Contra Dick-Tions!

December 09, 2017:

Sugar meets Regan again, they exchange drinks and blows.
A TV dies.
(Rated R for Violence, language, Innuendo)

Gotham Arms - 6th Floor - Gotham

The whole 6th Floor belongs to the SKWAD, and the roof.


NPCs: None.

Mentions: taskmaster


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

A yell goes across the Diner/Quicky Dick's 'Fine Dinery' and Swift Black Hen Pantry. "Delivery to Gotham Arms, top floor Apartment…"
"Awe man, I do not wanna wander into thet ghetto, ain't gonna tip anyway…"
"Tough, take the order or take your final check."

It's Gotham, afterall, even if going to the Diamond District you could get your own fancy chalk outline.

But at a booth nearby a lift of chin painted white lifts, long black strands of dreds mingled with braids shadows the pattern that darkens and hollows out features into a Skull pattern and the faux smile decorated into place… Colorfully.

The delivery man leaves, disgruntled, the bag snatched from the counter and in a bluster the door-chime rings once… Then twice, as platformed boots follow behind him.

…. "Tha fu—- ?" The delivery man is ass over elbow over his delivery car's hood, the bag snatched by fishnet clad hand, the cigar clasped between fingers still smoking. The tab ticket pulled and with a draw of money pulled from her bra she tosses a couple bills his way, making it rain on his hood.

"I tipped. You can pretend you won, puto." A tap to eye and Sugar is gone, getting into her El Camino and heading for Gotham Arms. She knew that address.

Regan Wyngarde taps two hundred dollars against the wooden floor surrounding the island. That is to say, that she taps one half of a four hundred dollar pair of calf boots with buckling up the ankles against the floor impatiently. Impatient is a state that Regan has been in, now, for weeks.

In the last year she's broken her vow against tattoos, now having dotted her shoulders with bleeding roses and her ribs with lettering, the former visible against the knotted cling of what was once a black tee shirt hacked at with a razorblade until it became a window into the slope of her tattooed lower spine and an over-wealth of 'side-breast'. They never ask for tips when she answers the door like this. But more so, in the last year she's tacked herself to the service of a goddess, gain and mysteriously lost a girlfriend, and now the less fun of the two is breathing down her neck to retrieve a 1500 year old organ.

So, yeah, Regan is testy…and she's waiting for a signature Waldorf Salad and side of Tiramisu that will only /somewhat/ quench the burn for the next twenty-four hours.

"Where the fuck is that guy?" Regan snatches up her phone and plants the hip of a plum-colored skirt that wavers around her thighs into a stool. "Stupid blue-collar immigrant fucks take on delivery jobs they should be able to deliver. How hard is it to pick something up and take it from one place to the next." She taps the button and sways her long, blonde hair out of the way, eyeing daggers at the front door, and presses 'CALL'.

"Outside the door the 'Call' is ringing in the tone of 'I Fink You Freeky' tone, Regan can likely hear it, and a barrage of cussing before bags shuffle and a booted toe kicks at the door in a 'Knocking' of Nevermore'.

Sugar does not have a key, and right now a Black N' KillU is stricken between deep purple lips lined in painted on toothy Cheshire Grin. Through the peep-hole she is hard to mistake while she not only shuffles and likely 'Puddings" the Tiramisu in her scatter of 'bags' she finally tests the lock and uses a pinky as well as a hip to throw the door open?? (Fingers Crossed!)

If successful, she is striding right on in, her dress of black and purple laces riding up a hip that props a bag upon it, garters the only stretch to high upon thigh, in the ride upward. "I think he got fucking punched in the eye… So! I also brought…" Bags begin to be emptied. "Cerveza Chango, because that Dusseldorf sheit is nasstttee pisswater…(apparently NO CLUE Task is vacant for the time),"
"Some Tequila with the weerrmm…" Bottle wiggle.
"Thai!" Why? Cravings? Sugar remembers!
"Incense, cuz shit got bad mojo in he-" A pause on Regan and she holds out the -Shaken not stirred- bag of Salad and Pudd- Tirafluffcake.

"I tipped."

