Strip clubs were always so full of the vices Constance was against—nudity, indecent "whores", and creepy old men who were bored with the wives they already had.

Michael couldn't care any less—he was sitting at the bar stationed near a long stage with poles being danced on by two gorgeous, half-naked brunettes. He already had two shots of jack in his system and was fully aware of his surroundings. Almost totally sober, one would say.

He wasn't hurt that Amy stood him up the night before—little did he know that she was busy doing other things. He didn't feel anything at all; no, couldn't feel anything at all.

Some of the exotic dancers had come up and offered a lap dance.

"No," he had said. So he was left to his own devices at the bar, wallowing in his thoughts and daydreams.

All the exotic dancers were gorgeous even with spray tans so intense they looked like they were jumped by a Dorito, or makeup so ghastly that it looked as though their face had been gang-raped by a box of Crayola crayons. Their bodies looked plastic with balloon-like breasts and behinds that looked like the front of a Nicki Minaj album. To Michael, that's all they were as they danced to Martin Garrix's Virus, spinning on poles in flexible positions before tearing off another garment on their bodies—just fake, shallow dolls.

Michael grew bored and glanced off into space before a particular dancer caught his eye. He stood up from the bar and took his shot glass with him, following his instincts to identify the dancer—her hair was piled up in tight blonde curls, and she seemed to have her back facing his direction. Michael knew that round behind from somewhere, and it was immediately confirmed when he saw the dancer look up at him as she dragged on a cigarette—it was Amy, dressed in an extremely revealing outfit consisting of a black and pink vertical-striped halter top with a matching set of cheeky panties. He gasped at how much her generous cleavage heaved over the top opening of the halter top, and when their eyes met, she seemed to be shocked.

"Michael?" she asked, noticing him from a few feet away as she was approached by him. When he came close enough, he held out a crisp, new twenty-dollar bill to her—she just shook her head and giggled.

"Girls have wanted to give me lap dances since I got here, but I want you to do it," Michael stated. "What's your…stripper name?"

"I don't have one yet," she answered, taking the bill. "It's my first night."

"I would never have guessed," he smirked, entering one of the back rooms with the gorgeous blonde he had been smitten with. She's a stripper, he thought, who ever could have guessed?

He was promptly pushed down in a plush, red velvet chair as Amy leaned down and put her hands gently on his thighs. Michael's olive-green eyes looked intense as he gazed at her, taking in the sight of her heavy makeup masking her beautiful face. As the faint sound of a heavy bass droned in the background, Amy swayed her scantily-clad lower body side to side, her black, thick eyelashes fluttering downward as she noticed a bump in the front of Michael's pants. She shook her head briskly and took her hands off his thighs, standing upright and teasingly emphasizing her cleavage.

"This is all you found for a job?" he asked finally, adjusting his hips in his seat so that the bulge in his pants wouldn't feel so uncomfortable.

"Well, ever since graduating, I've been trying to find a job," Amy explained. "Now that I'm not in San Fran anymore, I've been put in a position that I have to take anything I can get."

"Even this?" he asked, looking around the vicinity.

"Hell, why not? Might as well," Amy replied.

By now, she was hypnotizing Michael with her seductive movements as she propped one of her heeled feet on the arm of the plush chair. Without hesitation, he caressed up her smooth leg, admiring the curve of her shin tapered from her knee and curvaceous thigh as he slid his hand up higher. Amy just smirked, especially since with most guys she had slept with, only few of them had attempted to make advances toward her—Michael was different in an odd sort of way. Everytime he looked at her, Amy could feel her heart flutter from the butterflies crowding her stomach; yet something in his gaze and his behavior intimidated her.

"You must really love what you see," Amy snickered, her sapphire stare ridiculing him silently.

"Oh, I do," he replied. "I really do."

There was an awkward silence as Amy grinded her hips in time with the faint, heavy bass in the background. Then, he began to speak again.

"We were supposed to go out last night," he mentioned. Amy took her leg off the arm of the chair as raised her arms in the air, moving her body so she was sideways facing him. Her lower back arched outward to make her round buttocks prominent.

"I got caught up," the blonde witch told him vaguely.

"Hm," Michael grunted; his tone turned facetious. "I would have appreciated you telling me."

"Why should I have to?" Amy questioned.

SMACK!

"Ooh!" She felt one of his hands smack her butt cheek roughly, leaving a bright red handprint on her smooth skin. At the same time, the tingling sensation left over was masked by the feeling of him pulling her hips closer to him. When he slid his hands over her buttcheeks, she bucked her hips slightly and gasped.

"Because I say you do," Michael replied, biting his lip at the sight of her roundness in front of his face.

"Okay," Amy said, stopping her lap dance on Michael and standing upright with her hands on her hips. "Why do you act like I belong to you?"

"I think about you all the time, princess," he replied calmly. "I have a right to be worried."

"But you barely know me, and I barely know you," the witch sneered.

"That's a laugh," Michael replied. "You wanted to fuck on the first date."

Amy was so tempted to burn him, looking down at him with her beautiful eyes painted with cruelty. Gritting her teeth and taking a deep breath, she gave her response.

"You did, too. I wasn't the only one," she argued.

"I liked it a lot," Michael stated. "A little too much, maybe."

"That makes two of us," Amy retorted. "So think twice before you argue with me about something stupid."

"My grandmother always said to never argue with an angry woman," Michael said.

"I'm not angry," Amy said, hearing the song change in the background as she gazed straight down into his olive-colored eyes.

