It's been far too hectic a period for Drancy, lately. The emotional upheaval alone has been taking its toll : adding in the magical changes, revelations, discoveries, changes, and discussions, she's beginning to despair of ever finding a solid footing again. Add in growing self-doubt over career and lifestyle choices, and it's come down to a point where her mind is in a tumultuous whirl that she's having trouble riding out, let alone controlling.
Which is why it's come down to what it has. She's prepared for a night of drinking heavily, starting around three in the afternoon with a milk bath, filling the stained and rusted tub in her flat halfway with gallons of milk dragged up the stairs from the market for the occasion, then after soaking in it for about half an hour, draining it, and washing herself off with handfuls of lavender buds and rose hips. If asked why - she wouldn't have an answer, and that too makes her defensive.
So around eight o'clock in the evening, Drancy's finally walking into Phantasmagoria, with the arrogance of Fiona and the cockiness of any London punk. Her hair's long, little braids here and there again with the crystals, some of the braids streaked with dye in green and pink and purple. She's pulled on a tight black leather miniskirt that Dot'd make catty remarks about, paired with a purple top that lifts and separates as if her life depended on it doing so, and a pair of boots lace up past her knees. It's paired off with an open duster that'd by itself get her kicked out of any American high school, but the only makeup she's wearing is a touch of kohl, and a touch of dark purple lipstick.
She makes a beeline for the bar, grabbing a stool for herself. "Bottle of Stoli Vanil," she orders brusquely, "and a glass. If I run out, keep 'em coming." She slaps down fifty pounds, glaring at the bartender, as if expecting to be challenged. But hey, it's a bar and a club. People get drunk all the time, don't they? The light glints off the charm around her throat, the silver handcuffs worn as a double bracelet around one wrist.
There's one gent who has been eyeing those silver handcuffs and has a few ideas about how they should be used, but that's another story for...quite another time...
The Phantastic Phantasmagoria, the Phab Phan or whatever the fuck they're calling it these days, is already just...packed. Cage dancers going at it, coed in some, and there's one with magenta and plum-streaked hair making a name for herself. You'd know those tits anywhere. You've seen them in your apartment as the hands that go with them rifled through your closets....
There is a swirl in the crowd, an eddy that is created and gathered around one of the few half-moon booths. In the colored light, one might catch the glimpse of laughter. And you... you know there's energy afoot. An electricity that might make your skin either 1) crawl or 2) hairs stand on-end and your skin get all goosey. Might cause a shiver ... or a chill. And it's just pinging off the walls over there. And you might notice how the women are gathered over there. One slipping into the booth, others trying to be noticed...
"Stoli vanil," the keep says, a woman with blonde hair piled platinum. She smiles and sets the glass in front of you. "Wanna just start a tab then?"
That brings a frown to her face, all that energy. It's the feeling of - 'I should know what this means, already...' Drancy hasn't even noticed the glance to the handcuffs - unless it's right in her face, she has a tendency to overlook the obvious, and an eye isn't enough, in her current mood. "Mm," she half-heartedly agrees. "Sure, a tab. I'll ... come back, when I need another hit." She's spotted Dot, now, and that, combined with the 'feeling' she's getting, makes her edgy and restless enough to want to change locations...
"May as well," she mutters, standing up and pouring her first shot with a twist of the wrist that rounds it off without spilling a drop. Gulp. Drancy shudders slightly, giving in to the heaviness of the liquor. Stoli vanil has a slightly oily texture to it - it slides down easily enough. Another shot's poured and drunk, and then, deeming this insulation enough, she begins making her way through the press of the crowd...
"Sure thing...give your name to the your waitress and we'll get you set up. I trust you to be good," the bartender likes you. She really likes you. She gives you a wink and spins about to her next customer. Lovely thing she is too. Very British, very blonde, but in a good way...
That energy is strong. Pulsating like the music around it. Like the lights. Like the heartbeats of the dancers in the cages, on the catwalk, around the half-moon booth.
