multiversallogs | 003 | OPEN. red lipstick on the end of a cigarette.

003 | OPEN. red lipstick on the end of a cigarette.

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik, and OPEN.
What: A show premieres at The Vault.
Where: The Vault.
When: Evening til the wee hours of the morning.
Notes: I will set up sections in the comments for people to hang out.
Warnings: WELL IT'S AN ADULT CLUB, SO.

The show starts at nine o'clock, and the bar is full pretty quickly thereafter, but the variety in the club is pretty striking. Xenians in their best suits, non-Xenians in leather and ripped fishnets, everything in between. There doesn't seem to be a lot of cultural divide here between human and not, even given recent issues. Hasibe makes good on her promise to have members of her cohort given seating preference, as she's sweet-talked the cocktail dress-clad hostesses, and the bartenders (in their vague approximations of suits with very open shirts) are aware that she's invited a lot of heavy drinkers. ...she just assumes people in her cohort want to drink--they've been kidnapped to a strange city with many new things to offer, so why wouldn't they?

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"Precisely." Again, it could mean for him or for her, depending on which way you look at it.

He continues to look at her intently. It's not quite predatory, but it's not exactly innocent either. If anything, he's quietly fascinated by the idea that it's ambiguous which side the danger is coming from.

He laughs a little - brief and voiceless, but still - when she hugs him, and lets his arm rest around her and stay there, companionable. (Oh god, glitter never goes away, now he's stuck with it forever.)

"I thought you'd like it." His voice is subdued as always, but still clear enough to be heard despite the noise. It's fine, he'll pass off dressing semi-appropriately with a few conspicuous notes of leather on not wanting to be 'Hasi's insane friend in the bad Christmas sweater'; that he both looks like and carries the air of someone who knows what he's doing here (and halfway does) is totally irrelevant. Totally.

She straightens up, now, moving to a proper sitting position, her knees together, robe tousled at her thighs. It brings them closer in proximity, but that was sort of the point.

"And now I know you're not the type to let that stop you."

"I do." She looks at him for a second, pleased but (however briefly) quiet. And then, of course, it's back into high gear, as though she'd never even left.

"What do you think of the club?"

"No," he says, only now he reaches out to trail fingers across Hasibe's knee, up her outer leg slightly. Not completely unlike his movements a moment ago.

"Although I'm curious whether you would."

Attuned, as he is, to blood--even blood that is as deeply poisonous as her own--he can probably also tell when Hasibe's heart is beating faster. Like right now. Predator vs prey is not the dynamic here and it's not how he looks at her, but she is aware that he is more firmly in the former category than she is either one of those. Existing outside the paradigm doesn't mean those who belong to it change.

But that's what she likes: everything a little bit faster, scarier, stronger, until it hurts.

"So am I."

(But she doubts it.)

"It's all rather dependent on two things."

"It's very you."

It's also a little busy for his tastes, but based on the chipper attitudes of the waitstaff over tip revenue, he suspects that has a lot to do with the weekend and the little event Hasi's made for her cohort. He's not decided how he feels about it as a facility just yet, but he already thinks he'll probably come back; he likes the employees he's talked to, and the risk to both performers and guests is... palpable. He is not going to fuss, but that awareness is with him.

"Your dance was great."

Edited 2011-11-20 12:30 (UTC)

He can sense the change in rhythym; in fact it distracts him for a moment. Excites him even, for many varied reasons. For a moment, his eyes almost close as he listens, trying to maintain patience for reasons other than hunger.

Although he does remember to ask, "Yes?"

Most of the club has a slight air of tension--the kind that makes it into a risque appeal--but that room, the one with the constantly-closed red door you have to sign a waiver to get into, suggests there's more truth to the place's hyped reputation than one might think.

"Thank you! It went pretty well, considering I haven't been on stage in so long."

Hasibe can appreciate a certain forthrightness about knowing one's own appeal--she has never really succumbed to the cultural pressure to downplay her assets for the sake of modesty. ...clearly, given her apparel.

