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banisheed · 2 years ago

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TIMING: A few weeks ago LOCATION: Some fancy penthouse PARTIES: Siobhan ( @banisheed ) and Metzli ( @muertarte ) CONTENT: Unsanitary TW (for blood and boogers) SUMMARY: Siobhan thinks the banshee she's looking for might be someone by the name of Regis Crotch. She enlists the help of Metzli to confront Regis at a party.

Siobhan was used to not being invited to parties; she had spent a long time cultivating a prickly attitude and a crude persona. She was proud of all she accomplished pretending to be an uncaring woman only interested in bones and having fun (a redundant statement). Yet, when Siobhan found out she was not invited to an exclusive party hosted by artsy types the likes of which she had never once interacted with or cared to, she was a little offended. At least in part because Regis Crotch was supposed to be in attendance and she really needed to see this Regis; her list of them was running thin and eventually she was sure to come up on the one she was looking for. As it turned out, hounding the host for an invite wasn’t the way to go about getting one. Thankfully, someone she knew had gotten one.

“Thanks again for doing this,” Siobhan smiled at Metzli. She adjusted her clothing, a tight but not revealing black dress and the deep red blazer she had draped over her shoulders. This party was hosted at one of those pretentious high-end lofts with the vaulted ceilings and the personal rooftop terraces and so, dressing well was expected. Though, even if it hadn’t been, Siobhan would have done so anyway. “Do you get invited to these things often?” She asked as they entered the building and she punched in the floor number on the elevator that just opened up. “Or--better question--do you come to these parties often? Any parties?” The door beeped and clunked shut; a rumbling and the telltale downward gravitation push of an elevator shooting up filled the enclosed space. The building was nice, but in the way renovated things often were; with enough old moldy corners and musty smells to make it still feel like there was some character left laying around.

—

Metzli didn’t like social occasions, going as far as to decline harshly in order to deter any future invites. Admittedly, the people who had invited them were impressively persistent. They’d never seen anyone take so much rejection and still have enough gumption to keep requesting. Metzli supposed it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. They had an up and coming gallery that, while still getting its legs, had drawn enough attention. Oddly enough, the fact that forgers disappeared left and right had given MuertArte a reputation that artists and their managers enjoyed.

Something about upholding impeccable standards by any means necessary. Needless to say, Metzli was a master of their craft, and it was paying off. Somewhat. The parties, they could do without. “Only ask that you help me when I am struggling with sound. Too many people. Hate it. Make me want to stab. Might stab if I do not keep calm.” They rambled, stressed their hand through their hair and adjusted their tie. “Invited a lot, but never go because I hate people—” The elevator shut and Metzli tensed. It was the kind of machinery they still hadn’t gotten used to. “And elevators. Hate elevators.” The confined space and whirring would’ve had them clawing at the doors if they hadn’t grounded themself by unconsciously reaching for Siobhan’s hand. They promptly let go and shook the tension away as best they could with an expression of embarrassment. “Sorry.”

—

Siobhan was used to stumbling through her life without caring about the people around her; she was a force of nature, dragging people along this way or that. The only people she had to stop to think about were the fae and, well, she didn’t really have to worry about them anymore. Not yet, at least. If Regis Crotch was her girl, then she could get back to the life she was meant to live. Instead, however, Metzli reached for her hand and Siobhan stared at it. Then at Metzli. She did consider that Metzli would hate the party but she didn’t consider what that meant, exactly. Or if Metzli would have preferred taking the stairs instead. Suddenly, her stomach sank and not in any way the elevator was responsible for. Guilt crawled up into her throat and squeezed. She had spent all her time cultivating her beloved prickly attitude that she forgot why she did it: Siobhan did care, immensely. When she was living with her family, it was easier to pretend she didn’t. All these years away from them had frayed her into something raw and ugly. She needed Regis. She needed to get back. She couldn’t keep living like this taut and vulnerable thing.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I-I should have asked. If it helps….” Siobhan took her glove off, reaching her hand out and holding it palm up for Metzli to take if they wanted. “If you look at the numbers, it helps…or it did for me when I was a child. It’s a countdown; you know when the doors are going to open and you can get out. It’s not like being locked in some place. This has an end and it’s showing itself to you.” She smiled lightly and pointed up with her other hand. The elevator dinged again as they reached their floor and the doors slid open as promised.

Siobhan stepped out. There was a short hallway leading into the only apartment on the floor, the illustrious penthouse of pretentious art party fame. At the door, a muscular man in a finely tailored black suit stood watch and Siobhan bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. She supposed the exclusive aspect was rather serious and was at once happy that she’d asked Metzli to come rather than trying to get in herself. “If it gets too loud, there’s a rooftop terrace we can escape to. And if that’s too loud I can scream, that usually gets people to shut up.” She smiled softly. “Are you ready to go in? Or do you want another minute out here where it’s still quiet?”