Regan's black-and-violet manicured thumb ends the call when the ringtone signals behind the door. With an over pronounced roll of her eyes worthy of a teenage Lifetime(tm) drama, Regan claps her boots against the floor on a stomp towards the door. She's got neatly folded bills in her hand and her painted lips rear back in the beginnings of a scowl as the door busts open.

Regan's arms fan out as she backs up quickly on the heels of her boots. The hard flat of the serious footwear is like a laugh track. They're not fighting boots, they're 'free tips' boots, and she backs away like a started stripper in five-inch heels.

Regan stops and throws her wrists toward the center of her hips and snarls at 'the help'. Regan's hands turn outward and she keeps the money in between her ringed fingers and rips the covered packaging out of Sugar's hand with a high-pitched squeak of a growl.

"Thanks, Intern." Regan huffs and clop-clop-clops her boots over the the table. She slams the carton down and opens it up, only to slap her hand against her forehead and stare mournfully down at it.

"Did you say tequila?" Regan mutters down at the unhealthy mix of lettuce, tiramisu, walnuts, and grapes. "Sugar, please tell me that you just said that you have tequila because it might just save your life right now."

"Well… Mezca… But you people call it Tequila. I guess it makes it feel 'safer' here, but then again…" The bottle is lofted by Sugar who is watching Regan carefully after…

If she did not protect that money, Suagr will snatch it from her ring laden fingertips, maybe even a ring or two!

"Intern," Scoff! "I learn, I am eff-iihh-chent/e/." But the groan over Regans 'shaken not stirred' meal has a painted on brow lifting a bit higher to hairline. "I had to hit him, he was a /bolsa de pitos/." A small gesture of pinched fingers in emphasis.

A bag of 'small dicks'.

"Sorry for tossing your salad." Is she, really?? The cigar is ashed into the sink and the bottle of Mezca is placed between them. "You look like you can use a moth, and not the butterfly, I brought for all. Like a good leetle intern."


Regan isn't minding her surroundings. She's staring down into her destruction of vital calories like she's analyzing a crime scene photograph that she /doesn't/ want to be looking at. The fifty dollars worth of tens slip out from between her fingertips, but her rings? Regan has the sense to clench her fists and leave another high-pitched grunt to the sugar-skull mercenary.

"Yes, you're an INTERN, that's what interns do. They learn, and they get people's coffee and stuff and the good ones get the dinner from the bucket of dicks before it turns into an absolute mess!" Regan speaks quickly, thrusting her fingers around the bottle of tequila and hoisting it to her breast. She slaps her palm to the top of the bottle and works at the wrapping. "This Mezcal is going directly to me and if anyone bothers you about how it wasn't used by everyone else, then," Regan lifts her eyes to the taller woman's. "Tell them to eat a /bolsa de pitos/ because I have seniority in this outfit."

Regan, clearly frustrated, grunts at the wrapping and the cork to the bottle. When it's clear to her that she can't muster up the wrist torque to open the thing, she drops her head down to avoid Sugar's eye contact…

…and holds the bottle out to her.

"Don't make me say it, Sugar."

The clench and snap, from Regan has Sugar's /actual/ teeth flashing in a smile, the 'tsktsk' sound from compressed tongue clicked behind that /Wide/Spread smile of SugarSkull painting audible while her own ass claims a seat and opens another bag. The Cervezas, the 'Taco Van' authentic creations of Tamales - still wrapped in corn husks, some labeled for the /lengua/ (cow tongue) meat.

"You need to…" Sugar is staring as Regan claws the wrapping off the bottle, cannot pop the lid…"… 'ey I can settle with my position despite my ability. But… Jesus tetas… EAT!" The bottle is swept up in the offering from Regan, popped off with a clawing stab of shellac'd claw-tipped nails and tipped to the woman to offer 'firsts'…

"You really should before you drink of the /Maguey worm/." A scrape as bottle bottom slides across the table and already Sugar is unwrapping a packaged parcel of plastic utensils…

… Like a good Intern!

"Don't make me…" A toss and it lands by Regan's own scrambled parfait.

