multiversallogs | 004 | CLOSED. i made it to the other side.

Entry tags:

004 | CLOSED. i made it to the other side.

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik & John Mitchell. Ivan, later on.
What: Hasi requests Mitchell's presence, and exploring Gallmarch.
Where: Gallmarch, possibly near Chimer.
When: Sukkardi, around three, probably.
Notes: N/A
Warnings: Sexuality with a D/s bent, discussion of Mitchell's vampirism, a little blood, violence.

Hasibe waits at the Chimer's End El station, legs crossed neatly (so the loops on her thigh-high stocking garters, curious little items that they are, stay on display), perched as she is on a bench just outside. She doesn't feel the cold in a pervasive, problematic way like other people who suffer things like 'hypothermia' and 'frostbite' might, but she does know when it's there, sometimes reacting to it like it bothers her anyway, and her sole concession to the weather is her long coat with its gold buttons, longer than her semi-sheer black skirt and semi-sheer white top. She wears it open, with no hat or gloves.

It's quiet out here today, but Chimer usually isn't a densely populated area, Gallmarch even less so. That's why she likes the idea of living there; it's in the city, but it's not in the absolute thick of things. Usually she stays tucked deeply into town, but more and more, she begins to think that it's better to have some of her own space.

For Huan, for guests, and for other things, too.

She smokes while she waits, ignoring any looks from the occasional passerby as though she doesn't see them at all; train stations are always full of strange men, but she's only waiting for one in particular today...and he's not strange in the sense of unfamiliarity.

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She comes closer, now, but unlike their prior interactions, there's no undercurrent (well, no more than is the baseline that occurs between them without trying) of sexuality. Hasi touches his arm, comforting, maybe affirming--she told him before that this is another chance, though she doesn't know if it is the chance to 'be a good person' he thought it might have been. She's not sure he even thinks that anymore. It's something else.

"And now you're here," she echoes. "I'm glad you got those people with you the second time, then. Everyone deserves that."

Firmly put, that.

"We should cut across the beach to Chimer's End station before it gets dark...but you can talk to me, you know. About this, or anything."

He nods as way of thanks. There's always an odd feeling after you tell someone something personal, when the release of confession can make you feel less weighed down or horribly empty. In this instance it's a little of both. He hadn't meant to say that much, but being a volatile person works the same way with anger as it does with sadness --it pours itself out of him until it's gone completely or comes to some sort of finish.

He doesn't say anything until they're outside again. "I should start thinking about some more permanent arrangements of my own, soon."

The beach is cool and gray today, tides lapping idly at the sand. When they get about midway through, she stops, dropping her coat on an abandoned, rickety picnic table--it probably won't be a long stop, but she can't quite resist looking at the ocean in fall.

"You should," she says, wondering what his tastes in housing are like. "Everybody needs their own space...besides, I've heard things about the Inn. I'll help you look, if you want."

While Hasi stops to look, he rests against the picnic table. Not the most stable structure he's ever seen, but he doesn't know what to do with himself otherwise.

"What sort of things?" He's more concerned with that than anything else on topic.

"Public property means it's open to the militia. They can search and seize possessions or people there any time they want. This is a police state, and unlike America, it doesn't pretend to be anything else," she says, turning to look at Mitchell over her shoulder, though the rest of her faces the water. "Don't forget that."

She doesn't go on, though. Instead she returns her attention to the view.

"It's strange, I think....that I like the water better like this, when it's cold." She hugs her arms around herself, like she's cold, although she's really not. "Can I tell you something a little bit terrible?"

He smiles. "Britain has more CCTV cameras than any other country in the world and a lot of the people operating them don't show up on film." That should answer that.

Given the things they spoke of back at the house, he's not completely sure what 'terrible' constitutes. So he simply replies, "Sure."

That answer worries her, a little, although she decides not to pry into it right now; she knows he's smart or he wouldn't have made it 116 years, but she also knows he's volatile, and the militia could prey on that. She's silent for a second, and then retreats to lean, next to him, on the picnic table. Her tone when she speaks is actually wry, even nonchalant.

"I don't really miss home. At all. There are people I wouldn't mind seeing again, but..." Hasibe shrugs one shoulder, glancing over at Mitchell. "I don't really care that I'm here. That's fucked up, isn't it?"

