#i write sins and tragedies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

banisheed · 2 years ago

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I Write Sins and Tragedies || Siobhan & Metzli

TIMING: A few nights ago LOCATION: MuertArte PARTIES: Siobhan and Metzli SUMMARY: Siobhan visits MuertArte on invitation and with the promise of wine. Things don't turn out as planned and art is the last thing on anyone's mind. CONTENT: Emotional abuse (discussion), Physical abuse (discussion), Torture (discussion, description), Decapitation (post-mortem), Alcohol use (as an unhealthy coping technique)

Siobhan didn’t know what to think; she didn’t come to Wicked’s Rest to make friends or enjoy galleries or talk to very sad strangers on the internet. And yet, she wasn’t any closer to her goal and the boredom was starting to claw at her, like an animal trapped under her skin. She bounced with that energy as she moved through the streets. Dressed as she usually was--covered from neck to toe in designer labels she didn’t quite understand--she felt out of place among the bustle of people crowding through downtown on a saturday night. Fortunately for the banshee, when it came to humans, out of place was exactly how she liked to feel. MuertArte felt just as out of place; a renovated building among the masses of crumbling stone. Siobhan stepped up to the door, knocking at first with hesitation. Right, this was a public establishment. She didn’t need to do that. She pushed the doors in and called out. “Metzli?” Should she have mentioned that she’d never been to a gallery before? She called out again, a little louder, letting her voice carry across the space--a display of vocal control that would make any banshee jealous. Unfortunately, none ever seemed to be very jealous of Siobhan. “Metzli?” She called again, hovering by the door.

—

Art had a way of captivating the viewer, especially when it resonated so powerfully. For someone that felt so little most days, Metzli always felt a hint of a spark when they found a piece that said a million words with each paint stroke. It seemed so hypocritical. To proclaim to feel nothing and be nothing, and yet an image brought to life on canvas did something. They supposed it wasn’t totally wrong. As soon as the wave crashed over their chest, it receded just as quickly. Like a wave on the beach’s shore. Metzli could never figure out how to make it stay, and they thought that was fine. Feeling nothing and being nothing was happiness. Or so they were told.

“Hm?” Metzli arched a brow at the sound of their name, rising from their desk quickly. Checking their watch, they could see it was just past noon. Around the time that their host went to lunch. They were usually much better about keeping time, but with the abundance of success, the amount of art that came in left Metzli’s hands full. Quickly, they marched to MuertArte’s entrance, prepared to give their best introduction. “My apologies, ma’am.” They bowed their head, adjusting their tie. “Welcome to MuertArte. You called for me by my name. Are you wishing to display or have a tour?” When they stood straight once again, Metzli’s head tilted curiously, almost ominously, but not by choice. As much as they wanted to appear friendly to patrons, they just couldn’t get the hang of facial expressions.

—

Siobhan starred. She didn’t mean to but as an observer by birthright she had a habit of digesting the world through long, silent stretches of time. She noticed three things. The first: Metzli was tall. Second: Metzli had an accent. And finally: Metzli was dead. That much came to her in the telltale trickle down her back and the tug in her slow heart, pulling her towards the earth as if to join the bodies there. And, yes, there was the arm too, but she’d been expecting the arm. Metzli being undead was a surprise. “It’s me,” she pointed lamely at herself. “Siobhan, from online?” She couldn’t be sure how much she might be understood, her Irish accent wasn’t as thick as it used to be but it was still the most notable part about her—other than the obvious beauty. “You said to come? I’m sorry I…” She paused. The thing about the undead wasn’t so much that they were dead—that was the good part—it was the moving that was upsetting. The blinking, the tilting of the head. At least Metzli seemed largely unemotive; Siobhan had a hard time stomaching being smiled at by a perversion of the natural order. She forced herself to smile instead. “I’ve never been to a gallery,” she said, stepping closer. “I grew up in a time and place where art was just on the streets or in the homes.” Was actually several human heads on a stick arranged into the vague shape of a curvaceous woman. “You mentioned something about showing me around? And beer? And wine?” Now she’d really need both.

