booth near the back is half in shadow, half soaked in red light, already filled with laughter and limbs and too many legs tangled under the table. You slip in beside Julie, Theo pressing in close beside you.
Then Blaise appears, smooth as ever, a fresh drink in hand, and beside him, the woman from the bar.
“This is Paloma,” he says. “She’s… an old friend.”
She laughs, a sound like poured wine, her accent thick and sultry. “Oh, is that what I am?” She teases.
Her eyes find Theo. Linger. She raises her glass toward him with a smile that borders on reverent.
“You,” she says. “Your music… it’s resurrection. It stirs the spirits.”
Theo quirks a brow, amused. “You speak to the dead often?”
She smiles, slow and wicked. “Only when they answer.”
There’s something ancient in her tone, old blood, old rites.
“My family hosts a celebration,” she says, “Día de los Muertos, in Barcelona. We fill the streets with color, fire, ghosts, and memory. Music like yours?” She tilts her head. “It could raise the saints.”
Her gaze flicks to you, then back to him. “Come. All of you. We’ll give you a stage, a crowd, a reason.”
Theo glances at you, a flicker of surprise, of interest. You smile. A Barcelona invitation, wrapped in candlelight and spirits.
And Paloma just sits back, sips her wine, legs crossed, and watches the invitation settle into the air like smoke.