It's not serious or even sad, just absent, and on the end of that inquiry, she half-smiles, a little self-deprecating. It's telling, she thinks, when it comes to how isolated her career and her own practices had made her. Or maybe she's just difficult to tether by nature.

"No." His arm goes around the other side of her waist, resting close to her on the table. Another gesture of comfort rather than intimacy. "In fact, I think I would have been the exact same a couple of years ago."

The escape from the Bristol vampire community would have been welcomed, even.

Since they are comfortably close in height, she rests her head on his shoulder. "I feel a little bad about it, but...it's that kind of thing where you feel guilty for not feeling guilty. And all the people who miss me only miss parts."

Everybody wants a piece of her, she knows that much--but only a piece.

"Besides, I brought my dog and a good pair of high heels. What else does a girl need?"

...only so much time can go by before she starts being silly again. Hasi stays where she is for a little bit longer, mostly because she does like the comfort of being companionably close this way, but soon enough, they've got a train back to her neighborhood to take.

Oh, he knows far too much about that sort of guilt. "Speaking of. I don't know if you've got a pet-sitter, but you might want to get back home soon."

Not that there's any alterior motives there (not completely). It's nice here, standing like this, and while things between them have so far been a mixture of heady psychosexual antics, it's good to know there's room for something else. The more time passes in this city, the more he begins to realise he can't be completely one thing anymore, and that he doesn't have to be.

"Huan is well-behaved and hasn't destroyed any furniture since he was only about a hundred pounds," she promises, solemnly, but she takes his point.

Besides which, he may only have a little in the way of ulterior motives, but she's been thinking off and on about what he said to her in the foyer of that first house. It's hard to get out of her mind, actually. She gives Mitchell a tiny nudge and abandons the picnic table, fetching her coat on the way. The beach is conveniently just in front of the train station, where the ride is, blessedly, not terribly long.

There is an elevator up to the fifth floor.

And Hasibe exists, so: "I always have to restrain myself from pushing the stop button."

“You do not like making things easy, do you?” No, no she doesn’t Mitchell. He’s back to that usual back-and-forth banter by this point, any residual despondence being lost along the way.

“Although...” He looks around the inside of the elevator for any signs of surveillance --not that he would show up, but things would still look incredibly odd-- before shaking his head to distract himself from the thought. No, they’ll make it to the front door. Although he’s becoming less and less sure about whether dinner will actually occur or not.

Hasibe isn’t actually aware he can’t show up on camera (vampires in her world can); she probably wouldn’t be inhibited from what she does next even if she did. She sidles closer to Mitchell, playful, unrepentant: “Although...?”

She does intend to cook at some point, but she has no problems making it later rather than sooner. “You talk about me not making things easy, you’re even worse, and I am very unused to that--unfinished sentences, earlier in the foyer of that house...”

That’s the least scolding tone in the world, mind you, but she wants him to know she’s still thinking about it.

Don’t mind him while he smirks a little. “You like it,” he says it in a sing-song manner. And he shows that he is completely fine with any sidling on Hasibe’s part by pressing himself closer, leaning in to murmur in her ear, “Do you want me to make good on what I said?”

In the meantime, his hands have secured themselves on either side of her waist. Just in case she should think about walking off like he did, if the elevator stops. Apparently only he’s allowed to do that.

She tips her head back a little (allowing access to her neck is a submission thing for her, and he probably remembers how she responded when he had his hand there in the dressing room--though she understands the temptation to bite may still be there, she also believes he knows better), shifting so they are hips-pressed-against-hips.

“You know I do. You saw what that did to me.” It’s more of a murmur than anything else. “But what do you want?”

Enticement for his answer comes in the form of her slight, effortless slide against him to create a small amount of friction between them. The elevator does, in fact, have a camera, though whether it actually works is anyone’s guess--sometimes these things are just a bluff.

The temptation to bite has lessened now that Mitchell has started to feed again (although the desire never goes away, not completely). For now he presses kisses to warm skin, one hand reaching down to hook a thumb through the metal loops on the garters that have been taunting him this whole time. He gives it a little tug, before unhooking and sliding his hand around the back of her thigh, pulling up, wanting her leg curled around him.

