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.
