Pierce Me

At the end of a crowded bar, Sly enjoyed a packed Halloween setting next to his friends. It was a balanced enjoyment, as he’d been reduced to dressing as a doctor, a boring choice since it was his profession. That was balanced out by another friend’s absence, the one he’d lost a bet to, that made him lazily wear generic hospital scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck; the fake blood streaked across the scrubs kept his look from being bland. He hoped it wouldn’t put off the blonde spotted in the crowd, hoping to offer “playing doctor” with her, but the imbalance of his evening revealed itself with a snide comment from behind.

“I’m sorry, sir. But are you Dr. Kevorkian, because you’re absolutely killing that outfit. Sickly-scrub green is so your color!” The words were uttered in a cheesy, Transylvanian accent, easily revealing the speaker’s costume.

Sly hung his head down, pretending his evening was beginning to go south, but smiling as he turned to meet Francine. Narrowed, annoyed brown eyes met blue-grey striking ones, framed by pale make-up, deep red lipstick, black cropped hair and clothing to give her a goth vampiress look. She had a nice figure that shined through her usual baggy, tomboy-ish style of dress; her Halloween costume was more loose-fitting than baggy, with a black satin cape wrapped at her back and connected to wrist cuffs, an intentionally seductive showing for once. Putting aside how particularly hot she looked in her costume, stirring up from something deep within, Sly smiled as he ran through a mental list of playful, vampire-themed insults to levy back at his frenemy.

“And that red compliments it so well; it says ‘I’m a walking malpractice lawsuit.'”

Since meeting as friends of friends, both Sylvester and Francine, natural competitive smart-asses, began their verbal jousts from day one, and made it tradition amongst their circle of friends to see who could deliver the best insults, no matter how childish. It was an unspoken fact amongst them that theirs was the strongest bond, and he brought out the best in her, in spite of a troubled past. Everybody took the insults in stride, but it always looked like a serious sport when they played. Against her opening salvo, he’d already found a response to rattle her wit. Or so he thought.

“Speaking of killing, thankfully you don’t have a reflection. That mirror won’t have to shatter itself, Nosferatu” was the pithy retort that never made it to his lips. His voice caught in his mouth, unable to get the words out. They wanted to come out, to be spoken, but kept at bay by an indescribable disconnect. Confusion was two-fold for Sly, unable to figure out why he couldn’t say what he wanted to say, and wondering why the hell words inclined to form at his lips almost came out.

He looked at her accusingly, and she drank it all in, getting closer to his bar stool, putting her ear out in-front of him.

“I’m sorry, what is it you wanted to say, or you really wanted to say?”

Their friends watched with fascination as Sly remained totally stunted, and Francine giggled helplessly, bearing costume fangs. Left with no answer, Francine went over to whisper the reason for his predicament, about the same time Sly put it together, or recalled something else Francine had told him. Words spoken sometime before the Halloween party, deeply intoned in her normal, American, unusually calming and sultry voice, the memory became ready to be remembered at that very moment.

“…and the next time you feel like saying anything embarrassing, insulting, or negative my way, you will be unable, unwilling, and helpless to say anything other than…”

“…pierce me?” Sly finished the thought in a shocked whisper to himself, shocked a little more as Francine rushed right back to his side, bearing a jubilant expression, tongue running along the fake fangs.

“What was that, my soft-spoken specialist?”

Shaking his head, he tried to right his speech towards the smiling goth. “I said I could recommend a good dentist for those teeth, or a good ban saw.” Only the first two words left his mouth, making Sly stop short again, willfully sealing his lips shut before two other words formed against his will. Anger rose to try to force out other words he had for her, but the only words allowed to come out, he wouldn’t let himself budge.

She rose her index finger to his tightened lips, tapping them playfully with her sharp, shiny black nail before he lightly batted it away.

“Aww, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, Sylvester? Don’t want to share yours with mine?”

Something about her delivery screamed ‘Transylvanian millennial,’ a seductive, sarcastic, inviting tone that only made him angrier to hide deeper feelings. “Aww, now you look distressed. Maybe you should remember the last time I got you to relax. That should help you…” her cackling practically followed on his way to the restroom, bypassing the blonde he was too flustered to even approach.