—

Siobhan was right. Looking at the numbers did help. They were counting up, not counting down, but there was an end, as she said. Each beep brought them a floor closer to the exit, and despite hating parties, their destination couldn’t come fast enough. Metzli watched the number change and laced their fingers with Siobhan’s. The familiar coolness gave the vampire a semblance of relief, and the tension they were holding inside released in one large exhale. They were thankful Siobhan had a quiet kindness to her, that she extended her heart in her own way after everything she’d had taken from her.

In many ways, she reminded Metzli of themself, but that was what struck a chord most with them. Her life was carved away to make room for what others needed her to be. To serve until she could no longer give herself in any capacity. No room for anything else besides her higher power. It was a disheartening reality, a double edged sword. Each cut begging to spread over more skin, and Siobhan truly believed she wanted to be marked. Maybe she did, but something told Metzli there was lingering doubt, a truer version of herself that wanted to be free. But perhaps that was them simply growing lost in their thoughts and projecting.

“Hm?” Oh. The elevator doors had opened, and without realizing it, Metzli had been led outside. They were standing outside the entrance of the party and they were touched that Siobhan was once again taking them into consideration. Of course, she took the liberty of adding her own flair of humor. “Go in. Faster in, faster out.” Metzli led the two toward the security and stated their name to the unnecessary security guard. The two were inside in a blink, and the pretentious energy in the air alone tasted rancid and Metzli wanted to gag. They took to adjusting their suit jacket to give themself something to fuss with, an attempt to keep calm and focused on Siobhan’s task. “How do we look for your friend?”

—

The party was, as Siobhan assumed parties of these natures were, dripping with the air of self-importance. From the few conversations she could overhear, a competition of who-could-say-the-longest-word was waged in one and random French words occupied another. The art on display itself was…. Siobhan turned to Metzli. She wouldn’t call a Pollock ugly and she did know the historical significance of Malevich's Black Square but what she saw was no better than colorful squiggles and bright splotches. There didn’t appear to be rhyme or reason to them and the conversations around her consisted of people trying to ascertain the meaning lest they appear like the dumbest in the room. Siobhan wasn’t a fan. Say the work was shite and move on. “Is this art?” She asked her companion. If anyone would be the authority on artistic expression, she thought it would be Metzli.

Regarding their question though, Siobhan shrugged. “I thought we would just ask people,” she said. “Or yell.” She paused. “Or walk around aimlessly eating French cheese.” And at that, she grabbed cheese off a plate being offered to her and chewed it slowly. It had that funk fancy cheeses often did, the sort of thing that told her this was aged in complete darkness--which was not unlike how she thought these humans had grown up. Lacking patience however, Siobhan grabbed the nearest person and pulled them into the conversation. “Where’s Regis Crotch?” As soon as the person pointed at someone far off, Siobhan shoved them aside. “Easy. See?”

The person pointed out seemed to be the most darkness dwelling of the bunch; someone attired in a low-cut v-neck shirt and a thick red scarf. They adjusted their beret, swirling their wine very slowly. From the distance, Siobhan couldn’t tell if they were a woman--banshee or human. “Shall we go?”

—

At Siobhan’s questions, Metzli took a few glances around, all the pieces minimal and abstract. There was no depth, no actual forethought in any of the pieces on display. Maybe a few of the statues had some value, but that was only because Metzli couldn’t exactly place what they lacked. They were overfilled clusters of messes, not seeming to have any rhyme or reason. Metzli grumbled, about to answer when a pretentious-looking man tapped on their shoulder.

“Excuse me—are you Mx. Bernal from MuertArte?”

Looking the man up and down, a look of distaste began to take shape on Metzli’s face, breaking any stoicity. But only for a moment. “Yes,” They replied, someone brushing against them to move past. “Do not want to talk.” Another person bumped into them. “Please leave me alone.” Sounds became louder and light became brighter, raising Metzli’s anxiety significantly. Taking a steadying breath, they refocused on Siobhan, reaching for her hand and gripping it tightly. They should go. She’d found the man. It was the perfect excuse.

“Let’s go,” Metzli rushed the pair in the direction of this Regis Crotch, their mind set on the first objective. “What do we do once we get to them? I can…I have thrall. Can tell them to follow.” It wasn’t something Metzli particularly liked using, but if it was for a just cause, they could put those uneasy feelings aside.

