Devastation à la Comet- (Anahera vs Izzy)

[Aeri]

Location: The Dragon’s Hoard
Time: 11:49pm

The new bar in town, the Dragon’s Hoard was a flourishing success- in no short attribution to the feisty ginger haired bartender that was normally swamped with match requests.

However, the night was slow today. A Monday, and most people were still washing off the weekend hangovers, but some people..

Some people didn’t have very much to do. Anahera was seated in a fairly well lit corner of the bar, playing around with a shot glass. He had had two so far- one shot, and one.. quite fruity looking drink, his black rimmed glasses just a little askew on his nose. Most people would stop and stare, wondering what the.. outfit was about.

It was an odd one. A tight bodysuit, and a cape- though if you’d ask him, he’d deny it vehemently. No capes- only cloaks, and very insistently show that it attached to a thread around his neck, instead of being sown into his shoulders.

There was an explanation. He was here because he preferred a quieter crowd when he drank and normally he would have changed to something more.. sane, but he had just returned from a quick match, and really wanted a space to unwind before going back to his cluttered apartment.

His hands squished his cheeks- he had a hint of a babyface, as he sucked uninterestedly at his empty cocktail, looking the very picture of boredom. Finally dredging out a notebook, he began to sketch in it, lazy, unpolished strokes, mapping out a feminine figure- his opponent today. She wasn’t anything special, just some blonde girl that thought her wealth got her everything. He had experience to say quite the otherwise, and he had left her flat within four minutes.

Her face remained blank.

He couldn’t remember her. She was.. unmemorable, not even a memory in his mind.

Skritch, skritch, skritch went his pencil, and she was crossed out in a few strokes. He wondered when he’d find someone memorable enough to pen down.. although perhaps, it was closer than he anticipated.

[Parker]

The night had promised so much more.

had spent an hour in front of the mirror, layering her lashes and painting her nails, and finding just the right outfit to slink about the evening in the summer heat. A brazenly open blouse, tight pants that clung to her legs just right, comfortable sneakers she could move in, and the kind of smirk that only comes from knowing she looked good. She was primed for a night of lights, music, and movement.

And then, the universe laughed.

Standing before the club she’d targeted for the evening, she found it wrapped in scaffolding and plastered with bright yellow UNDER RENOVATION signs. Not even a bouncer to argue with, just the bitter hum of power tools inside where the bass should’ve been. Isabella stood on the sidewalk with her jaw tight, scrolling through her phone with mounting irritation. Every alternative was either miles away or already packed. For all her preparation, all she had was the hollow echo of her own heels tapping against concrete.

With a huff, she lowered herself onto a bench nearby, crossing her legs with a flick that said I’m too good for this street anyway. She tilted her head back against the warm night air, exhaling through her nose. What a waste.

Then she noticed it.

A corner of paper flapping against the lamppost just beside her, caught under a bit of tape. She reached out and tugged it free, curious in spite of herself. Bold, jagged lettering sprawled across the flyer:

THE DRAGON’S HOARD
Fights. Drinks. Entertainment.

Her eyes lingered, scanning the gaudy promises and address scribbled at the bottom. Isabella’s lips curved into a slow, amused smile. No pulsing nightclub, no designer cocktails on a rooftop, but maybe, just maybe, something better.

“Bueno…” she muttered, tapping the flyer against her knee. “Si me puse toda mona pa’ nada, pues mínimo que valga la pena, ¿eh?”

-----

By the time Isabella found the address, the flyer’s gaudy promises made a lot more sense.

The Dragon’s Hoard wasn’t a club, not really. Not a bar either, at least not the kind she was used to. It was tucked down a narrow side street, its neon sign flickering against old brick like a half-kept secret. Inside, the air was thick with sweat, booze, and a pulse of bass that wasn’t made for dancing but for drowning out the roar of the crowd.

She slipped in through the heavy door, shoulders back, chin high, sneakers occasionally squeaking floorboards until she found a space at the edge of the bar. A handful of heads turned, some curious, some appraising, some hungry. She answered them all with that trademark smirk, ordering nothing yet, just watching.

It didn’t take long for her to notice the bracelets. A rack of them by the bar, in mismatched colors, each with a battered little tag hanging from it. A member of the staff, bored but sharp-eyed, leaned her way and explained in a drawl that was clearly rehearsed:

“This is for the drinkers and watchers, this one means you are looking to brawl, and… well, that’s for the ones who don’t care how they walk out.”

