There's talk of a queen taking her dance floor when there's only enough room for one.

No one else could possibly be a queen like herself.

But Irene watches the slow sways of her hips, curves dipping to long legs covered in lines of thin black and peeking skin, finds herself entranced like any other servant in the room. Fishnets always did look good, Irene knew that well - often wears them to steal eyes across the room, have every ear listen to the clacks of her heels whenever she walks in. But with how it hugs sultry perfection, cascade over slopes of milky-white, flickering in glows under lights of blue, red, and yellow, Irene can't look anywhere else.

She hears the sound of music thrumming to each sensual wave of the woman's arms down to her slim waist, hands exploring the expanse of her own body, teasing with fingers beneath the edges of her clothing, as if she's feeling the rhythm - all by herself; like the crowds around her aren't ogling to help her out. There's a mute order in her movements and shut eyes that no one else is allowed in - that they're at least privileged enough to be allowed to stare.

Irene wants to do more than that; map out those curves with her, hands twitching to glide over soft skin, capture photos on memory film and taste the flavor of an enchantress when she's so used to being one.

This must be what it's like to lose all senses when a queen takes center stage.

Irene needs to know her name.

“Mind if I join you?”

Irene’s heels clack to pause right in front of her, steadies a tempted hand on hips too soft, helps this temptress focus on someone else for once.

Her smile is as bright as her deep red lipstick, eyes glinting with a sort of danger Irene's too entranced with to be scared of.  Two can play that game.

“Usually it'd be a man who's too eager to touch me and not another woman.”

Irene chuckles, leaning closer, inhaling strawberries and wine, notes how she's allowed to roam her hands around a lithe waist like she's already been let in.

“Disappointed?”

The stranger winks. “I'm letting you touch me, aren't I?”

Irene didn't think her senses could get any more filled until she feels hands cradle down over her fingers, pressing closer as if to help Irene hold her tighter.

“What's your name?”

“I'll tell you if you manage to make me scream yours out, first.” Her words kiss against the shell of Irene's ear, “So, care to tell me the name I might not be able to stop saying, tonight?”

Irene's hand dips upwards beneath a cotton crop-top, crawling nails across skin and leaning close enough to feel for that one hitched breath that lets her know she still has her throne.

There's only ever room for a king and his queen.

She kisses her, tracing her name against plump lips, whispers “Irene,” and lets it sink in until they're somewhere no one else can see (at least, for now) surrounded by stalls and mirrors and poor topaz lighting that doesn't do the woman's curves justice.

It's only when Irene's back burns from the nails that scar her skin and lips bruised from scathing kisses does she finally know her name, “Joy,” squeezing past panting breaths, breezing into her ears like a melody Irene could keep on repeat.

Irene doesn’t need a king; not when she would rather have Joy as her queen.