It's been two weeks now. Regan, her normally socialite-bitchy string of apartment living has gone dark. She keeps strange hours. She watches annoying TV shows like 'GOSSIP GIRL' at concert hall pitch in her bedroom. Then, sometimes at three in the morning, she sneaks out with a backpack and does god-knows what, but given her penchant for controlling what others see, it's a wonder that she allows herself to be heard leaving at all.

"But I didn't want Mexican." Regan protests, slashing Sugar's face with another look that would demoralize anyone outside of their cadre of criminals. She looks at everyone as if they're stupid, but the way she drops her ass to a seat and slides one leg over the other and twists to face the plate of food…is telling.

"Okay, so you're a better intern than I thought you were." Regan admits, hissing a breath through her teeth. Her blue eyes meet Sugar's for a heartbeat, then she's one elbow on the table pressed to her forehead in a lazy debutante lean towards the incoming meal.

"What does tetas mean? Your accent it-" Regan shakes her head and holds her hair away from her food. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I don't like you, but since you brought booze and are giving me replacement food for food yet another stupid person I have to share air with fucked up?" Regan dismissively waves to Sugar. "I guess you can stay."

"I delivered." Sugar states to Regan, as the blondes 'pristine' ass claims her seat, Sugar's own has already claimed her and offered /placa/ bless-ed, her way, via a la'van'carte!

Upper thigh crosses over lower, the dropped hand holding her modelled pistol Regan's way from beneath the high-rise of skirt's hem…. But peace can be had as the cigarillo of Black is stamped out the edge of the sink, rinsed to a /hiss/ under water and flicked into trash can.

"You ordered some /mierda/, I could not replace, and the asshole was insulting," A pause and a press to nostril, a sweep aside and his wallet is slapped on the table, ID laid out with his EBT, DEBIT, and Discount cards a scroll over space between them. Once the bottle is passed her way she knocks it back.

"So you get 'Mexican'." Sugar stares at Regan, the duality of teeth smiling as her pistol beneath the table is slowly reholstered.

"Tits. Tetas. You don't have to like me. I don't like you 'Prístina'… Princess… But we can share drinks and live another day, hm?"

The bottle slides back Regan's way…

Regan Wyngarde takes up her fork. She has enough sense of understanding of a tamale to pry the corn husk away with the tines. The rolled up bon-bon of Mexican spices and fried /masa/ looks every bit as unhealthy as it smells, garnering a frown from the petite blonde as she peels back enough flap of the husk like a dissected frog. Her stomach gurgles. Regan frowns deeper.

"Fuck, I'm actually going to eat this." Regan whispers, closing her thick eyelashes. Her thighs tighten, ankle hooking her chair to aid in the straightening of her back and some manner of 'proper' posture over her food. "I don't suppose I should ask ahead of time if you poisoned it to kill another /guera/ this week?"

Regan looks expectantly to Sugar as she side-digs the fork into the tamale. Sweeping out a tiny portion, she lifts the fork to her lips, guides it past her teeth, and closes her eyes.

Don't admit it's good. Don't admit it's good.

"Why don't you like me? Everyone wants to be a princess." Regan says after she swallows. She sets her fork down and wraps her fingers around the bottle's neck. "I didn't say that I didn't like you, but I might have said once or twice that you're probably only here so long as Taskmaster thinks that you're useful," Regan salutes Sugar with the bottle, then lifts it to her lips. "So let's not start arranging slumber parties, chica."

"I give you credit, /chicano/, guera," A huff and nostrils darkened in makeup flare, just before she /leans/ ovr the table to gather up that bottle once Regan has partaken, the heave of her posterior adding to a loft for the criss-cross of laces over her chest, paling skin in lines like tracers while the satin-esque fabric that clings a corset bound attire has a polyester /stretch/ across accented curves. One that promptly reclaim her seat when the bottle is commandeered.

"And you will like it, promise." But as the /worm/ basks in the liquor of the bottle tipped up, so does Sugar, smiling lightly, enough to draw some of that liquor to dimples.

The bottle is settled back to top silently, fingertips pressing it Regan's way, but not parting with the base.

"I do not like what or /who/ I do not trust. My life, mi Alma (My soul), lives only on those… Familia." And then her fingers leave the bottle.