—

“Siobhan…” Metzli parroted the name back to its owner, nodding slowly. “Yes, I remember you. You are beautiful.” And she was. Her skin looked as smooth as stone, and she had dark hair and shiny hues. For a moment, Metzli was lost on what to say, comfortable with the silence that ended all too quickly. Siobhan had a similar lilt in her voice as Honey, but there was a deeper tone to it. Irish maybe, though they couldn’t be too sure of that. They supposed a little more talking would need to be had for answers to come.

“Yes, I show you around.” Looking to the front desk, Metzli walked around it to find the mini fridge and wine rack they kept stocked for occasions such as that one. “What would you like? For a guest like you, I can open a 1930s port.” They watched Siobhan with an empty expression, unsure what to make of her visage. She looked stiff and maybe…fearful? Though that didn’t make much sense. Metzli didn’t know Siobhan well, but she didn’t seem the type to be scared so easily.

—

“I…” Siobhan swallowed. “Yes, I am beautiful.” She gestured at Metzli’s body, feeling the compulsion to return the politeness. Yet, calling an abomination attractive would be… Siobhan swallowed again, fruitlessly working at the lump in her throat. “You’re tall,” she blurted and was instantly thankful for the change in topic. “1930s port,” she sighed. “Fates, I remember the 30s. Aye. Please. I’ll take that.” Her head throbbed and her hands twitched at her sides. She had her knife on her; she always had her knife on her. What sort of undead was Metzli? Blood, brains, nightmares or revenge? Should she go for the chest or the head? Beheading was always a safe bet, wasn’t it? Her fingers twitched again, pulling her hands into tight fists. She swallowed. “You didn’t tell me…” She looked at Metzli: their expressionless yet decidedly sad face, their lanky body, the suit. Her mind flared with what she was supposed to do; she could see it clearly as it unfolded in her imagination. Off with their head, off with their head, off with their head. “Sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t know you’d be…” She swallowed. Metzli didn’t like a liar and neither did she. She dropped her hand. “Dead.”

—

“Hmph…” Siobhan’s honesty knew no bounds, and that was refreshing enough to let their version of a chuckle escape. Metzli reached for the port glasses and poured carefully, listening to Siobhan speak. Her voice was nervous, maybe even frustrated. For what reason, they wondered? Then, the question came, sudden and urgent, as if she had already answered everything in her mind and now the truth was tumbling into her.

Somehow, she knew the person in front of her was dead. The proclamation didn’t invoke a reaction, Metzli was taught composure in tense situations such as that. Words meant nothing until actions provoked them. It was always best to remain calm until the opposing party revealed their hand. “No tell because you did not ask.” They slid the glass over the counter for Siobhan to take, grabbing their own bloody wine to pour for themself. “Dangerous to reveal, but now you know by looking at me?” Their eyes narrowed as they tipped their glass toward their mouth, pausing for a sip. “How you know? Will you tell?”

—

Siobhan took the wine gratefully, drinking it all at once. She should have stopped to savor it but her hands trembled and she needed her balm. What had the years without her aos sí done to her? Fates, she was a terrible soldier and a worse banshee; a real mess. She could turn her emotions off like a switch, she’d done it before—it was the only way she ever did it. Compartmentalize. Turn the pressure off. Siobhan tried. She slapped the glass back down a little too hard and winced at the rattle. “Sorry,” she mumbled and now she was apologizing to someone whose existence was a mistake. “How long have you been dead? Was it before or after your master?” She pictured the moments clearly in her head; all the empty walls Metzli must have stared at. Year after year. The same thing over and over again. Daytime could only be told by how sunlight burned across skin, but at some point, even that began to feel like nothing. She knew it. She’d lived it. With her back tormented by phantom aches the only thing that she ever lived for were the letters that came—first through the mail and then through her computer. Year after year. The same thing.