—

Siobhan squeezed back on Metzli’s hand, assuring them of her presence and the comfort she hoped to occupy for them. She wasn’t completely heartless, despite what basic banshee education might imply. Her affection, far from vocal or obvious, began and ended with her tugging Metzli close to her, holding them, and shooting sharp glances at anyone else that recognized the artist. When they reached Regis Crotch, Siobhan’s mistake was obvious but something else broke the flush of embarrassment.

Regis Crotch was not a particular handsome man or an intelligent one or a kind one. What he lacked in favorable qualities he made up for in arrogance. To the podcasts he listened to, averageness was simply a state of mind. Regis Crotch fancied himself an artist— he had a few thousand Instagram followers of his exquisite A.I art. So, of course, he called himself one. Recently he typed a particularly delicious set of words into the A.I art prompt program that gave him a series of beautiful anime-styled women that were doing the rounds. Artists went to these sorts of parties and so, Regis had come despite his cold. Yes, he was sniffling up a storm in his little corner but it was his little corner and as a man of America, he was allowed to sniffle. When he went to wipe his nose, a thick spread of boogers sat on his fingers like jam. Sparing a quick glance around the party he figured there was no harm and no foul in making a tissue of the work of art he was looking at.

He would have screamed at the sudden presence of two bodies beside him if not for his attention stuck on how artsy his boogers blended with the globs of paint; he really was an artist. One was a pretty woman that he would certainly get to later with his practiced charms, the other was a surprising face. “Mx. Bernal from MuertArte?” He grinned wide, sticking out his one boogered hand for a shake.

Siobhan couldn’t say ‘this man disgusts me let’s push him off the roof’ with her mouth but she hoped the look she offered Metzli said it all. And yes, maybe they ought to thrall him.

—

Though their smile didn’t reach their eyes, still wide and stale from the need to hide in the void, Metzli felt content and at ease. Siobhan, while keeping people at arm’s length, still held them close and cared enough to ease their anxieties. “I appreciate this.” Metzli muttered, keeping their eyes downcasted to avoid making contact with anyone else’s. By the time the pair had reach Siobhan’s target, their eyes had risen to meet with Regis’, and their back stiffened with disgust.

“Yes, that is me and I already do not like you.” They continued, voice still dry, but quick in a way that showed their discomfort. Especially when they began to ramble. “Did you know your hands are covered with mocos? That is disgusting. I will not touch that hand but I am going to punch you now.” Letting go of Siobhan’s hand, Metzli’s hand, as promised, flashed too quickly to stop, crunching Regis’s nose with a powerful punch. Unfortunately for the vampire, making contact with his nose led to his boogers attaching to their knuckles and the sensation sent their nerves flaring with a sensation that felt wrong.

Regis groaned in pain, cupping his nose, which now began to coat his hands with both boogers and blood. This wouldn’t normally be a problem, but in a room full of people, red eyes and fangs weren’t exactly ideal. Metzli grabbed for Regis’s arm, staring into his eyes until they went blank with obedience. “Follow us without making scene.” They looked to Siobhan, waiting for her to take the lead.

—

Siobhan had no qualms with this. For the fact that Regis Crotch had the audacity to be the wrong Regis— be a man when she was looking for a rebellious banshee— was enough to warrant a murder. For his boogers he certainly should have got more. As Metzli sprung into action, taking out Regis’s nose in one swift motion, she giggled with delight. As he held his broken nose, overcome with boogers and blood and then put under Metzli’s spell, she had to restrain herself from skipping through the party. Siobhan knew she needed to be careful, they didn’t need any attention as they moved. She led them through the far end of the condo, past a poorly designed barrier and up a set of stairs to the empty rooftop terrace, where the sounds of the party died and left nothing but the night air and the occasional hum of a passing car.

“What do you want to do?” Siobhan grinned, skipping around Regis. “Throw him off the roof? Oh! But that might attract too much attention. If we kill him here, it might be some time before his body is found and I think I see a ladder coming down the side of the roof.” Whatever happened to Regis, it hadn’t been decided yet— Fate hadn’t given her a vision, Death didn’t want its cry. Regis existed in the thin space between life and death; he might still live if he could somehow break from Metzli’s thrall and run. More likely though, as soon as Metzli’s mind was made up on what fun they wanted to have, Siobhan would have a scream to swallow and a show to watch. The seconds before Death, where the promise of it loomed in the air, were always the most fun for Siobhan. “I leave the choice to you, Metzli.” She stopped skipping around, smiling at the vampire. “I think it can be great stress relief after that horrible, horrible party.”