"I deliver. Intern. I don't like you," And for a moment, be it in mind, or in words - that accent /clears/. "Because I was you, and cannot be you." A look away, a near mirror of the flutter of dark lashes that seal over eyes'.

"But I will share 'Mezcal' with you, /y vivir!/"

Regan takes her fork back up. She smooths down her skirt, careful of the cut at the hip to lay it flat over her thigh and not ride up when she leans forward to eat. Dainty, Regan is in the worst category of skinny white girls, eating with her hair trapped to her chest and taking tiny bites that won't upset the perfection of her evening's makeup.

"Family's a hard thing to obtain, no one likes people like us." Regan replies after a bite, leaving the fork stabbed into the tamale like a pitchfork. She dabs at her lips with a paper napkin and shakes her hair from her eyes, opening her mouth to reply to Sugar when…

…her accent disappears entirely.

Regan isn't stupid, but she's prone to surprises and unexpected twists like anyone else. The smokey eye makeup simmers, grays and blacks framing her blue eyes which narrow to perceive Sugar in silence from a new, ghostly angle. She looks away as Sugar does, seeking refuge in in the patio and the pool beyond.

"Like me?" Regan asks after a lengthy silence, frowning downwards. The fork is yanked free of the food, and she picks at it once more.

"You so sure of what you're looking at?" Regan expounds upon the question, half in challenge, but half of her tone…seeking something more introspective.

Sugar give zero fucks about what she does or does not expose in her own lean to capture food and draw it closer and spoon out her own serving, the /lengua/ dish peeled away by fingertips, husks left wide open to reveal the baked wrap of flour, corn, tongue, spices and contents beneath.

A moment is spent in a /prayer/, the sigil of cross lain out by aloft palm before her, spoken from skeletal lips of 'Muertos' in a silent utterance before she takes a full plug from the bottle tequila, a massive bite of her food, and repeat….

"Family sold me, chica." A Chew and swallow chased.

"I do not put bank on what I look at. Not anymore. Padre. Amigo. Madre. Just…" A gesture of hand over her painted facade and she smiles.

"You need more…" The bottle is slid her way, the base scraping a path across the table between them.

In silence and lack of eye contact, Regan holds herself with a seeming lack of interest in total for Sugar's bought-and-sold sob story. She listens while she eats, stealing another two petite-sized bites from the tamale, swallowing them both down with little effort. She lifts her dainty chin, straining the sloped perfection of her neck, and points her eyes to the ceiling.

"I need more of a lot of things." Regan replies, taking up the bottle and lifting it to her lips. She pours a double-shot worth into her mouth, tongue lifting in fear and blocking the worm from nearing her mouth. The bottle comes down with a swallow.

Regan Wyngarde coughs. Taking too much at once of the harder tequila, the less /tastier/ tequila than is used in her mixed drinks. She hacks into her elbow, eyes watering with the burn.

"If it…" Hack. "…means…" Cough. "…anything," Regan flutters her long lashes and places her hand to her chest. "I don't put /bank/ on what I see anymore, either, but bitch, you'd better believe I control what others see." Regan waves her hand towards Sugar's /ensemble/, and slides the bottle back over.

"We're just taking two different angles of dangerous, Intern."

"/Victims, aren't we all…/" Sugar states, that light accent of a deeper south hinting her tone, but yes, she has seen The Crow, afterall….

Eyes framed in shadows and highlighted in white accent around an intricate pattern flicker, narrowing in the smile that rise Maxilla towards lower lids of occulus'. A hand sweeps out to snare the bottle from Regan, swirling the worm back towards the base (if she did not eat that /Putita Gorda/) already!

"So is what I am seeing a lie?" A tip back of bottle. Long sip, a corner of one eye waters…

…." … or do you need more flautas?" A stare down into the bottle to double check!

"We play with the wrong Gods, but what do we have left when we can be sold to the next bidder?" A lift of shoulder and when the bottle is offered back to Regan it is not slid, it is offered.

"What do you see, then? What truth or lie?" I this Truth or Dare, ESL style??

Regan takes another bite of the food, eating only half of it. She flattens her palm against the edge of the plate and /shoves/ it away from her. No more. Prissy white bitch.