Something hit the back of Siobhan’s throat and she pushed her wine glass forward. “More wine,” she commanded. Something was flaring in her stomach; emotions she wouldn’t name. Her guts twisted. “I’m not human either,” she confessed in a rush. “And I live long; not proper immortal like you but…” Siobhan rolled her shoulders, emotions bubbled up and burst under her skin. She used to be good at keeping them quiet once. No, maybe she’d always been bad at it. Her mother always said she was too emotional. Perhaps she’d only ever been good at pretending she wasn’t. Siobhan shook her head. No, no, she was good at it. She was a faithful servant of Fate and a good banshee and her mother was proud of her. Yes. Yes.

Slowly, Siobhan pulled the glove off her right hand, revealing first the thick scar that ran like an equator across her palm. Then, turning her hand over, she showed off the letters that had been carved into her flesh and all the micro scars from her years of living. “I know what it’s like, at least a little bit. For years, years and years and years, to be treated like a…” No, no, there was nothing wrong with the way she had been raised. Siobhan snapped her glove back on quickly. “Sorry,” she apologized again. “You were saying?”

—

“About one-hundred-thirty years. Master turn me and forced me into clan. Be soldier for his bidding. Mindless and numb. I was thirty when I die. Village massacred.” Metzli explained, nodding and dutifully filling Siobhan’s glass to the brim. She was reeling, for some odd reason. It was too much emotion for Metzli’s liking, but they were starting to grow used to people’s reactions. At least Siobhan wasn’t human. She had that going for her. “Do not know why he chose me. Called me his favorite pet. Finally kill him last year.” The tale didn't spark any reaction, not externally. For a brief moment, something squeezed within Metzli, prompting them to sip on their wine quietly.

It was a relief when Siobhan revealed her hand, giving them something different to focus on, even if she hid it away just as quickly. Metzli looked toward the entrance, and then back to their guest, undoing the snaps and opening their shirt for their own reveal, but only the center of their torso. Their skin was painted with scars, and with no binder, so too was their clan tattoo. “We got tattoo when control was taught. Each line is ten year mark.” They sighed, snapping the buttons back. “No have to apologize. You made discovery and it gave you surprise. Is okay.”

The two were greeted with silence once Metzli finished speaking, waiting for Siobhan to respond. They liked the way she didn’t lie to them with a smile, not anymore. Not since she had entered and played her part as a polite guest. It was something Metzli could always respect. To have no fear of being oneself. How could someone not want to be? After over a century of someone preventing them the luxury, they couldn’t think of any reason to not take advantage of their new freedom.

—

Every addition to Metzli’s past slotted into Siobhan’s head like a puzzle; the picture grew with each horrible admittance and every casual explanation of horror. She could see it. She could feel it. No, no, what a terrible thing--was this empathy? Siobhan pushed the end of her palms against her eyes, trying to kill the imagined images with the explosions of color that came from the pressure. Prior to Wicked’s Rest she hadn’t so much as bothered with a conversation longer than a few minutes with anyone. She dropped her hands and stared at Metzli’s tattoo. She was supposed to get one; all Dolan’s did on their 100th year anniversary of awakening. She was cast out too early. And the scars--

Siobhan’s hands snapped up to her eyes again. There was a switch she could flip, she used to do it all the time. She just needed to find it again. Wine helped. Yes, yes, wine helped. Siobhan reached out, snapping the bottle up and bringing it to her lips. The liquid went down quickly and with ease, the way 1930s port was never meant to. She slammed the bottle back down, empty now. The switch was there somewhere; she could find it between the intervals of buzzing. “I don’t know if you realize how fucked up your life is,” she hissed. “You could write a book.” Her legs started to feel lighter; she bounced on her heels. “It’d be a bestseller.” The sensation of Metzli’s death started to blur with the orchestra of the world. “You killed him, yeah?” Her skin felt hot; the violinists were warming up, tightening their strings. “Did he suffer?” She reached out for the glass of wine that Metzli had filled as she asked, picking it up carefully. “I would hope so.” She took a slow sip. A song swelled at once through her head with the rush of blood. There was the switch.