—

Getting to the rooftop was a blur, the thick mixture of blood and mucus doing well to keep Metzli distracted from the snake of hunger constricting their throat. Bite…bite…bite…It became a chant in their head, as it always did when a meal was ripe and ready. They wanted to make him thrash, buck like prey. Did they have the time? The thought made Metzli blink, logic hard to come by in that hungry state. They were quick to latch onto it and look at Siobhan to keep themself grounded as they answered her question.

“I want to eat him.” Their voice was a robotic drone as usual, but less so with the losing battle of control. Metzli’s stomach tightened uncomfortably and they stood straighter, clenching their jaw enough to crack their teeth. Control was waning. Hell, it was practically gone. “I’m going to—” Metzli interrupted themself, fangs throbbing with pain and pulling them toward Regis’s throat to relieve the pressure. The release was instant, blood coating their tongue with its intoxicating umamic properties. And thanks to Metzli’s thrall, he made no call for help, no sniffle to save himself from the dripping mucus trailing down his chin.

At that point, Metzli hardly minded the mess that stained their suit, the blood much too potent to give themself pause. They consumed for several minutes, long after Regis went limp, until they finally threw him to the side. Blood coated their mouth and cheeks, the remnants dripping from their jaw. “That made that party worth it.”

—

Heat coiled up Siobhan's body, like a shot of whiskey gone in reverse. Her lungs expanded, pressing against her ribs. At the back of her throat, a bead encased with fire formed, stopping her from inhaling; begging her to exhale. A banshee scream wasn’t just some thing her body did, it was an impulse, a reflex, as natural as blinking and as inescapable as a yawn. Some humans thought they possessed great bodily control if they could hold back a sneeze, Siobhan thought they should try being stabbed and see how much control they possessed after that. In perfect form, without the flicker of expression across her face, her scream was swallowed as if nothing was felt inside her body at all. She didn’t want to disturb Metzli’s feeding and, anyway, she didn’t need the death vision; the show was just about to begin.

Regis Crotch died the same way he lived: limp. When it was done, Siobahn erupted in applause; heady from the sensation of death. She made no effort to glamour the dark veins that branched along her skin-- Metzli had just given her a wonderful performance, they deserved to see a banshee’s beauty in full. She flung her arms around the bloody Metzli, pulling them into a hug before she remembered that they probably wouldn’t like a hug. She let go sheepishly. “Apologies, that was just…so beautiful. Life literally drained from him; it was lovely!” To say Siobhan was ecstatic didn’t explain the almost uncharacteristic giggle that left her lips-- she was more than pleased; it didn’t even matter that Metzli was an abomination by every banshee standard. “You’re so attractive when you’re covered in blood. Come, if you’re good to walk, we should head down the ladder and enjoy a nice quiet stroll.”

—

The hug was unexpected, nearly disturbing enough to make the vampire flinch and bristle, like a feral kitten serving out a warning. But to their surprise, instead of a harsh reaction, Metzli wrapped their arm firmly around Siobhan. She didn’t need to pull away, not yet. They trusted the banshee, enjoyed her company and the way she made them feel positive about themself. It was give and take, by the looks of it, too. She had gotten a show and Metzli had gotten praise, not unlike the ovations Honey had given them. They were a beautiful monster in the eyes of their friends.

Metzli pulled away, their eyes still wild and untamed from all the stimulation. When they stood straight and looked down at Siobhan, they saw the way black veins weaved and framed her face, a beautiful web of death beneath her skin. With a hint of a smile curling the corner of their lips, Metzli let their awe take over their hand, landing it at Siobhan’s cheek so their thumb could graze her skin. She knew her beauty, Metzli knew that. How could they not? Siobhan had made that very clear as often as she could. Still, the words on their tongue slipped past their lips like a waterfall of saccharine.

“You are…” Their eyes were unblinking and awkwardly wide. “Beautiful.” Metzli’s thumb gave Siobhan’s flesh one last brush before they pulled away and looked toward the ladder they were just referred to. A walkdid sound nice, but a ladder was boring. There was a much better use of their newfound energy from feeding. “Better than good to walk. We jump.” A full smile reached Metzli’s lips, and they threw Siobhan over their shoulder as they burst into a sprint toward the edge of the building.

#i love metzli and I love jojo #regis crotch's fc is kaden in a bad scarf actually #its what i pictured in my head #c: metzli #s1 #blood and boogers #unsanitary tw #thank you 2 bex for supplying the scarf #archived writing

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banisheed · 2 years ago

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TIMING: Early-August, 2023 LOCATION: Regis Club PARTIES: Anita (@gossipsnake) & Siobhan (@banisheed) SUMMARY: On the hunt for Regis, Siobhan ends up at the same brand-new club as Anita.