Dot doesn't see you, she's on-the-clock. Topless, wearing painted on magenta hot-pants. Did you know she was that acrobatic? Wow, limber. Sieg is a happy, happy man. And man...oh MAN... would her parents be smoked that she's here. Hell, you know her. It's probably the reason she took the gig...
The crowd is thick and writhing. Waitresses slink through it, hair of almost every shade. Some dressed. Some half-dressed. Some in bondage gear. This once was the premier BDSM club of London. It still has touches of that, but it's a lot more glossy. The clientele has changed a bit.
That laughter. You know it. Two voices you recognize. And the language? Welsh. The laughter? One voice earthy. The other voice smooth. If you peer past the crowd, you'll see the founders of all that energy. The press of flesh. The inspiration for the sin that is starting to bubble up to the surface.
William...
Davydd...
Together...
And a topless woman is sitting on William's lap -- one of the waitresses who found a reason to go "off duty" -- her right breast painted with glitter. Her left breast cupped by one of William's large hands. The table is absolutely littered with empty glasses, a few bottles. And there is a cloud of cigarette smoke -- or... it's SOME kind of smoke anyway -- hovering above the table...
Oh. Fucking Christ. Well, no, that hasn't turned up yet, but Drancy's sure it's just around the corner. "Screw the glass," she mutters, disposing of her shotglass on a recently abandoned table's surface, "I need it straight." Suiting action to words, she tips the mouth of the bottle up slowly, swallowing it until her throat burns and she has to pull it away, gasping.
Now then... how to deal with this? I'm not nearly fucking drunk enough to tackle the two of them together. Hell, even stone fucking sober, I'm at a disadvantage ...
Absently, she lifts her hand to her mouth. It's times like this, when the soul inside starts getting too big for the flesh that contains it, that she's tempted to do things a different way - smash the bottle, cut herself up and start a fight, start a fire that will burn on unendingly... It's the instinct which made her challenge Huw, it's the instinct which made her yell at Hwyll, the impulse which made her cock a fist at Davydd. And it's strong tonight, burning fiercely with unguided emotions she doesn't know how to, isn't willing to give in to. And as ever, it makes her reckless.
Bottle held loosely at her side, she jaunts a wave to Dot. Even if it's not noticed, well, so fucking what? Drancy starts making her way through the crowd at a negligent stroll, the arrogance of the Earl's daughter and the London punk combined once again. "Oi!" She calls it shrilly. "Davydd and William. How ... very something." Inspiration fails her. Time for another hit on the bottle.
William has undergone a ... seeming transformation. It took Davydd a bit of getting used to -- neither of them will be shocked if you fall into staring. The beard is gone, and along with it the oily look of aristocratic Eurotrash. Now, he seems perhaps only aristocratic. Even in modern clothing. He has a bearing about him, a carriage that belongs to those naturally majestic -- Majesty notwithstanding. There is no hiding it -- beauty and power are barely checked at all, letting those around him feel and see it for what it is. Foreign or no. Overpowering or no. He no longer apologizes. He no longer cares.
He's dressed for his surroundings, so new leather is back on, along with some fitted, synthetic shirt -- not only does it fit him like skin, it's transparent. So, the knight's build is no longer a mystery. The long leather coat -- reminiscent of those worn by WWI RAF pilots -- is crumpled on the seat of the booth betwixt he and Llewelyn.
Indigo eyes light up -- and as he's lit up, they're quite bright indeed -- at the calling of his name, and breast in-hand, he leans forward, eyebrows shooting up. "Well well well, isn't this quite the surprise." His accent is still heavily French, but there are anglicised syllables now -- perhaps it's the speaking of Welsh with Davydd and the surroundings that make it so...
Davydd pops back, fiery eyebrows cocking up and quicksilver smile slanting on his mouth. His forest green eyes are wild with ....whatever it is he's on. And no... neither one of them are... drunk... per se. Not as such. Though, perhaps alcohol was the vehicle. "Holy shite, of all the times and all the places..." Davydd roars a laugh and scoots over, opening up space for you to sit. "d'Angevin is buying... belly up to the bar, my dear... drinks on the house..." And yeah, if you sit down, the Oak King's arm will be around you.