She flipped it.

Siobhan smiled brightly, snapping into rigidly straight posture--just as her mother taught her was the correct way to stand. “You did surprise me!” She took more calculated sips of her wine. “I didn’t expect you to have so much history. Oh, but it’s not bad--” She waved a hand in the air. “Just surprising. I apologize for my display of emotion; I know, they’re annoying.” Siobhan took another sip and in a crashing wave, coldness settled into her body again. She didn’t think about how ironic it was that Metzli was trying to chase emotion while she was trying to push hers away. No, no, the thinking would ruin everything. “Sorry. Shall we move on with the tour? Pasts are such an unpleasant topic anyway. Crack on with the future, as the children say.” No child had ever said that.

—

“My life was fine for most part. Learn to fight and kill and hunt. Do not care for novel. Master will stay dead.” Whatever music played for Siobhan, it began to pick up in pace. Louder and louder, she willed it so. It was a wall of notes protecting her from the onslaught of pain that came with empathy. How funny it was that that was what the music did for her. It wasn’t a symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, meant to accompany one’s beat instead of drowning it. She didn’t want to let the emotions shout, to echo and grow powerful enough to shatter her walls of protection.

All the while, Metzli was practically begging for the composer to let the symphony start. To let it play without a resting beat so that they could truly begin again, and not just be the hollow carcass Eloy created. His little toy that he hoped to make a small version of himself. No, he would not live on. He was dead thanks to Metzli, and he would stay that way. “I make rebellion and we attack. Siblings die but we win.” They said, scanning Siobhan who was now finishing the bottle off in her cup. “He suffered. He died angry and scared when I twist head and ripped it off.” The last place he’d ever live is in their memory, his face full of fear as Metzli ripped his head off. His expression in a permanent state of terror.

They recalled the moment, their face unmoving until they spoke again. “I ran after. Many mad and wanted to hunt me, many want me to take over. I wanted to be free.” Metzli arched a brow, at last finished with their tale, and curious at the sharp change in Siobhan’s demeanor. “You are right. We move on.” It was better, if they were honest. She wasn’t emotional with her new mask of music. All the better, she was requesting the tour to begin. Metzli wouldn’t argue.

“Come then. Down this hallway.” Their hand pointed to a dark hallway, only lit by spotlights on the pieces on display. “We begin with the international exhibit. Pieces I curated from everywhere. Different periods like baroque.” Metzli circles around the desk and went first, expecting Siobhan to follow.

—

There was a tremor in Siobhan’s hands, a slight twitch as she stared at her reflection in the deep red wine. She was sure that Metzli didn’t fully appreciate at all how horrible their life was, but she knew that they knew it. When faced with a life like that, wasn’t numbness the only option? Siobhan shook her head; she was thinking again. She spent too much time inside her own head, her mother always said she did. “Have you done a painting of that?” She asked casually, maintaining her easy smile. “I think I’d love to see a rendition of you ripping your master’s head off--or anyone’s head off.” She imagined it coming off like pulling a piece of gum off from the underside of a table. Siobhan took another sip of her wine as she followed Metzli. Yes, yes, they were moving on.

Siobhan cast her earlier weakness out of her mind and forced it to stay locked in the same cupboards that housed her growing collection of mistakes. “Will you tell me where you’ve gotten these pieces from?” Siobhan asked. “I’ve only really seen European art, I never paid much attention to beauty as I traveled further.” She turned attention to the art; the cacophony of colors and texture felt like nothing to her now. It was a sad consequence of the switch but she wasn’t a muse, she could deal with not being able to appreciate art. Her momentary slip was humiliating enough, she wouldn’t risk it again.

