An All Hallows Moon, Tonight
To say that Sterling was not having a good night would have been the understatement of the year. It was a shame, because he usually did so appreciate the holiday; parties and costumes and candy and stiff drinks, what was not to like? Certainly, some costumes left much to be desired, but so did the fashion choices of the general public, so it was simply to be expected. However, tonight had gone nothing according to plan. He didn't know who he'd pissed off, but it seemed someone was out for revenge of the mystical sort. He'd felt a bit dizzy, out of it, like everything was being viewed through smoky glass. However, it wasn't until the dress that he'd realized just how out of it he was. Trying to fight it just made him feel worse; feverish, dizzy, like his skin wanted to crawl away from his body. His tattoos were lessening some of the effect, but whomever had cast this was powerful, and the hex seemed to be working itself up, if anything.
And that was why there was that rather insistent call to Rhys' phone, asking for his help with a hex. He gives him an address and he's sure he'll regret that part too, but probably not as much as he would ignoring the hex. Probably. He did his best to not sound overly worked up about it, trying to keep his breathing even, but he just knew this wasn't going to end well. He doesn't actually know magic himself; he's avoided even the simplest of things because he knows that would just make him more attractive to Crowley, and somehow anything the demon likes always feels like losing.
He's sitting on the bed, his small feet in black leather ankle boots with a steep heel, buttons up the side. His torso is laced tight into a Victorian corset, with a luxurious dress that fits him like a glove clinging to his skin. There are yards and yards of beautiful fabrics and they spill around him as he tries to catch his breath, stay still long enough for Rhys to get here. He doesn't want Rhys to see him like this, but he doesn't think he has a choice. It might be just embarrassing right now, but there's a razor's edge he can feel that says humiliation isn't the only end game here.
It would be easier to deal with this if there wasn't a repressed spark that liked it; the feel of the fabric, the cut of the dress, even the way the corset nipped in at his waist. He'd never told anyone; experimentation from when he'd been a teenager in London. Tht meant it was just coincidence, right? He wasn't so sure.
And that was why there was that rather insistent call to Rhys' phone, asking for his help with a hex. He gives him an address and he's sure he'll regret that part too, but probably not as much as he would ignoring the hex. Probably. He did his best to not sound overly worked up about it, trying to keep his breathing even, but he just knew this wasn't going to end well. He doesn't actually know magic himself; he's avoided even the simplest of things because he knows that would just make him more attractive to Crowley, and somehow anything the demon likes always feels like losing.
He's sitting on the bed, his small feet in black leather ankle boots with a steep heel, buttons up the side. His torso is laced tight into a Victorian corset, with a luxurious dress that fits him like a glove clinging to his skin. There are yards and yards of beautiful fabrics and they spill around him as he tries to catch his breath, stay still long enough for Rhys to get here. He doesn't want Rhys to see him like this, but he doesn't think he has a choice. It might be just embarrassing right now, but there's a razor's edge he can feel that says humiliation isn't the only end game here.
It would be easier to deal with this if there wasn't a repressed spark that liked it; the feel of the fabric, the cut of the dress, even the way the corset nipped in at his waist. He'd never told anyone; experimentation from when he'd been a teenager in London. Tht meant it was just coincidence, right? He wasn't so sure.