Siobhan was at the edge—the edge of what, she wasn’t sure. She did know that she was at the edge of something. An edge of discovery, perhaps, as she’d followed another lead on a Regis to this club with its rotating lights and thumping music. Or, perhaps, the edge of her sanity, with the rotating lights and the nonsensical thumping music. Clubs hadn’t changed much over the years; packed with swirling bodies, the aroma of perfumes, sweat and alcohol. The music had changed and the flashing lights were new, but the atmosphere held a familiar quality to it. It was comforting and Siobhan might have appreciated it if she wasn’t on a mission. “Are you Regis?” She pulled another person aside, whispering into their ear. Not a Regis. “Are you Regis?” Who's Regis? Siobhan groaned, eyeing the crowd of people. She couldn’t possibly ask each person here if they were Regis.

Fate favored her as the next person she touched had a rather familiar shoulder. “Anita?” Siobhan asked. “What are you doing here?” That was a bad question; if there was anything she knew about her co-worker, it was that she liked going out. “Okay, silly question,” she conceded instantly, crossing her arms. “Better question: did you come here with someone and what will it take to get you away from them?” The problem with her Regis strategy was that some people were off-put by her aggressive asking. If she was with someone, then she would appear less threatening. That was science, or something.

—

For such a small town, there were often new and strange businesses opening up. Anita made an effort to check all of them out, however, often enthralled by how chaotic and strange some of them ended up being. There was a fairly new club that had opened up with the weirdest name: REGIS Club. Maybe the letters were an acronym, for what though? - she had no idea. Inside it was just like any other club which was a bit of a let down.

Anita was not going to let the mediocracy of the venue ruin her evening, however. She was stationed near the bar, hand cupping her third glass of tequila, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Of all people to see when she turned around she least expected it to be Siobhan. “A bit of a silly question.” She agreed with a smirk, which widened a bit at the second question. The pair had a flirty dynamic but Siobhan always stopped short of things going beyond that. “Trying to get me all to yourself tonight or something? I think we can arrange for that to happen. Look at you, hands empty. Can I get you something to drink?”

—

Anita was a certain sort of person; Siobhan knew the type. Attractive, confident, ready for a fun time and uninterested in the intricacies of emotion. Could Siobhan say she was any different? As a child, in the dark of her room huddled under her sheets, she read the words of old poets. She fawned over the likes of Captain Wentworth while holding equal envy for him. She was a romantic, as much as she hated to admit it, she knew it as a truth that she could not escape. She wasn’t made for romance, but if it ever found her--through the fog of her emotions and the thorns of her life--she wanted it to stay. She wanted it to be true. Anita, she imagined, wasn’t the sort that cared about love everlasting--she didn’t think she believed in it. Not that it mattered much to the banshee, but when it came to intimate affairs, was it so wrong to realize that giving into Anita was losing the game they were playing? At any rate, she had a Regis to find.

“A little,” she smirked at Anita. “Oh,” she laughed. “So painfully empty.” She held out her empty palms, fingertips brushing Anita’s arms and wiggled her fingers around. “And yes, all to myself.” She gestured to the rest of the club. “Have you seen the crowd here?” No, seriously, had she? And did she know any Regis’s among them? “I’d much rather have you.” She grinned. “Drinks now?” She could really use one.

—

People like Siobhan intrigued Anita. She was so willing to be immediately flirtatious, joking about having Anita all to herself. While she enjoyed their back and forth, Anita had a knowing feeling that nothing was to come of it - despite how much she wanted something to come of it. She’d had plenty of people in her past tell her that her insatiable need for physical intimacy and brute denial of emotional intimacy was a ‘defense mechanism.’ What was she supposed to be defending against? She hadn’t a clue.

“Anything for you.” Anita replied with the flash of a smile as she turned towards the bartender and then pointed at her glass and gestured for two more of the same. Was tonight the night she finally won over the elusive archeology professor? “I don’t usually see you out and about at the clubs around town. Must be my lucky night, no?” Just then the bartender returned with two more margaritas on the rocks and Anita picked them both up off the bar, extending one out to Siobhan and letting her hand linger a bit during the exchange. “Let’s toast! To a night we won’t forget.” She was being hopeful with that dedication, wondering if it would come to fruition. “Do you like to dance?”