—

Siobhan’s remark about wanting to see an image of a beheading perplexed Metzli. She had had a negative reaction to her discovery that they were dead, yet she wanted to see someone else’s death? Or was it the violence in the act that drew such a positive interest? Metzli pondered quietly, coming to a stop in front of a piece. They did still have a forger locked away in their hidden room. Whether they were dead or alive, Metzli wasn’t sure. They hadn’t checked since the night prior. For a few moments, likely too long, they entertained the idea of taking the tour elsewhere.

If Siobhan was okay with them murdering their master, then it seemed reasonable, to them, that she’d be fine with their murder room. Right? Wait, Metzli blinked, realizing they were in their head too long. “Do you want to see and learn about pieces or do you want to see a head ripped off?” Well, a possible beheading. If the man was already dead, Metzli wouldn’t desecrate a body like that post-mortem. Not unless they really had to. “Maybe. Have to see if man is dead first.”

—

Siobhan’s neck cracked as she whipped it to the side to look at Metzli. She blinked at them, thinking she hadn’t heard right. This was the wine produced wishful thinking; it happened all the time. ‘Hello, how are you’ often became ‘please kill me and take my bones’. “I’m sorry?” She blinked. Metzli didn’t look like they were joking, of course not. She wasn’t even sure Metzli could joke. “Fuck,” she exhaled with a quiver, “I would love to watch a beheading.” She really would; she always said she must have been born in the wrong millennium. By the time of her birth and completed training, public executions were not so much the fashion. Oh, to have been born during the guillotine’s prime. “Yes, very much. I would love that. Even just to see a dead body that’s not…” She gestured in Metzli’s direction, choosing to let her motion finish her sentence. “Not to offend you, but I like the dead dead ones.” She glanced back at the paintings. They were nice, but she wasn’t in the mood. A beheading, however, was just the sort of thing she was always in the mood for. She looked back at Metzli. “Please.” She gestured out. “Lead the way.”

—

Well, that didn’t take a lot of convincing, and an explanation was given. Siobhan liked both death and violence, but only if the dead stay dead. Metzli could respect that. They weren’t supposed to come back to life. Existing meant that they broke several laws of nature, bending it to the will of the bite. For a moment, as they guided their guest to their secret room, they wondered if that was the reason why Siobhan reacted so negatively.

Metzli’s heart was no longer beating, yet they continued on as if it was, unlocking a door and revealing a body on the ground in a room with the thermostat as low as it could go. She had a right to her beliefs, and in kind, Metzli would respect them. “Hmph…” They knelt on the ground, checking for a pulse. “Already dead.” Pools of blood and spatter painted the room, thick and coagulated from exposure to the air. An array of lacerations littered the man’s body, the knife only feet away on a metal table. “Thought he last longer, but…” Metzli stood up, stepping back, “Too weak I guess.”

—

Siobhan should have known that when she didn’t have to swallow a scream, there wouldn’t be any fun murder. Still, she had hoped for it. And still, she felt disappointed. “Oh,” she frowned, staring at the dead body. It was a fine display of blood loss; she could do better though. Siobhan stepped forward, kneeling beside Metzli. She didn’t question the purpose this room had--the cold didn’t bother her corpse-like body and if she hadn’t been taught how to cover her tracks by her strict mother, she’d probably have a murder room too. Siobhan looked at the blood on the walls and the knife on the metal table. “Nice handiwork,” she praised, still confident she could do better. She turned her attention back to the body. “What are you going to do with it?” She paused. “Can I have a bone?”

—

“Was going to feed body to my friend. She gets rid of evidence for me.” Metzli pulled their hand away from the man’s neck, tongue dragging over their fangs. They hadn’t even noticed that they extended, too lost in the moment of revealing one of their best kept secrets. “She usually eats everything—even the bones, but I will tell her to leave a few out. Which one do you want?” Eyes lingered over Siobhan, wondering for a moment–again–at what she was.