"What you're seeing is exactly what I want to see, just like what I'm seeing is exactly what you want to see." Regan speaks up, twisting her rump on the chair to swing the chair around and face the other criminal. She tightens the fold of her legs, upper and lower thighs reaffirming their grip on her dignity, while hands smear down her skirt. She looks herself over once, plucking at her shirt to make sure she hasn't escaped too much flesh from it; she nearly had, yet most of one breast remains clinging to the side of the flimsy, black slashed top.

"What. I. See." Regan stretches her thin arm out, brushing Sugar's fingers with hers as she takes it away. "Is a woman who wears a mask. Doesn't matter why, doesn't matter what it means, but all of this?" Regan motions to her. "Sexy. Dangerous. Killer. Is that what you want people to see, Intern?"

Regan's brows waggle as she tips the bottle back, threading her way back to her A-game of social dominance.

She swallows the liquor and offers the bottle back.

"You /hurt/ past all that makeup, baby." Regan winks arrogantly. "Who the fuck you hiding from?"

Just as Regan, flattens her palm against the edge if the plate….

Shoves it away and speaks!

Sugar is listening, as if it is "Gospel", the twitch of her lips moving into a simile of a /sneer/. There is no growl, no warning as Regan warns the other Mercenary of her envisionment, and what is real or that of a placated Eden!

Sugar had hoped to 'coat' things sweetly, and yet arsenic is what pulses through her veins, diluted by alcohol content of Mezcal.

"Who hurts more??" (And how much makeup can cover it up?!)
(Definitely not cover girl!)

"You tell me, Guera Puta!"




All the Dick-Tions!

The measuring contest from Sugar comes towards Regan in….

The stool Sugar sat upon is kicked out from beneath her ass, the polyester fabric skirting upward on thighs, a clasp of garter tearing from stocking as it is ripped free and nails burrow into the base to gather it like a Baseball Bat and swing it the blondes way.

"If you fuck with my head /rubia del diablo!/… I will order a Quinceañera to be held on your carcass!"

Game. On.

Somehow…Regan knew. The mutant's core mutation is telepathy of a sort. The ability to create hallucinatory sensations that kill is powerful, indeed, but with it comes the latent ability to sense surface thoughts. For a woman of her strength and stature, which is slightly less strong than Sugar is, it's a trick that's saved her life many times over.

The stool swings an inch above Regan's chin as she back-bends, kicking with the slight heel of her boots at Sugar's lap to create some distance. The stool crashes into a potted plant, showering the table with white and black glass beads.

Regan rolls backwards off of her chair, paying little mind to just how much of her ass flashes from under the pleat in in her skirt when she tumbles off of her chair and to her feet.

"You wouldn't know if I was fucking with your head if I was, /Puta/!" Regan snaps, losing her nerve to charge in with a fork in her hand. Storming in for the fight, Regan jabs her fingers in to grab the front of Sugar's dress and lashes down with the fork, stabbing towards the hollow of Sugar's throat.

// Rompe, rompe…! //

The potent Mezcal bearing the worm swirling within the base manages to remain safe despite the swing that casts black and crystalline 'Drangon's Tears' across table, chairs, floor, countertop… It sounded like tiny beads of hail over a glass rooftop - most would find peaceful if it did not come with the abrupt follow up at the Swing! of the stool being released and shattering it against a wall in splinters of wood.

Release's logic? A lofted heel is aimed for her baby-maker, forcing her into a doubled over position to absorb, one hand missing the retreat of heel, but time is given to lift her eyes.

The smile splits her lips, teeth both bone and painted in place with makeup tilt upward into the menacing smile of Welcomed Death.

"Fantasma flaco…" The sweep down of intended vital fork-stab is captured in a block of spread between her thumb and index finger, a moment used to try and grip into pressure point within Regan's wrist and float her into a dance, uncaring of the tearing of laced fabric of her dress, a snap of motion to try and 'marionette' Regan into pivoting her arm up…


Behind and at the small of her back to use assaulted 'HipSpace' to buck her forward and away.

"You talk big games, but I do not fear my /Dia/…(Day…)" A sweep of fingers along her split-lipped grin, painted in place.

"I think no more Mezcal for you….Puta.." The bottle reached for.