"No, just you." The answer is pert, but playful. "Have you gotten a look around at all the stages yet?"

With her tongue barely touching the back of her teeth--she has those little unusually pointed incisors at the top, a genetic trait, nothing so pronounced it speaks of inhumanity, but enough to be sharp when she presses there--she takes a moment to breathe out, not realizing she...hadn't been, for a second. The red lipstick she was applying when he came in suddenly seems a million miles away.

"How far you're willing to go," her accent thick, sotto voce, and in this case, 'go' might sound a lot like 'fall', but then he was never really all that close to grace, anyway, "and just you."

Mitchell and his wants.

She knows eventually she'll have to go out there again, see the crowd, socialize. But being able to disappear into the moment with someone, however dangerous, is a gift that Hasibe never takes for granted.

(The fact that it's a bad idea is what makes it so irresistible.)

He seamlessly shifts over to sit on the sofa and his hand travels with him, brushing Hasibe's hair back to trace a forefinger up and down her neck. He knows it would be a bad idea to bite but the fact that he's been told he can't only intensifies things.

"I don't think the latter is going to be a problem any more," he says, coolly. He has a tendency to seem completely detached from his human persona or else pushed into a heated frenzy. So far he seems to be favouring one over the other. "As for the former... I've never really had a chance to explore."

Firmly but gently, he tilts her chin towards him. "Sex is a weapon. It leads to the thing I crave most and the two tend to become confused. I used to think it ruined things," and for a moment it looks as though he'll break into a slight laugh, "but I was fooling myself." Along with a lot of the other parts of his nature.

"I can't promise I won't hurt you, but unless you gave me a very, very good reason, I would never try to kill you. I just, I want you." His free hand grips at her thigh as if to demonstrate the intensity of his feelings. "Not for absolution, or any other reason I've ever --but I want you." It's not something he really knows how to explain.

Edited 2011-11-20 13:51 (UTC)

Ivan laughs. "I don't see you've done anything worth forgiving. But you can relax - it's a costume."

Ivan said he'd be on reasonably good behavior tonight, and he will be. Reasonably.

"I'm sure you've racked up quite the interesting list in that time, but I'm afraid the Church is only interested in boys under ten, these days." He pulls out a cigarette. "Enjoying yourself?"

"If you like," Ivan said. He asked Hasibe, "Do you have time to join us for a bit? I'm sure we'd all enjoy your company."

For once Mitchell doesn't seem to flinch at the reminder, opting to segue past it in the conversation. He makes a so-so gesture with one hand. "It could go either way."

Which is an interesting turn of phrase.

"A little. Not so much I mind." He leans against a wall. "I'll go back in in a minute, but I needed a little quiet first."

Raylan smiles, wry. "You can take the boy out of the holler, like they say."

There's something a little curious in how she responds--an obedience, a willingness to be posed. A certain pleasure she takes in it. The more you know about what she can do, the more the way she embraces being told what to do is interesting--it's as though she's exhausted with how easy it would be to superimpose her own will over things, and it becomes vastly more exciting to reverse the process.

Hasibe is so used to taking care of herself, of others, of thinking on her feet, being the leader. A touch of reversal is a weight off she sometimes forgets she carries. Familiarity strikes her, here, again--the calm steadiness in his voice, the predator's lilt. She half-closes her eyes, lashes fluttering on her cheeks, when he touches her neck; apparently that is a bit of a preference.

It strikes her that maybe she's using one of his own weapons against him, that her allure is the same as it often is on her fellow monsters...but at the moment, Hasibe doesn't really care. Seeing the reality of Mitchell is enough to put the barest shiver in her spine and her heart in her throat. Her instincts skip over 'fear' and land on 'thrill', a much more dangerous cousin to the former.

(The promise he makes is one Hyde never would, and she doesn't think he's intending to bind her so permanently; this is sex, not consumption. Killing her was always the end game, a final mark of ownership. And with this, she rationalizes her decisions: it's not as bad as before, so it's not that bad.)

"I don't mind being hurt," she says, "Sometimes it's what I need--it keeps me here on earth."