Isabella’s brow arched, lips curving as her fingers trailed lightly over the bands. Such a simple system, yet it set the whole tone of the place. She could hear the shouts from the far end of the room, cages rattling as bodies slammed against chain-link. A flash of movement caught her eye, two women locked together, muscles taut, hair sticking with sweat, the kind of struggle that made the whole bar lean in at once. Some cages sat empty, waiting, like open mouths ready to devour whoever stepped inside.

She hummed low in her throat, intrigued. The rules weren’t just rules, they were an invitation.

Her hand hovered between the bracelets, the teal one meant for fighters, catching the glow of the overhead lights, looking closest in hue to the streaks in her hair. She could feel the weight of the decision in her chest, the thrum of her heartbeat matching the distant roar of the crowd. As she slipped it on beside her golden bracelets. “Vamos a ver en qué relajo terminamos.”

Isabella had taken her time casing the place, weaving through pockets of noise and smoke, leaning left or right to catch glimpses of the bracelets people wore. Half the fun was in the mystery, who was signed up for what, who was bluffing, who was here to watch. She still wasn’t sure if she’d actually step into a cage herself; she hadn’t exactly dressed for a fight. But if nothing else, the Hoard promised plenty of characters. She just had to pick the right kind of trouble.
Her gaze finally snagged on one. A lone man at the bar, not drinking, not socializing — just scratching away in a battered notebook. Odd enough in this sort of place, but what really stuck out was the cape draped around his shoulders. A cape. In a bar like this? It was either a bold choice or a very bad one. Either way, it was worth a closer look.

The ambient noise of the crowd swallowed her approach, and soon she was standing just behind him, peering down to spy the page. A doodle of a woman with no face, with a heavy X etched over them. Her brows pinched. “Raro,” she muttered in Spanish, lips curling.


Then, without waiting to be invited, Isabella dragged a stool beside him and sat, her bracelets clinking as she leaned an elbow onto the bar. Her dark eyes cut toward him, sharp with curiosity but softened by the smirk tugging at her mouth.

“Halloween comes early in Japan?” She asked, tone lilting, teasing. Her gaze flicked from the cape to his notebook, then back again. She didn’t give him a chance to answer before flagging the bartender with two fingers, sliding fully into his space as though she’d already decided he was going to be her entertainment tonight.

“So…” she went on, voice low with mock intrigue, “is this cosplay… or is dressing like Capitán Dracula just normal weekend behavior for you?”

[Aeri]

Anahera loved the sound of graphite. With a man that had a racing mind as bountiful as his, filled with sweet everything's and nothings at the same, the soft scratching always putting him at ease. The atmosphere at the bar was the same as usual, cheers, chains clinking against skin, and the occasional sounds of moaning and flesh against flesh.

At this point, it was all background noise to him. A pleasant buzzing that filled his restless mind, allowing him to think. Think.

Something that was hard for him to do in the best of circumstances- his mind racing with thoughts, his next match, his fight earlier that day, the desperate and undesirable task to recollect the woman that he had forgotten, the prick on the back of his neck, the scent that wafted through the arena.

..

He paused.

His mental train of thoughts cascaded back, stopping at the prick of the back of his neck, a sensation he only got when someone was staring at him. Although, mused Anahera. Who wouldn’t stare? A place to mingle, lit up by flowing drinks and the light of conversation and joyfulness, inhabited by a single corner of darkness.

Oh, Ana was sure he would have gotten kicked out far earlier in other bars, but he had something that quite a few people tried to claim, but rarely had. A friendship with the owner, Athena. She did make a couple jokes about him always staying holed up in the corner, and told him that they should christen the area “The Dungeon”.

He had told her that she sucked, but in all honestly he had found it kind of amusing. Although it would kill him to ever admit that to her face.

The gaze however, had gotten stronger- and a shadow was cast over his shoulder. The mystery woman had gotten closer, but Anahera couldn’t be bothered to-

She spoke, her voice a whisper but carrying over the booming bass for him- spoke his mothers tongue, Spanish. Called him strange, but not in a particularly demeaning manner, and that caught his attention.