—

“Aye, you can say I’m looking for someone,” Siobhan answered, surveying the crowd for Regis. It would help if she knew what Regis looked like; asking every beautiful woman she met if they had an interest in Death had unintentionally ruined her chances of fun sex. Ironically, Siobhan was willingly squandering her chance at fun sex with Anita. It was, however, far more fun to deny it. Anita was surely used to getting what she wanted; Siobhan wasn’t one to give people what they wanted. She took the drink and noted the way Anita lingered— oh, she was good at this. It was too bad Siobhan was more interested in seeing how far she could push Anita. “To a night we won’t forget.” She smiled, clinking her margarita glass against Anita’s.

Now it was Anita’s turn to ask a silly question; everyone danced, not everyone did it well, but everyone danced. In the Aos Sí, loud music mixed with wails thumped around like a beating heart. The sean-nós and lilting of banshees didn’t exist anywhere else in Ireland; anywhere else in the world. It was beautiful. Of course Siobhan danced, who wouldn’t? She sang like a bird once too, about forty years ago. “Are you asking me to dance, Anita?” She grinned, taking Anita’s hand and pulling her into the thick of the crowd. She leaned in, pressing her body against Anita’s. Carefully, she whispered in her ear: “sometimes it’s better to just do isn’t it?”

—

The back and forth between the professors had always been titillating, to say the least. While it wasn’t her personal preference to let the teasing linger for as long as it had, Anita suspected that there was part of Siobhan that got off on the power she held in the dynamic. In any other situation Anita was the one being withholding, she was the one with the power. Admittedly, she had expected the game to only last for a little while and much to her surprise the longer Siobhan kept walls up the more Anita wanted to finally break through. But only for one night.

It didn’t take long for Anita to finish the drink she had just ordered, the cool condensation of the glass still lingering on her fingers as she set it down on the bar and followed her dance partner further into the club. She followed the lead as their bodies leaned in, hips pressed up against each other. The thought of tonight being that one night was almost more intoxicating than the tequila running through Anita’s body but she also knew better than to get her hopes up. “Most of the time it’s better to just do.”

As one song ended and shifted into another, all thanks to a likely overpaid and under qualified moonlighting DJ, Anita looked up at Siobhan with a smirk, “You know, I can think of a few other things we can do tonight besides just dancing. Care to turn up the heat?”

—

Siobhan draped her long arms over Anita’s shoulders, an action she tried her best not to be amused by, smiling nonetheless; she was taller than Anita, enough that putting her arms around her shoulders felt more like she was about to strangle her than the casual flirtation she meant. Her neck was so perfectly situated where Siobhan’s hands could be. Most people she categorized into the methods she would best like to murder them—it wouldn’t ever occur to her that it wasn’t a normal thought to have—and lovely Anita was no different. It was a compliment in the perverse way all of Siobhan’s compliments unfolded; all the other humans, unimportant and insipid, were categorized into ‘stabable’. But Anita? Siobhan drew her hand back, brushing an errant strand of Anita’s hair behind her ear. She lingered, dragging her hand to the pulse of her throat. When Anita spoke, Siobhan felt her voice vibrating against her fingers.

“I can too,” she mumbled, letting her hand join the other behind Anita’s head. “And what do you have in mind, damhán alla?” Spider; she thought Anita resembled one. In the back of her eyes, sparkling with the pulsing lights, she thought she saw a web being weaved, a trap being set. Or perhaps that was the romantic in her, seeing things when there was nothing. “How do you want to turn up the heat?” Siobhan smirked. “And are you sure you want to, Dr. Nieves? You’ve always seemed a little cold-blooded to me; afraid of fire.”

—

Anita was an instinctual being. She knew when to weave, when to dodge, when to attack, and when to stand her ground. Her life revolved around giving into her base primal urges - giving into her instincts. When she felt the icy cold of Siobhan’s hands near her neck, then gently pressed against it, those instincts were in competition with one another. Despite the voice in the back of her head warning of possible danger, Anita decided this wasn’t an action to take as a threat. Maybe it was an invitation? Giving her the smallest sliver of insight into the strange and devastatingly beautiful woman in front of her.

The unfamiliar word danced around her head, entranced by the mystery of what it might mean. “What do I have in mind?” Anita parroted the question, feigning as though she didn’t have far too much in her mind. She certainly knew how she wanted to spend the night, yearning to turn up the heat by feeling those shocking cold hands pressed against a lot more than just her neck. But in that moment, Anita decided that she wasn’t going to play the same game they always did. She wasn’t going to just let Siobhan brush her off after all this build up. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she hummed, “that’s your first mistake. Don’t you know that the cold-blooded aren’t afraid of fire … we’re drawn to it. Gotta stay warm somehow, no?”