It always comes down to the spirit versus the flesh.

"Take what you want, Mitchell. I want you to."

...she does not, however, want to get fired, but it wouldn't be the first time a soloist at The Vault entertained company in her dressing room.

"Could it?" Ivan lights himself up; if Mitchell wants one, he can ask.

"I heard you had a rather uneventful trip to Gutters."

It's almost as though there's an audible snap in whatever there is left that's holding him back. He pins her back onto the sofa, pushing himself up to tower over her. This part feels familiar: the desire to push, to restrain. Although in this case, the end goals don't quite match up.

Instead he kisses Hasibe, but it's more like a bite as he presses his mouth against hers, rough and fierce. Then he moves to press smaller kisses against her cheek, her jawline. One hand goes to tug at the neckline of her robe, to really make sure there's no material in his way.

When he moves back, his eyes are an inhuman black and he breathes deeply to get himself under control. On resuming his attentions, he kisses her neck before lightly dragging teeth against her skin, around to her collar bone.

The aggression is something she tends to press as many buttons as necessary to attain in men she likes--they all have this under the surface, although Mitchell is undeniably an unusually perilous breed; not all of her men, or even most, have actually been killers. She responds in kind, prone to pressing close and then drawing back to lure him closer, playing at coyness until she can't and doesn't even want to anymore: she pulls his hair, a little, and bites back, though not as strongly. It's a way of baiting the beast until she sees the claws.

Or, in this case, the black, black eyes, an alien indication of monstrosity in an otherwise human-looking face. It's not difficult for her to guess what that means. Her own widen, slightly, but though she's startled, she isn't stopped. Later, she might have questions, but Hasibe isn't thinking about consequences right now. She makes a little sound, kitteny, threadbare, painfully delicate in direct juxtaposition with his teeth on her skin, and with that provocation, she abandons the robe entirely.

"Mitchell--" Her voice is a bit fractured-sounding, and since she's given toward having a high, soft voice in general, it makes her barely audible. She tries again. "Mitchell, I don't want anyone to hear and come in, so just--keep your hand over my mouth if I get loud."

It's solid advice, all things considered.

When that time comes, it's something he's more than pleased to do.

Later, breathing slightly ragged and eyes back to their more usual brown, he moves away from Hasi and sits back on an unoccupied part of the sofa. One hand grips the back of the seat as he composes himself, although a brief look of irritation crosses his face until he realises he's sitting on something. He reaches down and holds up a button that's popped off from his shirt, looking a little confused, before giving a half-shrug and dropping it down on the floor.

That small matter resolved, he opts to sit side-on and laze against the seat. He's still watching Hasibe intently, albeit his eyelids are somewhat heavier.

Hasibe was not planning on being so thoroughly mussed before going out to meet and greet, but this is...hardly an issue, she thinks--she works in a physically active role, and while maybe some of the other predators afoot will have some clue, would anyone really be surprised? She stretches, on the sofa, back arching, head tipped back, eyes closing. One hand slides through her long hair, finding it significantly more tangled than before, though that's easily repaired.

"You know," she says, accent even thicker than before--maybe it's the laziness, as she comes back to herself, "I should invite you back here more often."

Her eyes open, now, but with one hand over her brow, body skewed languid, only one is visible. She smiles a little, crooked, and drops said hand to her side. "Am I a mess?"

In so many ways.

Edited 2011-11-20 16:35 (UTC)

Mitchell has his own pack, which were ridiculously priced but then he had been more concerned with staving off other cravings. He takes one of his own out and lights up. Oh, the joys of not living in post-smoking ban Britain.

He shrugs at Ivan's remark. "It wasn't a total loss." Although he's thinking more about the company (...Hasi, not Deacon) than the lack of feeding.

"Seems a bit of a perverse place for a first date, if you're intending to stay clean," Ivan observes. He's mostly trolling; he doubts it was an actual date, though his point about perversity more or less stands.

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003 | OPEN. red lipstick on the end of a cigarette.

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