A metallic scraping across the wooden boards practically forced his attention to her, and he let the pencil roll out of his fingers. His head tilted to the side, as his cerulean eyes met her. Brown, glowing skin, a couple shades darker than his own. A streak of blue tore through her hair like a comet rippling across space. Her shirt unbuttoned, giving him the barest glimpse of her abs- she was a fighter like he, but.. pristine in a way that Anahera could never be.

She spoke in a teasing, lilting manner. She found him odd, but that was not something he was not used to.

”Cloak.”

He corrected, finally straightening his back and moving his hips sideways, turning his torso to meet her eye to eye, gleaning an innate curiosity beneath her smug gaze.

“It’s a cloak. Dracula is commonly depicted with a cape.”

Most people expected nerds like Anahera to be shy, withdrawn, curled up into their own space. Anahera was withdrawn, curled up into his own space, and acted in a way that was strange, as if he wasn’t really seeing her, lost in his own mind, but he.. wasn’t shy. Not really. He thought embarrassment got you nowhere. His hand reached up to his chin, using the palm as a rest- soft hints of stubble just barely pricked his face- it had been a day since he had shaved, and his somewhat round, somewhat of a baby-face mixed with the angular curves of a fit, lean fighter gave him the looks of.. an anomaly.

”I have this on, since I just came back from a match. It ended too quickly.”

He vaguely gestured at the crossed out woman and it all made sense- he was trying to make her significant enough in his memory, so he wouldn’t forget the match, specially since she had asked him for a round two so belligerently. He didn’t want to embarrass her by asking who she was again..

But finally, finally his gaze settled into Izzy’s, meeting her eyes properly for the first time, and the barest ghost of a smile touching the side of his lip, speaking softly, but without nervousness.

”I’d say it has its uses.. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

[Parker]

Izzy let her smirk curl as he corrected her. “Cloak, cape… lo que sea, it’s still a bold choice for a bar.” Her tone was warm, amused, not biting. She rolled her shoulders into a small shrug, clearly not interested in splitting hairs over fashion terms she never needed to know the difference between. Not a whole lot of “cloaked” people where she was from, after all.

Her eyes flicked over the fabric again before she leaned an elbow on the counter. “Cute though,” she added with her teasing lilt, “like lil’ bro raided abuela’s curtains.” The laugh that followed wasn’t cruel, just quick and easy, carrying the energy of someone who’d grown up in a place where poking fun was how you showed affection.

She shifted her weight to lean into the bar counter, resting an elbow on the surface and draping her other arm over that. Her brightly painted nails clicking softly against the wood as she idly drummed them. “Guess I don’t have to worry about you sucking my blood then, chico misterioso?”

“¿Quién se tronó primero?" She mused aloud with a flick of her wrist, half to herself before angling the question at him. “You or her?”

Isabella tilted her head, neon-blue strands sliding across her cheek as her brown eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. From the looks of him, no scrapes, no bruises, barely a hair out of place, not a dewy bit of sweat on his brow… she figured the answer was obvious. Still, the point wasn’t to get facts, it was to prod, to see how much he’d give up if she poked the right way.

“Stamina issues? Hear that gets tough when you’re old.” An airy comment, thrown out offhandedly. Was she insinuating he somehow appeared old? Not really. Just seeing if he’d squirm or laugh it off.

Her gaze drifted across the bar for a moment, a scuffle in one of the cages caught her eye, then flicked back to him with another flash of that natural smile. She leaned in, closing a bit of the distance, one hand sliding along the counter. Turning over her hand over, slender fingers wiggled in a subtle beckon toward him, nodding down to the book.

“C’mon, show me.” She drawled, her voice dripping with casual curiosity. She wanted to see what else he had scribbled away in that book. If he handed it over, she’d take it without ceremony, eyes darting across the page with an easy boldness. If he resisted or pulled back, her fingers would make a small clawing motion as if she were trying to take it anyway. She wouldn’t try to snatch it from him, but she left the unspoken threat that she might linger. If he reacted outwardly hostile, Isabella would withdraw with her hands up in mock surrender.

“So dime, guapo…” She started, her with that easy sing-song of someone used to steering a conversation. “Why’s a man dressed like this-” she waved lazily at his cloak, smirk tugging deeper, “ - sitting tucked away all alone, doodling like a triste poeta, instead of, you know… actually enjoying the bar?”

[Aeri]

Izzy’s words made the rustic cogs of his Spanish speaking brain churn. It had been a while since he had talked to his mother side of the family, and he hadn’t had much use of it. However rusty as he may be, he could remember some words.