Anita looked around the club with subtle movements, making sure not to create any additional distance between herself and her dance partner. She was feeling an urge to do something unexpected… maybe even a bit shocking. It was when she spotted a waiter walking past the dance floor with a tray of flaming shots that an idea began to form, as did a smirk across her lips. “Is the same true for you, mi congelada tesoro?” A frozen treasure was certainly what she seemed to be. “Are you drawn to the fire?”

—

Siobhan laughed, a warm sound like smoke under the pounding music. Her hot breath spilled between them, floating into the air. Anita was surely experienced—that much had been obvious to her from the moment they met—but every so often Siobhan was reminded that despite her own worldliness, Anita was likely better at this. This being… “I’m not much of a fire, Anita.” She pressed her palm to her cheek, thumbing her cheekbones. She forwent her gloves for the evening in their interest of being able to do touch with her frigid hands; she hoped she was making Anita shiver. In the dark, the glamor to obscure her scarred hands didn’t need to be perfect. “I hope whatever you have in mind has enough fire for both of us.”

Spanish. Siobhan grinned; one nickname traded for another. Only one word was familiar: mi. My. So, Anita was using possessives already? How forward of her. “I’ve been known to like things a little hot…” Her hand trailed down from Anita’s jaw, following the line of her clavicle with her index finger, using a stroke like a feather. She drew her finger down to the shoulder and back, pressing against her sternum. “But I can only hope you don’t disappoint, Anita.” She glanced up at her, grinning in her amused lopsided fashion. “I’ve known some people to promise a fire only to give a spark. I have high hopes for you, mo thine.” My fire; she was getting lazy.

—

“Then why am I drawn to you like a moth to a flame?” It was a very lame line which Anita acknowledged with a bit of a laugh, but she was just tipsy enough to say it anyway. After all, her usual lines have regularly failed on Siobhan so what was the harm in just … letting go?

Maybe that’s what they were both doing, letting go without necessarily giving in. As her cold hand trailed down her neck and made its way delicately down to the center of her chest, Anita’s breath caught unexpectedly. Her eyes were fixed on Siobhan’s face as her hands moved and their eyes met when she looked back up at Anita. Suddenly the tequila wasn’t the only reason she was feeling rather intoxicated. Her next thought was born of that second intoxication and a desire to just let go.

Not wanting to move herself away from the position they were in but needing to get closer to the edge of the dancefloor, Anita placed her hand firmly against the small of Siobahn’s back and tightened up her posture, “Follow my lead, I’ll give you a lot more than a spark.” The words were low, just loud enough to be heard by her dance partner. Moving in the leading position, Anita directed the pair of them through the crowd in a make-shift tango. The timing had to be perfect. As they neared the edge of the floor Anita spun Siobhan out from the position they had been in, their hands being the only remaining point of contact.

She held onto that remaining contact with a smirk then she looked over her shoulder as the waiter with the flaming shots was rounding the corner of the dance floor they were at. Anita then turned back to look at the brunette with a devious look as she tugged her towards her gently, inviting her to spin back into form.

—

Submitting herself to the unknown shouldn't have been exhilarating; Siobhan, by all accounts, was the sort of woman that dealt in known absolutes—death, fate and the predictable turns of humanity. It should have terrified her to be thrust into a situation that confused her, instead, she was amused and thrilled and surprised she felt that way at all. What would Anita do? What was Anita thinking? Desperately, she wanted to know. Her eyes followed hers, her steps moved in rhythm with hers and she followed with a rare obedience.

She spun out, flowing into the humid air of the club, as if the crowd had parted just for them, just for this moment and this spin. Siobhan’s feathery brown hair swirled around her head and at the apex of the spin, flowed into its place seamlessly as though it never left. Grinning, Siobhan's gaze finally converged with Anita's, on the same waiter. At once, she understood. Or, at least, understood her own version of the mayhem to be had.

Siobhan was pulled into Anita’s arms again. “Cheeky,” she mumbled into her chest. “But what happens if I beat you to it?” She didn't wait for an answer. Siobhan, keeping her gaze locked on Anita's face and sporting a devilish grin of her own, tipped her hand into the air just as the waiter moved past them. The end of her blunt nail brushed the underside of his wooden tray and flaming drinks rose into the sky—phoenixes against neon light—until they crashed into the ground, exploding upon impact and erupting into a thousand flaming shards. A shockwave of cruses and gasps rippled through the club. “Like that?” she asked, blinking in faux-innocence. Pouting, she pushed closer to Anita and turned around to look at the mess the waiter made. Busy with the glass, he didn’t notice the trail of flaming alcohol that escaped across the dance floor towards the set of decorative curtains. Fire licked up the ends, painting a scene of glowing oranges and yellows. “Was that your plan?”