She was long-living, but not immortal. Has the ability to sense the undead by just walking into the room. These abilities weren’t exactly giving Metzli any clues, but they were intrigued. Maybe, if Siobhan didn’t answer their question, they could ask Honey. She was practically an encyclopedia of knowledge. They supposed that was the benefit to living four centuries, with freedom no less. That, unfortunately, wasn’t a luxury Metzli was afforded, so they had to stick to the old fashion method: asking questions.

“May I ask what you are?”

—

“Is your friend an incinerator?” Siobhan sighed, full of envy. She wanted a friend that would eat her dead bodies for her, bones and all. That was a true friendship. “Or a woodchipper?” She’d put a body through one of those once; it was a good time. “I have to wait?” She whined softly. “Can’t I just take one now? I’ll leave the meat intact—I’m very good at deboning a human.” She was starting to suspect she was so good at it that she could do it with her eyes closed. She hadn’t tested the theory yet but she was confident anyway.

“Banshee,” Siobhan said quickly, before her brain had caught up with the question. She froze for a second, wide-eyed as she stared at the dead body. She glanced at the wine that was miraculous still in her hand. She downed it all, eyeing the bottom of the glass and the drops of liquid that remained. Alcohol was also a double-edged sword: it helped with turning the emotions off but it made her mind less careful and her words sloppy. Well, she’d dug herself this grave she may as well lay in it. Metzli was being horribly honest; they’d shown her a murder room, let her drink vintage wine and offered to not comment about her earlier emotional outburst. All in all, there were worse graves to lay in. “It’s a type of fae, are you familiar?” Siobhan looked at Metzli, smiling. “Harbingers of death? Scream a lot? Beautiful? Great in bed?” The last two weren’t traits of the species, but Siobhan liked to think they were traits of herself.

—

“Banshee.” Metzli mimed, finding the word a little unfamiliar on their tongue. Though, it did have a twinge of something connected to it. They thought back, closing their eyes and furrowing their brows as they recalled a moment in time. It was Honey’s voice. In passing, she’d mentioned banshees, but far more than that, she spoke beautifully about fae. The way she even thought about them harbored close to worship. “Other folk.” They said, removing their knife from its holster.

With a practiced hand, the knife glided over the man’s skin, sinking into the neck with ease. Metzli thought giving the head would be best. Fitting that into a bag versus the odd shape of a limb? The answer was clear. Head. “Friend has told me about fae. Think she worships.” They continued to slice, blood coating their skin and squeezing their stomach despite the stale smell of it. “Never mention beds, but beauty yes.”

Tugging as carefully as they could, Metzli finished their mission, and removed the head with ease. “There. You may have this.”

—

“You have a friend that worships fae?” Siobhan’s were wide as she looked over to Metzli. Again, she found herself trying to search that impassive face for the lie and again, she had to remind herself that Metzli didn’t really lie. “I think your friend and I will get along,” she straightened up, smiling to herself. Yes, fae ought to be worshiped. So then, why did her stomach twist at the idea? Siobhan forced her attention to snap to Metzli and their actions. She’d expected to get a finger at most, a whole head was more than generous.

“That’s very sweet of you, Metzli.” Siobhan took the head with a bright smile, holding it up to gaze into the dead eyes. “This is a little romantic.” Siobhan peeked out from behind the head. “Wine. Art. A dead body. You gave me a whole head. You must be very popular with the ladies, Metzli.” She tossed the head between her hands, feeling the weight under her fingers. She dug into the soft, tender flesh. Perhaps she’d try preserving the whole head, this time. “Can I get a bag for this or…” She rose quickly, eager to get home and sit with the visions of death that accompanied the head. “Do you kill often, Metzli? You seem practiced with that knife—again, you must be very popular.”