Lil bro? His eyes quirked up, raising a brow at her, feeling a little offended amongst the amusement he was getting from hearing her talk, but it was.. enjoyable still. His finger circled the wood, hearing her comment about not having to worry about sucking her blood..

”That depends, hermana.. if you’re into things like that.. we can arrange a deal or two.”

You or her, that was the question. He suspected she knew, but he did win. Perhaps not satisfied, but victory did come to him. He wrinkled his nose at her jab now, insinuating that he was old- and he moved his fingers across the table to hers, offering her knuckles a light tap, hints of a smile on his face.

”You call me young and old in the same breath.. mierda, your tongue moves like it has some place to be.

…

I won. It was too easy.. I try to remember her face, but she washed away within an hour. Faces don’t stick for me.. unless they prove themselves special.”

An insinuation- was she special? Did he consider her special? Neither were the true answer, the answer was that.. it was still up to fate. He had an interest sparked in her enough, and it would need to be nursed into a seed of remembrance. She gripped his paper, and that.. sort of shook him out of a stupor. On instinct, he resisted, too used to people snatching his stuff but.. relaxed, allowing her to take it.

It was.. good work. The art was good but the model could have been replaced by anything. A marionette with no face, his portrayal of his opponent leaving a lot to be desired.

“Mm.. because I am a triste poeta by profession. I only fight because I’m good at it, and bills do not pay themselves.

Of course, sometimes the fights are more enjoyable than the work. But today didn’t seem to shape up like that.. at least, not until now.”

He paused, but pressed on. His fingers signalled the bartender, getting them two drinks, something sharp, but low alcohol enough- just to get their minds into a heightened state of sensation, of feel.

”Has anyone ever told you you’re.. brillante, colorido. You bring colour to this darkly hued bar..

And as of colours.. what is your poison?”

He’d run his finger down the poster he had on his table, thumbing against the types of matches, before looking at her with a bit more of a smile. “Red.. Green.. or perhaps.. “ .. reaching up to her face, he would gently press his thumb against the streak of teal against her face, brushing it off her forehead.. and then nodding at the section that said MMA.

“Teal?”

[Parker]

Izzy’s smirk curled wider at the flicker of offense in his brow, dark eyes glimmering with amusement. The expression only grew when he slipped into Spanish himself, earning a small approving nod she didn’t even mean to give. She pressed her hand to her throat with exaggerated delicacy, feigning scandal at his little bite remark before flicking it away, fingertips dismissing him like an afterthought.

“‘Lil bro’ isn’t about years, cariño,” she explained, her Spanish rolling warm and easy. “It’s a state of mind. Cómo te manejas en la vida. You can be thirty and still a lil bro if you don’t know how to behave yourself, ya’know? Or twenty and already acting like a viejo with bad knees.” She shrugged lightly, grin tilting playful. “It’s about how you move through the world. Immature, impulsive… pura payasada de disfraces.” With a little flick of her sneaker, she nudged the edge of his so-called cloak.

“And also…” she huffed, slipping into a faux haughty air, “Soy una dama. A man should know better than to insinuate where a lady’s tongue might end up.” She held the mask for a beat, then cracked with a snicker, shaking her head. “Question the wrong girl, poeta, you might find yourself in hot water.”

When she reached for his book and felt the tension in his hand, Izzy paused, brow cocked as if deciding whether to push. But when he relented, she hummed with satisfaction, sliding it into her possession. She leaned back into her stool, one leg crossing smoothly over the other, ankle rolling as her foot hung loose while she flipped the book open with a thumb.

“Mm. So pretty isn’t enough for you, bonito?” She murmured, eyes tracing a faceless sketch. Her tone walked the line between teasing and genuinely curious. “Me, I’ve got a good memory for faces. I don't forget those. Especially the eyes.” She flicked her gaze up over the rim of the pages, lips tugging sly. “But you… failing memory? Old man vibes, young man’s body. Sure you are not going to burst into flames when the sun rises, Dracula?"

She didn’t rush through the sketches, just a lazy skim, letting him watch her take in his work without giving away what she thought. Every so often her eyes darted over the book to his, a quiet challenge glinting there, as though daring him to try to take it back.