Siobhan confirmed the one thing she’d always suspected: this was a shitty club. The sprinklers, if those knobs on the roof weren’t just some inane decoration choices, didn’t turn on.

—

The dance was rather exciting, and Anita felt quite pleased that she had managed to get Siobhan to play along despite not knowing what the ultimate plan was. Then, as they stood there after the spin before their bodies pulled back together, Anita recognized the look on her dance partner’s face. It was a yearning not for another, but a yearning for disruption. In another circumstance, Anita might have been annoyed with someone swooping in at the last moment and performing the final part of her plan. Instead, as she watched the other woman knocked the tray to the floor and she felt immense satisfaction.

Alcohol and fire always made for a delicious combination. Her hands maintained their position on Siobhan as the pair watched the ultimate consequence of the spilled drinks. The flaming liquid spilled out everywhere and the cheap polyester tablecloths and curtains that the club had plastered across every wall and table took to the fire like they had been longing for it their entire life. A woman who was standing too close to the walls didn’t move, but instead watched in horror at the sight that unfolded, unaware that the fire had spread to the tips of her hair for several seconds.

“That was part of what I had in mind,” feeling empowered by their shared action and excited by the rapidly spreading flames, Anita finally decided to do something that she had been wanting to do for a long time. Something she hoped was a mutual want. “This is the other part,” she said as she leaned up to close the distance between their mouths. An anticipating smirk crossed her lips just seconds before they pressed against Siobhan’s refreshingly cool lips. As they stood there, the kiss seemed to amplify the heat surrounding them as the rest of the club’s patrons were in a frenzy of their own as they flocked to the exit.

While she could have stood there, surrounded by flames, kissing the other professor for the entire night, Anita pulled away from the embrace when the heat from the growing fire caused one of the club’s windows to crack and shatter. “Well, you certainly can’t say all I gave you was a spark.”

—

Anita’s lips were soft, painted with tequila and saliva, pressed against hers. Siobhan’s hand tangled in her hair, pressing into the base of her skull. Her body burned, likely because of the heat, but the romantic part of her felt generous enough to attribute some of it to Anita. Carnage had a way of turning her on and desire itself was strange; it rippled from her chest down to her thighs. Pulling back, Anita’s face half-illuminated by searing oranges, she realized with sobering clarity that this was how Anita did it, this was seduction in masterful hands. She wanted to give in; having fun with Anita seemed like the best idea in the world right then. She was certain that regarding matters of romance, they were aligned: there would be none of it. And yet, there was nothing Siobhan hated more than being a loser. “You gave me a whole fire.” She smiled, dropping her hand from Anita’s hair. She smoothed out the mess she’d created as if trying to erase any sign of herself on the other woman (an impossible task; her lipstick was already smudged against her lips).

Above, more glass cracked and popped, raining down into the club. Siobhan moved with little urgency. She leaned in again and pressed her lips to Anita’s cheek, lingering. “You’ll have a lot of scared women outside, looking for someone to comfort them into the night. How lucky you are.” Siohan pulled back, smiling at her with a cacophony of ill-intentions. Her own brown eyes shimmered with the fire around them. She moved to her left, brushing her as she walked past. Pausing one final time at her side, knuckles grazing, she leaned in again. “Maybe you’ll find someone you can pretend is me.” Another kiss met Anita’s shoulder before she was off, slipping away between glass and fire.

As she looked back at the sparking sign, she finally realized it was the club that was named Regis.

—

For a moment, no not even a moment -- just a fleeting second, Anita thought that there might be more fire in store for the two of them. But then Siobhan pulled away and the next kiss was placed on her cheek, not on her lips. While all of their past interactions had been tantalizing and Anita genuinely enjoyed their back and forth, this night solidified something her subconscious had long known but had yet translated into conscious thought: you may have met your match. But not match in the way lovestruck humans defined it. No, this wasn't kindred spirits, this was twin flames in the most warped sense of the term.

As Siobhan pulled away again, a heavy breath escaped from her lips. While she dealed in and dealt out pleasure it was often meticulously staged and Anita was always the one in control. The feeling - the need - that was coursing through her in that moment, however, was anything but controlled. “I think we both know there isn’t anyone who could hold a candle to you. Even in my mind.” After feeling that final cold kiss pressed to her shoulder, Anita swallowed and the reality of the building starting to crumble around her sunk in.

In a hurried fashion to not raise unnecessary suspicion Anita made her way to the exit, already looking around for someone who might serve as an adequate distraction.

#so sorry 2 anita #also to regis club rest in peace #regis in peace #also no one comment on my banner design i experimented too close to the sun #c: anita #s1 #fire and desire #archived writing

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