—

“Yes. Scottish. Loves old ways and uses them a lot.” Metzli walked over the deep sink, washing their hands thoroughly. “Maybe you meet her eventually. She is always ‘round town.” Wiping off their hands, they turned back to Siobhan, watching her look almost adoringly at the head they’d just given her. Their brows quirked up, a little befuddled by the idea that everything they’d done had been taken as romantic. With Honey, that wouldn’t be so odd, but she was the only person Metzli had met that found their murderous tendencies attractive, or even remotely romantic.

Siobhan had to be poking at them, like Anita always did. Only…her expression said otherwise. And she did say she didn’t lie either. Metzli was inclined to believe her, but they had to shake their head to disagree and reveal the truth. “Not popular. People are scared of me.” They turned back to the sink, kneeling to sift around the cabinet below it.

“Only just have first kiss with friend.” A shrug, a passive one. “And first time. Many time now but only with her. Like I say, I scare people.” Finding an opaque bag, Metzli retrieved it and marched back over to Siobhan. “For you.” Their expression remained neutral, and they handed the bag off to Siobhan with a bow of their head. “Kill every few days. Many bodies in here every week.”

—

“Your first kiss… this week or…?” Siobhan blinked, staring blankly at Metzli as she waited for the eventual explanation. Metzli was a hunk, with women at their beck and call. At least, anyone who gave out wine this generously, didn’t mind an emotional outburst and showed off dead bodies with body parts in goodie bags must have been a true casanova. “And only with one person?” Siobhan blinked again, Metzli was not someone who joked. “I’m sorry—there’s nothing wrong with a lack of experience but uh…” She took the bag with an expression of bewilderment. “Murderers get laid a lot. It’s all the danger, it really attracts people. You’d be surprised at how many people I threaten to push down the stairs that end up taking me home—it’s strange the first time but people are really into it. It happened to me all the time.” With an emphasis on the past tense of the statement; Siobhan didn’t sleep around as much since her scars, it was always a hard topic to navigate.

“And you—you’re…” Siobhan gestured with the hand that held the back, knocking around the head. “You’re hot! You’ve got the whole emotionally detached angle—people love that, very attractive to them. And you gave me a head! A whole head! In banshee culture this is…I mean, you don’t just give any girl a decapitated head.” Siobhan sighed. “And you had your first kiss…just now?” Siobhan shook her head. “Metzli, I think you should harness your sex appeal more.” She looked over at the person crumpled on the ground, now head-less and still completely dead. “I can’t believe you’ve killed more people than you’ve kissed.” Somewhere sitting in there was a deep tragedy, something about being a tool unworthy of affection. But Siobhan wasn’t going to chase the thought, it didn’t seem to be a good idea to chase thoughts around Metzli.

“I guess I should get going but…” She paused, unsure this time why her body refused to move.

—

“No. Months ago when we meet. Have learned a lot from her. Says am good with knives.” Metzli looked up in thought, searching for anything else Honey had told them. She always said they were a quick learner, always eager to discover new ways to make her smile and ask for more. Finally, they remembered what Honey had referred to them as. They blinked, standing straighter as if they’d taken a victory. “Calls me…something about being on top and servicing.”

The way Siobhan reacted was a little bewildering, but Metzli learned quickly to always let people’s reactions ride themselves out. It was easier that way. Well, sort of. The easiest way to handle people was to simply walk away, but Metzli had a bit of a roadblock with Siobhan standing between them and the door. “How do I harness? Other friend try to teach me but nothing works. I say flesh looks edible and I am kicked out of business. No sense!”

Frustration, albeit briefly, furrowed Metzli’s brows. It was more of the fact that they failed at something rather than failed at picking up a woman specifically. It seemed like no matter how hard they tried, they were just broken. That they would never be able to fix or undo whatever Eloy had done. But that wasn’t a topic they wanted to think about

Sighing, Metzli rubbed at their eyes and relaxed their expression back to neutral. It didn’t serve anyone for them to behave the way they did. “Is fine though. All of it. Cannot just use truth. Can even say to you I would like to bed you and it will not work.” They gestured their hand to Siobhan vaguely, “Truth is too forward. People not like that very much.” Tisking to themself, Metzli leaned back onto the sink and nodded, looking back up to their guest. “Is okay if you have to go. Was actually nice to have you here. You are delight.”