Normally, even Drancy's recklessness would not stretch so far. Sit down with, in such close proximity to, even on a man? Never. She'd rather be thought of as one of the boys... But tonight, it's a different story. With everything pressing from under the surface outwards, it almost radiates out from her. Fear no more the heat of the sun, indeed. "Why not?", she shrugs, and tips the bottle back to her mouth again. A soul-kiss, as it were, though she doesn't spend time vamping it up : her eyes half-closed, she swallows in great gulps as if drowning in it. She'll be very drunk before the night is over...
"'Ere, you, get out of my way." She's got no patience, even now, for the hordes of pretty things that seek to cling ever closer like moths to opposing flames, and squeezes through to the table, bottle settling down uneasily before she settles down herself with a shower of beads tinkling in her braids. "Fancy meeting you two here," she says primly, mimicking her first governess with great deliberation. "Whoever would have thought. - What's up, wankahs?"
"Why don't you go get us a couple of those...lavendar martinis," comes the leonine purr, that voice that could make most wiggle out of their clothing. And she would, that young, bodacious waitress on his lap -- if she had much clothing to wiggle out of, that is. And if that look, that smile, that voice weren't enough, the fingers giving a strategic squeeze of a nipple would have. "And whatever our new tablemate and old chum," as if, "...wants...and as much as she wants," he adds, indigo cutting sidelong to you. His hand slides away and with a pat upon her thigh, he signals it's time for that drink.
Davydd snorts, billowing smoke as he scoots over. "Bah, I see no wankahs here. Thankfully, we have people willing to do that for us..."
"That sounded downright White of you, Llewelyn..." comes the quip coupled with a laugh. And William lights a cigarette.
Davydd just smirks. "So... little missy, who've you been tormenting lately? I haven't seen you in ages. Course," an earthy, rumbling laugh, "I've been a bit..." Well you know...
And William certainly does. He settles back with a shite-eating grin, reaching for a cigarette. "Look at Davy... sick with love... never thought I'd see the day..." He lights the cigarette and his gaze, no longer distracted by the breasts, settles on you, Drancy. Brilliantly. He looks like a Michelangelo this way.
She leans back, she does - way back, against the back of the booth, to make herself comfortable, and crosses her legs. In that short and tight a skirt, it almost requires a blush, or at least a pout. The punk does neither, changeable gaze challenging and direct, darting from one set of male eyes to another as she then leans forward to pick up the bottle. "Old chum, now, is it?" That almost mellows her with amusement. She doesn't bother commenting to the waitress. Sisterhood could never lie between them, and anything else would seem insulting or condescending, and she is interested in neither.
"I can see that you both have them lining up to give you hand jobs, yahr. Like an open-up adjustible bed - pull on the strap and their legs fall open." Her own quip almost amuses herself, and she smiles grudgingly, tinged with feral snarl at the edges. Oh, look, she's got the bottle. She tips it back, closing her eyes and inhaling before swallowing, then sets it down a bit harder than necessary, lips glistening wetly when she does.
Drancy glances sidelong at Davydd. "Tormenting, is it? Torment? Brother, you've yet to see me torment anyone. But," and she lowers her voice to a husk, teeth gleaming through the smile, "if you insist, maybe I'll show you fuckin' torment." She yanks her gaze back to William, settling her hands in her lap with sedate decorum - a mocking little gesture. "Sick with something, anyway. I don't know if I want to believe in fairy tales like love."
"I do. It's the only fairy tale worth mentioning." And the smoke eases from his mouth, scented. Not tobacco. Cinnamon. Hashish. Something else. "And I prefer a good blowjob. But..." William flashes a grin, "...the night is young. And so are all of them..." A nod to the gathering that is still posturing toward them, however unconsciously.
