#regis crotch's fc is kaden in a bad scarf actually

[banisheed]

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.