—

“Yeah.” Siobhan’s gaze trailed from Metzli’s head to their feet. Her lips quirked up. “You would be a service top.” It was such an obvious conclusion that Siobhan chuckled as she pictured it--Metzli didn’t seem like the type to know how to take lead on their own. It was sweet, in a way. Whoever Metzli’s friend was, Siobhan was sure she was happy--satisfied. And that should have been it, an amusing thought and nothing more, but as Metzli continued Siobhan’s smirk grew sharper. Holding her head bag out on one finger, she let it slip off, bouncing off the floor. “Is that so?” She stepped closer, hand clasped behind her back. “Is that what you think, Metzli?” Her tongue darted out, quickly tracing the soft pink outline of her lip.

“Do you want to test that theory? Would you like to ask me to your bed, Metzli?” She cocked her head to the side, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement. She didn’t know if Metzli would meet her challenge, she didn’t know how serious they were about their friend, but none of it mattered to Siobhan. She wasn’t interested in romance and she never had a problem finding people who wanted to be naked around her. It had been some time for her, but she didn’t care about that either. To care would give more meaning to an act that wasn’t meant to have any. “I don’t have anywhere to go--I’m exactly where I want to be.” Siobhan lifted her hand into the air, pressing a finger firmly between Metzli’s collarbone. “Go on,” she smirked, “ask me.”

—

Well, that was unexpected. Metzli didn’t think their monologue of annoyance would turn into a duel of flirtations. They swallowed hard, standing straighter—feeling as if they somehow grew an inch taller. Siobhan was beautiful and anyone would be lucky to even speak to her. But to perform with her? The idea was daunting. Somehow, without even doing anything remotely intimate with Leila, Metzli knew that Siobhan would be an opposite experience. Similar to Honey maybe, but still different in that regard too. Their friend still cared for them even if it was rough, bordering on dangerous. But maybe that was okay. Metzli could use the experience. Honey would even be proud.

Shuddering at the contact, it was all the vampire could do to not snap at Siobhan. Lucky for her, Metzli saw her touch incoming, granting them the opportunity to see she wasn’t threatening them. They stayed put, swallowing again and keeping their composure as best they could. Their nerves began to crawl up and down their skin, but they persisted, miming the way Siobhan approached them with a press of their fingers to her collarbone. Not as much finesse, but still, they tried.

“I…I-I have bed in loft here. Can take you.” Metzli shifted their weight from one foot to the other, moving their hand away. What if this was a trick? Like one Anita would pull for a laugh? There was no way this would work, they thought. But they were already in too deep. They had to focus. Even if it was a trick, at the very least, an attempt was made and they could learn.

“Would you…would you like to go with me? To my bed, I mean.”

—

Metzli had done it, Siobhan felt proud in a way; like watching a baby bird take flight. A little clumsy but once the wind was under their wings, they’d get there. In a few months, maybe they’d get it all out without stammering. “I would like to fuck you, yeah.” Siobhan leaned in, “just make it worth my time.” When she’d entered the gallery, sex was the last thing on her mind though it was never far from her thoughts. Thankfully, whoever had taught Metzli had done a good job of it. She’d drop a thank you note except even her strangeness had its limits.

The night went on, stars, moon and all. And somewhere, in a cold room, a bagged head had been forgotten. And somewhere, in a loft, Siobhan felt happy to add her name to a very small list of people. Somewhere else, buried deeply, was a tragedy about tools and scars and unworthy affections and lack of experiences, but Siobhan didn’t think about that; to think about it would give meaning to an act that had none.

The night went on.

#hello metzli is a delight and i adore jojo #that is all #this was so fun #c: metzli #writing #I Write Sins and Tragedies #physical abuse tw #emotional abuse tw #torture tw #s1

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