The topless waitress returns, built like a brickhouse, solid as she is slender, and she's carrying a tray of purple colored liquid in martini glasses, remembering the extra olives from the last order, and in her other hand there's a bottle of Stoli Vanil. She sets it down in front of you. "Tigerlily likes you," must be the bartender's stage name. "She says it's on the house..." She smiles back to Davydd and William, and curls up on William's lap again, handing Davydd his drink first...
... and, yes, he is watching her lean...
And then she brings William's up to his mouth, so supplicant. She'd sell her soul. If only she knew he had already taken it. "Merci," William murmurs, sipping at it as his left hand goes back to playing with the woman's breast. His right hand holding the martini glass and the cigarette. "Well, if you weren't a chum, you wouldn't be at this table, yes?" William says, chuckling. "Hmmm...Stoli Vanil... so...what's the occasion for your hammering?" You're obviously trying to get drunk. Why else would you drink that rot?
Davydd grins, settling back with the designer drug du jour, sipping at it, then popping an olive in his mouth. "Love's alright. Beats the shit out of the alternative. But you know... I didn't used to miss it. And you wouldn't... if you'd never had it. It would be like... being born blind, I guess... how would you miss that you couldn't see, when you had never been able?"
"Damn... that was almost poetic..."
A blink. Free vodka? Wow. And it's not even from someone trying to get into her panties, or get a review. She peers owlishly at the waitress. "She's not in a band on the side, is she?" That was reflex, though, pure reflex. So is finishing off the already opened bottle in front of her. "Thanks." Glug. And she is indeed working on getting thoroughly hammered, finding it easier to lean back than it is to sit with ramrod straight spine right now, not quite slouching, cheeks burning with the fever flush of the alcohol.
"You know what they say," she quips, "If you can't be with the one you love, then ... there are substitutes to be had ..." Drancy snags the new bottle and starts tearing at the plastic seal incompetently. The incompetence is only partly due to drunkenness - she's hampered by having let her fingernails grow a little longer, and she's just still not entirely used to that. The 'bracelet' slides up and down her wrist as well as she scowls at the bottle.
"In my case, since I refuse to love again unless I have to," blatantly, she shoves thoughts of Huw, or what he might be a substitute for, or even of older scars, away from her mind, she's drinking to forget about all that - she scowls horribly at William (how dare you remind me?) before returning her attention to the bottle and her sentence. "I occasionally find this works to release all tensions. By the end of the night I will be leading either a naked revolution through the streets to Parliament, or I will be in a hospital bed."
And another look to Davydd, a low, intense stare that's more myopically intense due to the bubble of vodka in her blood. "Who says I never have? Some people live for the goal, some for the chase. And some just run away. Don't worry, Welshman, I'm sure if you're wanting to, you'll get your rocks off well before dawn. Who knows, maybe you'll even catch me pouting at you both."
"Ah well... you know my breed," he rumbles to William. Welsh and their poetry and close harmony singing." He raises his glass to William and murmurs Welsh. He calls him brother. There is something between them. Something old. Something rich. It's like they share skin, in some ways. They drop into an easiness, even with you here.
Even with a breast in one hand and a glass in the other...
Hell, that probably just reinforces it...
"Refuse to love?" William queries, half-gently, half-incredulous. "No one is that bold. No one is able to escape its grasp. There are those who contend that Death is the greatest force of the natural universe, but it is Love. Like Death, it spares none... but unlike Death, one is not numbed to its effects." William winks after that bit of prose. "Good luck."
The woman starts at his ear -- he is fondling her breast after all -- but William leans back, giving her a squeeze. "I do not think that was in our agreement... sit still, little plaything..." For that you are. And strangely... in this liberated age... she agrees. But then, she doesn't really have a choice.
Davydd pops another olive. Unseen, a fang pierces its flesh, thrilling at the sensation. "I didn't say you in particular. That was the greater or... general... you. Don't be so touchy," follows the quip. "And I will get my rocks off before the night is off. That's the beauty of being me. I'm just sitting here in shock," his hands gesticulate wildly toward William, "...that Mr. I Prefer Dick is sitting over there with a tit in his palm. Color me speechless..."
she laughs at this, albeit a little bit wildly. "Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart - the centre cannot hold - and mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." Yeats, she's quoting. Who would have guessed she was so literate? "Maybe it's impossible to resist, dammit, but I'll be the one whose body will be broken and bloodied before submission becomes inevitable."