“So humble,” she said finally, leaning forward just slightly, voice softening with weight. “Not here for the money. Being good doesn’t make it fun. You’re here, fighting in cages, porque tienes la picazón. Maybe you like feeling strong. Or maybe…” Her shoulders rocked back in a shrug, smile creeping. “You’re just waiting for the right girl with a face to put you on your back.”

“Brillante, colorido…” she repeated with a low hum. “The only one who’s called me that before is la buenota del espejo.” A shameless jab at herself, though not as vain as the comment might make her appear. She didn’t bother to defend it, at ease what whatever Anahera thought of her, good or bad. “You sure you don’t got me confused with one of your stories, poeta triste?”

With that, she snapped the book shut gently, wagging it once in the air before laying it across her lap, hands resting lightly on top. When his fingers brushed her hair aside, she arched a brow but didn’t pull away, only tilting her head slightly with the gesture. Her gaze followed his toward the poster.

“Teal’s close enough to my color, sí.” Her smirk turned sly, sharper than before. “But poison?” She let the pause hang before murmuring, “Whatever you think will help you tonight.”

[Aeri]

The other sketches in the book were far different. While there were a few of people, many of them similarly crossed out in the face, not many and not all of them.. were crossed out. Some had faces she didn’t recognise- why would she? But there were other things too. Misshapen, curling, licking flames. The closer she got to the start of the nearly filled sketchbook, the worse the quality of the work got, and the more fire related symbolism got.

Finally, she found something that looked like a portrait of two people. Eerie resemblance to him, and sharply defined like he had put good effort into it. Fire had touched, was about to consume the frame, and It was crossed out violently enough that a pencil nib was still partially stuck in the torn paper.

Anahera’s face didn’t give anything away. In fact, he was very pointedly not looking at the book and deciding to stare at her instead, almost drinking her presence in. However, no matter how much he liked the look of her.. he had good ideas.

“Even if I do look.. odd, to some.. it doesn’t matter to me. In a way, I’d say that my acceptance of the small things that make me happy.. make me more mature than you, hermanita.”

He raised an eyebrow. The crowd was slowly fading out of his awareness, and the conversation was taking up more of his attention than most things did, surprising even himself. She spoke of him bursting into flames- which elicited a bit of a snort at her insistence on the Dracula moniker.

”No, en absoluto.. but flames might burst on my face if it came into contact with your.. moons.”

A fair dame, or a fair lady? She certainly dressed fancy enough, and with a bit of a beleaguered sigh, he unclasped the cloak, folding it over and around his arm, revealing his muscled back and powerful forearms, with just the right amount of squish to them to make it pleasant to touch.

“Ah but here.. I’m no man, and you are no woman.. or as you say, una dama. You and I are.. you and I, stripped bare, down to our soul.

That is, if you want to step into the cages with me.”

But a little more serious, the memory issues.. she wasn’t completely incorrect, honestly. He had been having some trouble with his remembrance, and he needed to find a solution and fast. It caused a frown instead of the smile she had expected, and a more wrinkled up expression revealed a streak of silver hair just hiding from reach, falling down upon his forehead. Genetic, accumulated and accelerated by stress.

“Pretty is good. The time and effort required to achieve such a result isn’t to be underestimated- I recently gained a more appreciation for it.. you know, as a.. payasada.” He snickered at his own joke. But shook his head and continued on. “But it isn’t.. enough. Pretty on the outside can be faked. Pretty on the inside.. cannot.”

He cocked his head and shrugged.

“Although it does help. That and a nice culo. I suppose biceps also do it for me.. thighs can be of aid as well.” He was actually musing on it, as if he had never thought about it seriously before, before smiling at her.

Right girl with a face.. he gave her a “so and so” style wave. “I don’t want anyone that can’t.. keep up. Win or lose doesn’t matter. Although.. I’ve never lost.”

A bit of a cocky smirk on that one, his record was 4-0. Pretty solid, but who was counting? As she asked if he was confusing her with one of his stories.. he’d shake his head. He didn’t think he needed to say much more to that- to him, she was.. radiant, and like a moth to flame, he found himself drawn in.

Poison..

He’d smile, and then lightly, casually roll his shoulders, stretching them behind his back and, very un-subtly giving her a proper view of his pectorals, abs, biceps- the works, constrained against the near form fitting fabric.

“The only poison I would drink flows from your lips,esplèndida.”