Tasky would kill her if Regan didn't for…playing this game to the hilt. Shit…

Drink to that.

Regan's wrists slaps down into Sugar's waiting block with enough force to infer an entire lack of control in her stab. Were it not for the 'intern' being a bit faster, she'd be one less windpipe, or at least one perforated with four holes the size of the fork's tines (and a little bit of leftover tamale in her bleeding throat). Alas, the stab is blocked, bringing the two women face to face.

Regan's lips strain, baring the blunted canines of perfect teeth. The fury in her teeth strains with the effort to fight /through/ the block, but Regan's crystalline blue eyes are as calm as day. The eyes of a killer; a look that Sugar would know…from every time she looks in the mirror as well.

Regan loses the mystique of the hardened killer quickly, however.

The first hiss escapes Regan's mouth as her pressure point is pinched down on, flaring up the nerves in her wrist. A raspy squeak escapes her in the spin that tears a tie of Sugar's dress free and snares Regan's spinning skirt against Sugar's hips. Regan's hair slaps Sugar's face, smearing the makeup, as she tucks in back-to-chest with the assassin and is hip-bumped away.

Regan flails forward. The toe of her boot comes down onto a black beed and the whole of her body weight is thrown forward, dropping her face first onto the floor with a loud /bang/ that rattles the paintings on the walls, swinging them on their wire hangers.

"Give me that fucking /bottle/!" Regan pounds her fist into the floor and pushes up, stalking past Sugar with a debutante snort for the kitchen. She rounds the island and /rips/ the butcher knife from the block, and turns to stalk back Sugar's way.

"Before I kill you? Bitch?" Regan stops and waves the knife in the air to emphasize her point. "You picked the wrong week in the wrong time of the year to fuck with an A-lister. Thanks for the tamales, and in your next life you're gonna mow my lawn."

Regan smiles sweetly, holds the hem of her skirt as she dips into a curtsy, then spins the knife around into a backhanded grip. She surges in forward, trying to jam her fingers into Sugar's hair and control her from the neck.

"..And when you clench the cold lubed up pole between your thighs…" The bottle is tipped back, a reflection or Regan's curtsey shows as if mirrored, the lowering of pleased lids has hazel eyes watching, a tilt of fingers while she pivots on platformed heel/

"You'll remember me mowing your lawn while my Padre tips you in pesos for those sad little panties, you call lingerie." A small smile, he single bit of win has her 'flaring' the ripped top in her own curtsey, her own "curtsey" coming in a bow, instead of thigh or 'cheekini', there is bust, no longer tethered into a promising clench of attire while she winks Regan's way - her impact in time with it.

Cringe… Oh that had to suc——

"Mío! Coño!!!" Yep, Sugar got that Import fair and square, but when she spins back due to - Reflections in the Bottle Appearing Closer Thank They Are, the blade *tinks* off glass, peels across the label on glass and skims across the clench of her knuckles, causing her grip… to slip!

"Timing is everything, /Asesina/." A small smile, but the final s is hissed out while Regan's fingers lock into her hair, stilling the moment before the bottle (may) hit the floor in another shatter of glass, or where somewhere between thigh, garter, and contours laden in straps of silk, a derringer has surfaced to pluck beneath fingertips and aim towards Regan's own ovaries while hers are still recovering from the Punt of Doom.

"But we do not rule our afterlife, do we?" Lightly accented voice again, but that narrow of gaze is accented by the hair-smeared effigy of Muerte Makeup.

The flat back of the blade divots a line into Regan's forearm as she swings it upwards, raking the meat-cutting edge of the blade off of Sugar's knuckles. In all fairness, the swipe was aimed at the side of Sugar's throat, but the two moved against each other a little too quickly. The knife digs a crater into the thick glass of the bottle, staining it with a drop of Sugar's blood before it fully leaves her hand.

Hair or knife? Regan chooses the former. The knife falls backwards out of Regan's fingertips, rattling past her platinum bangle bracelets and charms. She dips at the hip, slapping her fingers out around the neck of the bottle before it hits the floor, dragging Sugar by the back of her head down a few inches in what might almost seem like a torrid Latin dance move were there no guns involved.