At the moment, there is nothing terribly defiant about her other than her words, however. Her head's tipped back against the back of the seat, one arm lifting to toy with the spray of beaded and baubled locks while her other absently picks the last of the plastic film away from the bottle. "Looks to me like he's enjoying himself - and her - just fine," observes Drancy. "I refuse to get into a tit-sizing competition, however. She'd probably win, anyway, I don't paint mine."
"Yeats," Davydd points to her, gesturing with a cigarette. A wink. "I don't mind him much. Though, in truth, I must say I prefer the poets of my own country. Sure, the Irish can spin a yarn, they're handy at the telling of tales, but no one sings like a Welshman... no one rhymes like a Welshman..."
"No one speaks utter shite constantly like a Welshman," rolls the languor of William's voice, English spoken but French everywhere evident. "And I'll let you in on a secret about men and breasts. Most prefer them no larger than the palm... like... the apples upon a Normandy tree. Firm. Easy to hold. More than that...?" He shrugs and reaches for Davydd's cigarette, plucking it like the very thief. "Rather pointless. Well, unless you're going to fuck them... and then it's handy to have a bit more padding. But really... other than that, there is no reason."
Davydd actually goes a bit pink at that and blurts out laughter, kicking the table. "Have a care, Pla -- " And he stops himself. Catches himself, wide-eyed and then smirks. "Playa...you've been spending too much time with Edoooward..." he does a good French accent, mimicking William's provencal drawl. Green eyes, deep forest, hills and dales of Wales, flecked with periwinkle, settle on you, Drancy. "So what has you on this topic of love and avoiding it. You got a crush on someone?" Not Huw. Not if you're smart. He's a right devil. Not me, I hope. Davydd flashes a grin at the thought.
William gives the girl on his lap a pat, and with a last squeeze sends her on her way. She'll wander aimlessly for a while. Well... after she brings the next round.
Opening the fresh bottle, now the shredded plastic lies discarded, the punk brings it to her lips like a benediction. Eyes closed, she pours it down her throat thirstily. "I've never had any complaints about my tits, actually," comes the dry response, voice startlingly crisp and clear for the amount of alcohol she's drunk. "Of course, I haven't tended to show them off, either."
Virgin. Even if she doesn't always act it, it's still there, after all. Davydd gets a curious look. "I'm not a playa?", she mimicks, then slouches back down in her seat, and reaches for the bottle again. "Love, love, fie on love, a pox on't, a curse, a plague, for love is all of those things and more." Irritably, she waves the vodka, narrowly avoiding splashing it. "If I could, I would lock my heart in a box and seal it wi' a golden pin, that I would need not worry about rogues and vandals and thieves..."
Trailing off, Drancy stares off into space for a moment, almost catatonically, eyes huge and silvered with the reflection off the glass, off the lights - silence, for a long moment. "To love for one, is no sin, though very inconvenient. To love because of another, the memory and the image... Ignore me, my wit's diseased and I speak in riddles. I need a good fight."
"A box can be stolen," William leans in, across Davydd's body -- and Davydd doesn't seem to mind it, though he does lean back a touch. And William's hand comes out, quick... so quick, his finger on your lips. "And any lock may be picked..."
"William..."
He ignores Davydd. With the press, the light press of his finger upon your mouth, there is the energy again, that hum. Of something old, of something powerful -- is it merely confidence? Look at his eyes, no... don't look at his eyes. But their attention is palpable. Deep. Beautiful. Can they be ignored? There is fire on the air. A crackling. His thumb moves across your mouth. "There are theives in the world who would flock to such a... seeming...inpenetrable lock," a raven eyebrow lifts slightly, and he withdraws, the touch receding, but felt all along the way.
William settles back, and lifts the drink to his lips. A sip. And he grins at the rim.
Fiery eyebrows lift and Davydd smirks. A look to Drancy. Will she need to be revived?