Splashing cold water over his face, he stared at his reflection, wondering what the hell she’d put him through, or put into him in trance. Slow, deep breaths matched ones she asked of him during her induction. He took the same breaths reciting a mantra used to steel his resolve. He had trouble recalling that mantra, while her words clearly came into focus.

“…there’s nothing to worry about as you listen. No energy you need to expend, no effort you need to put forth; that’s the beauty, and purpose of it – all you need to do is to let go. It’s why meditation never worked for you, you thought you had to do something. Hypnosis is so much better, a guided journey, ensuring that you need not even think. Just relax. Relax and enjoy the ride, and find yourself open to the wonderful possibilities, and opportunities…”

He could hear the wicked smile in her voice at the tail end of the memory, impressed with how she set him up for losing a wager with “just trying out my rusty hypnosis skills,” and “brainless as you are, maybe it won’t work like you think.” But the stakes of the challenge went far beyond what he remembered agreeing upon. Their constant rivalry convinced him that Francine’s soft, caring regard during the session was cheating by itself; buttering him up with her crooning skills was so damn unfair.

But what ranked most unfair was her vampiric portrayal that evening. As far back as memory took him, Sly always gravitated towards women dressed as a vampire. A long-standing fetish originated from late-night black-and-white movies featuring beguiling goth sirens. Using their wiles and supernatural qualities to take even the most resistant subject under, such media rewired his libido to respond to that stronger than anything else.

In the near year-long association with Francine, she was never far away from being associated with that fetish. Magnetic personality, dark attire, even eventually mentioning being a hypnotist, combined elements produced fantasies he dared not share with anyone. He typically stuck to conventional beauties, like the blonde he promised himself he would talk to, avoiding any chance to let what effect Francine had ever slip out. Unfortunately, adding in her costuming and post-hypnotic suggestions allowed her to totally embodied that fantasy, already beguiled beyond natural reason.

Reflecting on all his compromising thoughts, colder water was splashed over his face, shaking meddlesome memories aside to prepare. Despite the internal conflict, part of his mind was already settling on searching for ways around her stupid suggestions, hoping a clear path to victory would reveal itself before the party ended.

Francine didn’t disappoint, as Sly expected her to be standing by the door, waiting for a rebuttal.

“‘Just practicing hypnosis?'” Supposedly-false advertising thrown back at her.

“I practice hypnosis like you practice medicine; that still counts.”

Tapping a long, black nail to her blood-red lips, she waited for the next comment he would make.

Sly held his gaze, ready to test the bounds of her suggestions again.

“You sparkle like Twilight,” unfettered speech volleyed, blinking, surprising himself. “Wait, why did that insult work?”

“Because you know that I know that it isn’t one. I actually like the series; very amusing propaganda for actual vampires.”

“Of course you’d like it. If it sucks, you…” his voice trailed off as the sensation to utter two words he really didn’t want to got stronger, and almost slipped out. “Pi-” lips willed themselves shut again, staring down Francine’s amused look.

“Please, complete your sentence,” The hot accent returned, “cause it looks like you really, really want to. Vampires love to hear what sucks, or what wants to be sucked.”

Taking another deep breath, Sly stayed silent, letting his expression speak the words uncooperative lips wouldn’t.

“Some like to hear they even sparkle like Twilight. Maybe not in a full-body ridiculous way, but a ‘twinkle in the eye’ kind of way.”

Her gaze pointedly extended itself his way; Sly met it automatically, ready to stand-off and win regardless of the contest. This time, there was something strikingly beautiful about her blue-grey irises; equal parts beautiful and striking got him to lean in closer.

“But maybe twinkling is the wrong word. What’s that p word you use in the medical field I keep forgetting? Sounds like prefer?”

“Perforate?”

“That’s the one – perforate.”

The way she said it opened up another memory. “Now you finally can agree, there’s more to this silly hypnosis stuff than meets the eye. Suggestions carry so much power in our minds. That one you used to keep your mind strong, starting with ‘eyes on the prize.’ I love that phrase, solid, yet open to interpretation. To some, it might mean to focus, to concentrate, to resist. To you, I think it means ‘when your eyes meet mine, and you really start looking, you find them striking, not wanting to look away…you find suggestions like that to be so easy to accept. As you like to say at work, my eyes perforate yours; such is the prize for staring deep, the pleasure of sinking. Feel the shades of blue and grey, shades of cloudy clarity, hold and sink into you when I hold your stare. My eyes perforate and sink into yours like my words sink into your head, filling it with soft, striking hypnosis….”