Regan rights to her full height, glancing down the torn laces in Sugar's dress and the hint of glinting metal from the derringer somewhere past their shredded clothing. She duck-lips at the sight of it, frowning to the face-painted mercenary.

"Really?" Regan blinks, tightening her grip on the short hairs at the back of Sugar's head. "What kind of border town saloon girl gun is that? A derringer?" Regan's tongue rolls over her teeth, eyes peeling back to whole whites. "I'm going to pretend that you actually know who your daddy is and that he bought you that gun, but you probably really are that sad, Intern." Regan's eyes fall back into place.

With a quaint twist of her head, she holds the bottle aloft for Sugar to see.

"Timing /is/ everything." Regan turns her head and tightens the muscles of her arms, pinning Sugar's head by the grip at the back of her hair while she gulps down two mouthfuls of the Mezcal, but the third mouthful, she holds in her mouth and turns for Sugar.

Regan tilts her head and lines their faces up, mashing her red lipstick into Sugar's facepaint, and opens her mouth, whether the intern is ready for it or not.

Tell me I'm too crazy,
you can't tame me…

"It's a COP .357." Even as Sugar allows the guidance 'counsel' to lead her in a dance, a part of her grins, the side cast in the shadow of extension laden hair.

Extensions that can be flet *popping* in Regan's grip while she speaks and a 'tiny' derringer cocks. Four barrels are ready, but held in a stasis as Regan moves closer, the timeframes in Sugar's mind seem to slow while her trigger finger scrapes a manicured nail over exterior.

Red paints over black and white, that embrace encumbered with the harsh tug upon follicle and sensation aids in her lips parting, accepting of the reciprocated Mezcal, leaving four barrels..

… to only fire one!

The .357 sized hole showers the room in plaster and insulation!

In the distance someone screams as a 55' HD Smart TV is now bearing a random crater.

"I earn everything," A pause as that Mezcal is fed through the scrapedslither of Regan's lips to her own, as if offering Life Support to the 'Muerte'. "Alone!"

Her throat works over the flavor of co-mingled Pain and Alco—-Mezcal..

The explosion of TV on another level has Sugar letting hairs rip from tender scalp while she tries to sit up, the crush of lips peeled away by a baring of teeth, swallowing behind them.

"Timing is a matter of 'Destino'."

"I do not desire to die tonight, or end," The pause one that nearly berths at the seams, the bottle gripped in contrary to Regan's.

"Let go, tiny, I bought this with the tip you left me for the awesome hedge job." Other hand… Lifts the COP between them like a middle finger, and her cosmetically bloodied smile is….

… Priceless.

There's no tenderness in Regan's lips as they form a seal to deliver the tequila directly to the back of Sugar's throat. Blue eyes behind a raking hedge of long, black lashes remain open, but when the last of the tequila rolls off of her tongue and onto Sugar's she closes their mouths in a very kiss-like roll of lips…

…and flinches when the gun goes off.

Regan's eyes drift closed, softening at the end of the /shotgunning/. A sigh crosses through her nostrils and onto the tip of Sugar's painted nose.

Regan leans away from the mercenary, releasing the hold on the bottle. Her face is smeared with white makeup and a trickle of Sugar's blood dripped into her hair as she hooks it behind her ear.

"You know the money I have on hand, I could buy you a whole factory of those bottles, but it's cute. You /earned/ it. Okay. 'Evs." Regan smears the leftover blood against her own cheek and begins to release the stranglehold she has on Sugar's hair. Weaved locks tumble free.

Regan's palm smears over Sugar's cheek, upsetting the makeup. Regan's stare is deathly silent as she holds Sugar's cheek in her hand, lifts the hand away, and /slaps/ it down again against the side of her mouth.

"Don't fuck with me right now, Sugar. I'm not in a place where I could promise to not use my powers on you. That's your one warning." Regan lifts her lips into a sweet smile…and turns for her bedroom door.

"Beyond that I can't be held responsible." Regan glances down her shoulder to Sugar as she walks to her door marked with the 'DO NOT OPEN, FUCKER' sign. She pushes against it and barrels through.

"Thanks for dinner."

The door SLAMS shut. Hard.

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