It's with an avid sort of reluctance that for a brief moment, she locks gazes with William, then - almost angrily, she tears it away again. Drancy's energy is there, still, pushing out from under her skin impatiently, poorly contained at best. "You know, I've challenged hunters to hunt me and damn near won. Don't make me try to break your nose, too." The last thing she needs is William to add himself to the names struggling to be writ on her heart.
Of course, that doesn't stop her from blindly groping for the bottle, and pouring another good inch or so into herself. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she adds, bitterly, "Don't try to make me challenge you. Summer's lease hath all too short a date as it is. There's nothing special about me, and what'd I ever do to you that you want to put me in that position?" She tries hard to ignore the tingle in her lip, the uncomfortable flush to her skin.
He laughs. Rich, the sound and warm. And amused. And delighted. And Knowing. "You should not bait the hook, if you do not want to catch a fish, ne c'est pas?" William lights another cigarette, this something of clove, and he laughs again, eyes lighting up. Indigo. Even they laugh. He has not met someone so full of themselves since he last looked in a mirror.
Davydd laughs at that and looks at her. Giving her a look, in truth. You are playing with fire, little Drancy. With the god of fire. He's not laughing now. "He gets off on making people uncomfortable," he quips at last, humor lifting. "He's an aristocrat... that's what they do..."
"Ah now, Davy-bach," William rolls, exhaling scented smoke. "You say that like it is a bad thing...."
That prompts a puzzled look. "What're you talking about, baiting the hook?" She has no idea... none at all. And, after all, she's qualified everything she's said. Try to. Nearly won. Drancy shrugs a little, wrapping both hands around the bottle as if it's a lifeline, nearly empty as this one now is nonetheless.
"I know all about aristos. Don't bloody get me started." Her chin jerks up and she ... well, turns Fiona on like a light, as if mimicking a role. "No, dear. While I do appreciate your considerations, I'm terribly sorry, that just isn't quite good enough." Except - no, it's not Fiona after all, is it? Not that they would know. With savage mockery, she continues, "After all, she's not really our type, is she? If she were any more intelligent, she'd know, but no, she's only smart enough for us to use her. Pity, in a way, the silly cow'd be rather amusing to spread her legs and shove it in. I can't wait to see the look on her face..."
The neck of the bottle cracks suddenly under the pressure of her hands, and she starts at the sound. "What-fucking-ever, mates. Some kinds of pain are just preferable to others, you know? I haven't given either of you an offer, and I doubt you'd take me up on it if I did, so what's the big bloody deal?" Drancy starts absently picking glass out of her palm.
Too much drama. William turns to Davydd with a bland expression. She's all yours, mate. You can keep her. "I've had about all the female energy I can take on a given night," he quips, with a smile of slanting largesse, and William rises, a mighty height indeed. "And you wonder why I am gay...." To Drancy, there's a winning smile. A soul-stealing grin and a bit of a wink. "Relax. You're making it too difficult..."
And he doesn't explain. He doesn't believe he needs to...
Davydd snorts a chuckle, downing his drink and smirks. "Well, you make friends fast..."
"Sorry, but I wasn't born with a y chromosome. You'd have to take it up with my father, but then, my luck, you know the bleeder," comes the mildly voiced retort. Gay, bi, het, she really has no preference or concern about it, though William's next comment puzzles her, causing her to look at him owlishly. "Making what too difficult?" No, she really doesn't know or understand. Under the skin, she is ... innocent, frighteningly so.
A glance to Davydd, and she flexes her hand, testing for bits of glass still - but it wasn't a thorough shattering, so she's gotten most of it. "I suspect that's my cue," Drancy says quietly. "Whatever. See you. I'm going to dance or something." Probably or something, she's far too aimless for the energy which crackles around, it drips from the blood from her palm. It's almost psychedelic, thanks to the alcohol, thanks to everything - and she is drunk, no doubt about it. She'd never have said or even remembered... "Friends?"
Posted by rowan at June 02, 2003 07:41 PM