"Either way, you're fucking beautiful," Michael smirked. "You already know that, though."

"Well, watch out," Amy said, dropping a subtle hint of her witchhood. "Don't flatter yourself."

He suddenly became distracted by Amy undoing the back of her halter top before teasingly, slowly sliding it down her body. She made her cleavage bounce upward slightly, making Michael gasp with anticipation—by this point, he wanted nothing more than to pin her down and have his way with her; she had enticed him so much already.

"Don't fuck with my head, princess," he demanded. "Just take it off."

"There you go again," Amy snickered, arching an eyebrow upward. "Keep begging."

"I don't beg," Michael stated.

"Oh, please, spare me the bullshit," she replied snottily. "You're probably so backed up, all I'd need to say is 'titties' and you'd be creaming your pants."

Ziiiippppp…

Michael looked down to see that Amy had unzipped the fly of his jeans and reached in to gently massage and stroke his growing manhood, feeling it throb in her hand as he gasped. She felt his lips claiming hers in an unusually soft manner as her hand worked its magic on him, sending him into a controlled frenzy of lust and desire.

Meanwhile, Clara had been sitting up in her room completing the last of her weekend assignments, the first of the semester. Her laptop had been opened, and her fingers tapped across the keyboard rapidly in a hurry to complete what she had been doing. Her attention was caught when she heard the sound of light footsteps; Clara looked over at the ajar doorway to see Cordelia standing there, her chocolate-colored eyes curious and worried.

"What are you doing?" her adopted mother asked.

"Oh, just finishing this paper," Clara said, pushing back her raven black hair. "Three more paragraphs left."

Her clear blue eyes glanced over at the digital clock on the screen—it read 11:23 PM.

"Did Amy talk to you before she left?" Cordelia asked.

"Barely." There was a brief pause in her typing, and she saw her adopted mother sit on a beanbag chair at the foot of her bed. "I expected nothing less from her."

"What do you mean?" Cordelia questioned.

"I don't mean to be rude, but…" Clara grunted, shaking her head, "really, Cordelia? Really?!"

"She's an adult now, Clara. She's not the most mature, but I need to lay off and let her make her own choices," the older witch explained. "I have done all I could for her to keep her out of trouble, but it hasn't worked."

"Don't wait too long," the raven-haired witch said hopelessly, typing a few more words into her college paper. "She may be dead."

"Why would you say that?" Cordelia asked forcefully. "I know Amy has gotten into trouble, but I don't think she's that dumb of a girl to let herself go like that."

Clara swiveled her desk chair around to face Cordelia, and their eyes met; the young witch used her hands to add to the emphasis of her point.

"Cordelia, look at her!" she exclaimed. "Drug abuse, drinking, unprotected sex, and now this! Getting naked for strangers. It'll escalate into porn is she doesn't stop! Even worse…her powers…remember when she killed that thing in the basement with a black orb?"

"Thaddeus?" Cordelia recalled.

"Whatever its name was," Clara responded. "You know, I was actually thinking. Perhaps Britta could come and live with us?"

"I don't think that is necessary," her adopted mother replied.

"Cordelia, don't you see? She is me and Amy's great-grandmother. I know it sounds crazy, but she is literally a part of this family. I feel safe around her. There's a protective quality that I am connected to, and Amy is as well."

"Don't I keep you safe?" she asked.

"Yes, you do. You adopted us after the death of our parents, but Britta is an irreplaceable part of me and Amy's life. She could teach us what she knows. We already know what the Seven Wonders are. Maybe there's an equivalent that our ancestors underwent if there ever was such a thing in Swedish covens?" Clara speculated. "It's something to think about, Cordelia, for all of our benefit."

"Very well," her adopted mother said. "Good luck on your paper. I'm headed to sleep."

"Good night," Clara said, glancing back and looking at her computer screen in deep thought.

I have a bad feeling, she repeated in her head.

During the wee hours of morning and after her first shift at Vanilla Pleasures, Amy was taken home by Michael. He had remained there for the entirety of her shift, and during their time in the backroom, he had been pleasured by her. Yet the twenty-dollar bill was only for a lap dance, not for fifteen minutes worth of manual pleasure. She walked into the house, closing the front door behind her as a light from the living room caught her attention. Curious, Amy went over to the doorway and peeked in diligently, keeping quiet as she saw Tate and Violet smiling at each other before sharing a kiss.

The spell worked, Amy thought as she watched him pull something from his sleeve. It was a black rose, but it was definitely unnatural—perhaps painted. It also made a strange crumpling sound.

"I painted this black for you," he told Violet as he extended it toward her. "I remember a long time ago, the first time I gave you one of these. It was your first flower from a guy. I hope you still like things that are different."

Amy smiled softly, seeing Violet accept the small token and sniffing it to notice that it still had its fresh scent.

"Thank you," the ghost said before taking Tate's hand. "And yes, I do love unique things, still."

"Let's go, Violet," her boyfriend smiled as he put an arm around her shoulder gently, walking with her. "We don't want to wake anyone up, do you?"

"I know," the ghost girl said—Amy had begun to walk away when she heard verbal sentiments between the two along with the sound of kisses against smooth skin accompanied with giggles.

"I love you, Violet," Tate said.

"And I love you, Tate," the girl replied.

A/N:

A little bit of Michael Langdon (aka Anti-Christ), Violate, and the OCs all in one. I know this was a short one, but I'm trying to condense the few ideas I've had brewing. If you have suggestions as readers, do leave them in the feedback or PM me?

Leave a Review, Favorite and Follow! Thanks guys! :3