[Parker]

Isabella lifted the book from her lap by its spine, delicate but deliberate, and set it down on the counter. With two fingers, she nudged it further away from him, staking her little claim over it. She didn’t flip through another page, didn’t remark on the flames or the faceless sketches scarred into the paper, but the glint in her dark eyes made it clear: she’d already memorized every detail she had set her sights on

“Never claimed to be mature,” she said easily, her smile warm and unbothered. Elbow on the bar, chin in her palm, she looked perfectly at ease, as though nothing he said could truly ruffle her. Neither flattery nor offense seemed to touch her ego; she wore her indifference like another layer of silk.

She had grown up in the streets, dragged through grit and scarcity. And once she found her calling, she swore she’d never go back. Every cent not sent home to her uncle burned a quick hole in her pocket. Good food, flashy clothes, anything to indulge her hunger for the moment. It wasn’t a statement of her station, worth, or even ego. Isabella was a stray dog wrapped in satin, and she liked it that way.

“Órale pues… I was looking to dance tonight anyway. A ver si aguantas, chulo.” Her gaze lingered on him as he flexed, showing off a body that most men believed was a passport to anything they wanted. She smiled faintly, not dismissive, not dazzled, just entertained by the contradiction. A man preaching depth beyond the fake and superficial while rolling his shoulders to highlight the surface. She wondered if he saw the irony or if entitlement blinded him to it.

Her brow arched slightly at his claim of being undefeated. “Never lost, huh? Sounds impressive.” A pause, the corner of her lips tugging higher. “Or maybe it just means you haven’t been picking the right fights.” The words lilted light and playful, but there was bite in them all the same.

She leaned forward now, letting her smile sharpen. “One-sided records don’t impress me.” Her voice dropped lower, the Spanish sliding in with a sultry rhythm. “Quiero ver marcas, cicatrices, el fracaso grabado en ese cuerpecito bonito que traes.”

Her smirk lingered, mischievous and taunting. “I want to see you in defeat. That’s when I’ll know who you really are, chulo. Not before.” Her stool creaked as she slipped away again. This time, she uncrossed her legs, dropping down off the stool. It was a procedure that they apparently buy drinks for one another to make things official, but she figured her undefeated dance partner could cover the bill. She cast a glance back his way before nodding her head towards an empty cage, starting to stroll her way over.

[Aeri]

True, she hadn’t exactly claimed any pretext of maturity, but he didn’t think she was quite as immature as she made out to be. Just as she grew up on the streets, he grew up in a life of silk sheets and luxury, until 6 years ago, finding himself torn through the galas, the fake pleasuring, the coldness of an empty home.

It was neither, really. He valued soul over body, but as he said before, body helped.

It was neither all in one, nor all in the other. And as they got closer and closer to intertwining in a flurry of pain in the ring, Anahera believed that it was as per due course to give her a bit of a show, show her she wasn’t wasting her time.. and garner her reaction. Which was.. disappointing. It was a measured smile, not betraying anything.

He wondered why. The radiance around her dimmed a little, but also led to a stab of panic. He wouldn’t forget. He didn’t want to have her remain unremarkable in his eyes. The records..

”I rarely pick my own.. LAW does it for me.” He shrugged. A payout of around 5000 dollars per fight just to show up, was hard to resist and doubling that on a victory.. just sweetened the pot. He could bear the Grey until then.

Her smile was like a blade to a whetstone. Again and again it sharpened, and again and again she leaned closer. Did she notice the hint of panic in his gaze? Her biting voice, speaking of his failures, putting him into a daze of remembrance. The woman he had stormed out on, his instructor of six months Zira Calabero.. that was too aggressive in the ring for him to handle, their styles just never matched. That had left him with marks.. and more. The only others he could think of were the burn marks but.. then again, she wasn’t talking about physical marks.

Probably.

She wanted to see him in defeat. At THAT he smiled.

”My defeat is your prize to earn, not to be given. Rather, I find it more likely that you will be the one.. tapping out.”

He said with a low promise, and a start. With a hand he waved at the bartender and gave her a nod. She gave him a raised eyebrow, and he pointed at the MMA cage. She blinked, surprised.. but tossed him a key.

He’d unlock the door, and enter, holding it open with a foot for her.