“P-p-pier-” He shook himself awake at the last moment, almost taken down. He didn’t care how awkward avoiding her gaze looked as she shuffled away. She apparently didn’t either, unfazed by a flash of momentary resistance.

Looking for a small reprieve, Sly made it back to the bar to converse with his friends, all bearing smiles pertaining to his predicament. Assorted comments of “you were warned,” “this one-sidedness is entertaining as hell,” and “don’t challenge Francine on Halloween,” filled the air, appraising the opinionated doctor of how screwed he was. Speaking about using her hypnosis to rig their game didn’t surprise them in the slightest. Apparently there was even a stand bet going on about their challenge, not about who would win, but how fast Sylvester would lose. There was a sense that their words were just meant to bait him, coax him into struggling harder, but sensing it didn’t keep him from falling for it.

As if on cue, Francine showed up, ending the small, granted reprieve and giving her challenger a knowing smile.

“I don’t suppose vampires read minds, just so you can see my criminally-restricted thoughts.”

“‘Criminally-restricted thoughts,’ I like that,” she laughed at his eyes narrowing. “But nah,” the accent returned, “vampires read body language, and words and deeds,” crossed arms reflected sensing the next attempt, patiently awaiting it.

“Body language, eh? Well maybe you can read into this.”

Hands rising to form a crucifix with his fingers only made it halfway, subverting the clever subversion of physical insulting, as hands detoured to grip at his collar, bearing his naked neck to her. In a speedy panic, he covered his neck and threw is hands down at his sides. Everything about her expression remained unsurprised except for her eyes, widening and smiling like her mouth started to.

“Umm, let’s try that again.”

“Yes, let’s.” Accented mirth in her voice left him seething enough to force a middle finger. She saw it stand out the most at the knuckle, before every finger took the same detour again, and uncontrollable chuckling reflected Sly’s coerced offering. Before his hands could cover the neck and retreat, hands reached out to cover his, leaning forward to chuckle and leave a warm whisper against his skin.

“How I love what your body language is telling me, as if demanding to be punctured…” A sharp edge of her nails lightly raked over his cheek, down his throat in a soft pattern. Awareness seemed to slip, losing touch with surroundings as everything felt more like the isolation hapless subjects felt before a hypnotic vampire, ready to succumb as the idea of choice eroded, latching onto more of the old induction.

“In the grip of hypnosis, feeling its claws dig into you, holding you firmly, yet softly. Previously-steely maxims like that mantra of yours… ‘eyes on the prize, flesh they can’t compromise…’ but they can compromise it; you can feel it even now. Claw-like nails raking across your skin, a touch of sedation, a calming chemical reaction. The more you listen, the deeper you sink, the more you want those nails to sink into you. You want my nails to puncture your skin, filling you with an addictive tranquilizer that places you even deeper in my control. You want my nails to grasp you all over, your arms, your cheeks, your chest, digging into your scalp to sedate your brain, puncturing will power, injecting my will. Punctured by my nails…”

More of the hypnotic recollection lasted as long as the time before her nails deftly departed. Lingering sensations of her nails on his flesh remained, revealing how much that seduction was warranted, and wanted, leaving him with a growing degree of loss. Needing a drink, hoping blurred senses would be some kind of quick cure, he moved to get the bartender’s attention, asking for something strong. When he received it, he took his drink back to the group, realizing an unheard, but understood whisper was spoken when he bared his neck to Francine. The words made complete sense only when he stood in-front of the vampiress with a martini, just the way she liked it.

“Oh my, what has the good doctor bought for me?”

His angry stare lingered, but weaker than usual as he was suddenly afraid of meeting her blue-grey gaze.

“Holy water,” he wanted to say.

“Pierce me,” he nearly said.

“Your martini,” his lips settled on.

Graciously taking it from his hands, she let her long nails slide over the skin of his hand, just short of scratching it, not that Sly seemed to mind.

“Mmmmm, delicious,” she languidly sipped on her beverage, never taking her eyes off the man reluctant to meet hers. “Tastes like…victory.”