He’d consider taking off his shirt. He wasn’t the biggest fan of going topless, but he supposed that this was a small enough arena that he didn’t need to have stage fright about his flesh. Rolling off the clothing, he’d peel it off his body and drape it outside the cage. Muscular body like the gift from god, chiselled like a Greek sculptor.. but even the marble here had some chips. There was some hair on the chest and forearms, his stomach wasn’t perfect, having a bit more fat/bulk than he’d like- and the aforementioned burns, the cuts, and a single recent cigarette burn on his bicep.

Now for the pants. They stayed. He was wearing something under there but that.. that wasn’t really in place for a mma match. So they stayed.

He had tried it once, and promptly burnt himself..

He did wonder what she’d fight in, surely not the dress outfit she had?

[Parker]

“Mmm. Mundo chiquito, ¿eh?” Issabella remarked quietly, more to herself than Anahera. Her gaze left him for a moment, sparing him that silent edge that had been equal parts inviting and threatening. She scanned other patrons of the bar, even going so far as to lean in her stool to spy distant competitors in heated battle within the occupied cages. It was possible they were also members of LAW as well she supposed. It was the biggest combat sport employer in town as far as she knew. She kept her own signing to herself, one of many things about herself she had yet to share with her current company.

“Content with scraps they give you?” She mused as her eyes found their way back to Anahera. While it was certainly true LAW as the promoter, had final say over booking, she couldn't help but feel if someone made the effort, they could seek out stronger opposition if they wanted. Anahera had mentioned once already he was fighting specifically for money and out of convenience, but it was clear he wanted something more out of it. Was he too scared to seek it out or too lazy? She didn't ask. Her intention was to find out in one of those cages. “Maybe I should be calling you cachorrito bajoneado.”

Was that simply him being cheeky with his wordplay, or a slip of his preferred method of snuffing out his opponents? It was hard to say. Mixed martial arts carried with it a broad range of fighting styles, some of which were certainly better for her chances than others. She wasn’t too worried, though; his sketching skills were adequate enough that even if she ended up today faceless in the fold of his book, the rest of her would surely be worth remembering if rendered fully onto the page.

Both fighters made their way to the cages, but as the keys were exchanged, she let Anahera take the lead. When he opened the door and held it, she chuckled softly and purred. “Such a gentleman. Now I see why you wear the cape.” She traced her fingers along the meshed metal of the cage, about to slip inside when he began to undress partially. The show was something she didn’t need to ooge, but she did anyway, tilting her head and giving him her full attention, seeing if he soaked it in or shrank under her gaze as imperfections were laid before her. The difference between how she viewed him and how he viewed himself was that she found those unpolished bits of him far more interesting than the show of musculature he had presented her at the bar.

She lingered by the cage door, lips curled into a knowing little smile as she kicked one heel back. A fingertip slid down the curve of her sneaker, tugging it free with a lazy grace before letting it dangle for a heartbeat, then fall. The sock peeled off just as slowly, bare toes stretching against the hardwood floor as though savoring the cool contact. She repeated the ritual with the other foot, drawing it out as if it were less preparation and more a show for his eyes.

Her hands drifted next to her waist. She toyed with the buckle of her belt, drawing the motion out with a subtle roll of her hips. The zipper came down in a slow glide, the slick, shiny fabric loosening just enough for her to shimmy her long legs free. Her pants clung stubbornly to her thighs before pushing them down at last, stepping out of them in nothing but sleek, jet-black velvet panties. A flick of her foot sent the bundle of cloth tumbling neatly onto the pile with her shoes. She didn’t look at Anahera as she did it, at least not directly. But she knew he was watching, and the small upturn of her lips made it clear she liked it that way.

Jewelry came next, rings and chains gathered carelessly and tossed atop the heap. Then, with an arch of her back, she slipped past him into the cage, brushing the heavy metal doorframe with her fingertips as she moved inside.

As she moved to the center stage with her back to him, she turned her attention to her shirt. Buttons came undone one by one, each tug revealing more skin, until the fabric hung loose. Rather than shed it completely, she drew the tails together, knotting them just beneath her chest with a tug that cinched it snug against her figure. The shirt, once casual, now clung like a cropped top, sleeves rolled up tight against her arms to keep them from falling. The transformation wasn’t just practical, it was calculated. She hadn’t intended to fight today, but even in her fancy clothing, she considered how she might need it worn.

rolled her shoulders, stretching as if testing the shirt’s hold, then let her eyes cut back to him with a sultry little smile.

“I expect that drink once we finish,” she purred, voice low and smooth, as she turned to face him again.