“Game isn’t over,” he spoke with the most surety he could muster that night. Looking out to the costumed crowd, the blonde came into view again. Francine turned her attention to the blonde after finishing her drink, staring in her direction with more and more interest. “But let’s call this half-time,” letting his voice turn suave, he approached the blonde. She was dressed as a zombie, horribly so since all the make-up did was accentuate her beauty. She noticed his approaching, focusing on his face, sharing a flash of reminiscence that they both shared.

“H-hi, I’m Sly.”

“Ellie,” they shook hands, Sly felt her name on his lips, like he could’ve stated her name before she did.

“I’m sorry, but-”

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Ellie stated, annoyed by being unable to place a face so familiar to her.

“We…definitely have, I just can’t tell from where,” Sly said, having the same issue. “And I realize that sounds terrible, referring to you as any kind of forgettable,” he temporarily gave up on trying to remember why she was familiar, and turned on his charm “but I don’t suppose we could start to get to know one another. Looking at you now, I don’t think I’m likely to forget you ever ag-”

Words stopped short as his eyes noticed long nails of hands appearing out of the vague darkness behind Ellie, resting on her shoulders. The blonde had felt the hands as Sly saw them, and turned her head to gasp at the sight of the owner. Before a look bordering abject terror could fully form, Francine gave Ellie a focused kind of look, one of deep interest that Ellie silently responded to. Even though it seemed like all the focus was being sucked from Ellie into Francine, there was some understanding between them.

Sly, on the other hand, felt mystified as he watched Francine assume hypnotic control of another victim. The only bad part of the mysticism was keeping his aroused reaction at bay, seeing probably pre-planned theatrical vampiric mesmerism happen right before his eyes. It irked him a little how she had to have known the exact effect she was, giving her any more power than she already had. While Ellie was lost in a hazy fog, Francine turned in Sly’s direction, holding her cape up to shield her face, just short of her eyes. Blue-grey irises perforated his sight, fixed him in place. Cool, sharp nails raked under his chin, puncturing his nerves with a suggestive sedative while holding his head where she wanted. He tried to speak, to say something, lips gently parted, but his slack jaw was too weak to even try to assist speaking.

“So that’s why you chose this bar tonight. And that means you probably set a room up nearby. I can’t believe you actually found her; the best really is yet to come tonight.”

Francine’s free hand took the stethoscope from around his neck, placing the headset to her ears. Lifting his shirt, unconcerned with the surrounding crowd, she placed the chest piece over his heart. She took a deep breath, nearly biting her lip with listening to his hastening pulse rate, knowing the hot blood was rushing through his veins, all for her. Smiling at him, bearing her fangs, she heard the pulse quicken more, so close to where she wanted him. After asking a few questions relevant only to a slumbering part of him, she soon lowered his shirt, and stepped closer to Ellie, snapping her fingers and breaking the individual spell Sly fell under.

“So nice to see you again, my old…acquaintance. Thank you for finding her for me, Dr. Sly.”

Ellie groggily opened her eyes, a happy, drugged look crossed her face as she stared at the vampire, smitten and focused totally on her. Francine glanced at Sly and smirked, leading the blonde she obviously knew away as she stopped to comment.

“Flirting with half-time cheerleaders to boost your confidence? Might as well admit that the game is over, Sylvester.”

“Plenty of games get turned around in the second half.”

“Go on and pretend the second half is still going; will be so cute to watch you concede before the game ends, much cuter than you begging for a date with blondie. If she could only see you holding wood like I have.”

Francine whisked Ellie away from Sly who barely seemed to mind, left with a stroke of her nails on the back of his neck. It left him placid in the middle of the crowded bar, left to reflect on Francine’s words. Instead of from a previous trance though, her “holding wood” comment brought back different memories. Strange thoughts pushed against piercing agents in his mind, thoughts of worrying about more splinters in his hands from holding, gripping wood without gloves. The nagging feeling wouldn’t go away, it pushed harder and harder in his head until the thought, and the wood, fully took shape.

Both came in the form of a wooden stake, gripped hard in his hand, the sharp end covered in blood. The veil covering Sly’s nighttime identity as a vampire hunter lifted. A force of will flooded back into himself from that thought, and realization made him panic, desperately beginning to move through the crowd to look for the blond and raven-haired pairing. He’d been tracking the vampire known as Francine for months, getting close to her based on known targets she was hunting, targets of which she held personal grudges against. Ellie was one such target, a known familiar of the one who’d turned Francine into a vampire.