He pulls himself back, but not by much, lips almost touching to say, “You don’t remember what I told you before?” His hold tightens; his hips angle themselves for a better fit. A small reminder.

A side-effect of being what she is involves a baseline temperature that’s already two degrees above what is normal for humans--and that heat surges upward in her when he touches the garters---it’s like he’s touching skin somehow in her head, a sensation amplified when he actually does drag her thigh up. She hooks her leg around him, pressing back against the elevator wall for balance. When she rolls her hips upward, it’s with that challenging look she gave him in the kitchen of the beach house, the heady one that suggests no one else exists. It’s easier to accomplish when they’re in a small, enclosed space like this, too.

“I remember,” she says, unsteady, but anticipatory, too, “Believe me, I can’t get it out of my head.”

She kisses him, then, not long, but slow and sweet about it, in direct juxtaposition to the way her nails are digging in, just a little, to the back of his neck. When she speaks, it’s breathless. “I want you to leave marks again, Mitchell. The other ones faded.”

...and then the elevator dings, as it hits her floor, and the doors slide open. At least no one’s in the hallway.

Which is a good thing, considering he seems quite intent to pull her other leg around him and push her back and up against the wall. He’s not gentle about it, either. There’s a few further moments of breathless kissing before he pulls back. “--no.” His mouth presses against her cheek, thinking, then, “Your place.”

He lets her down again. “You said something about a leash.” As if that’s only just coming back to him (it’s not, he’s been thinking about it most of the way here).

She sways against him for a moment longer, though the reminder of some of the accessories waiting in her apartment makes her light up with a lazy little smile. “Come on.”

Down the hall is not actually a very long trek, and once they’re through the front door, they are greeted by the large, shaggy beast that is Huan. He is not the run-up-and-jump kind of dog; Hasi scritches his ears for a moment. She is aware that her skirt is completely hiked up and is happy not giving a damn (if anything, she figures it gives Mitchell a view).

“Hi, baby,” she says to Huan, “don’t mind us, I’ll let you out for a run later.”

She’s only been gone a couple of hours, so she’s not worried he’ll get restless and chew something up. Huan is, however, looking at Mitchell with a canine expression that can only be characterized as “judgment.” In the meantime, Hasibe is heading for the hallway to her bedroom, shedding boots as she goes, coat tossed haphazardly on the floor. She looks at Mitchell over her shoulder, aware that he likes to keep her tethered to one place, and deliberately stirring up that instinct to restrain by going on ahead of him to her bedroom, where the door is open. She’s doing a decent job pretending she isn’t kind of dying to just get alone with him already, but there’s a betrayal of that false composure in her eyes.

“Maybe the leash is a good idea.”

Hey Huan, you appear to considerably bigger while you’re judging. At least Mitchell is used to large canines --all right, that may not be the best comparison right now. He carefully side steps the dog ,which is difficult, because that is a lot of dog.

Besides, he has other things keeping his attention in place. “If it’ll stop you walking away,” he calls after. Mission accomplished, Hasi.

Once he gets to the bedroom, his own jacket is taken off and tossed aside, the door firmly pushed in place behind him. Much like in the kitchen of the beach house, he stands there with his hands behind his back and a faint smile, watchful.

“If you want to keep those clothes intact, you might want to take them off yourself.” The good thing about her outfit at The Vault is there’s not much to it to tear.

She dangles the little leashes (there are two, and they’re not like an animal’s, exactly--shorter and thinner, with a leather coating) at him and drops them on the bed, playful. Hasi has no idea if he actually intends to incorporate those or not, though she’s sort of hoping so--she’s willing to see where his desires lead them, since what pleases her most, right now, is participating in that exploratory process.

At the implied command, she stops in the middle of the room. Her window’s curtains are half-open, meaning anyone glancing through might be able to see, but the fifth-floor level means it’s relatively secure, and--

She kind of likes the idea of being watched. Hasi faces Mitchell, and she doesn’t say anything just yet, but she starts the process of undressing with her uncanny kind of intense focus on high. She pulls the shirt over her head first, slow about it--methodical, even downright torturous--and then undoes the buttons on her skirt. Since she elected to wear a camisole and briefs instead of a real bra today, those aren’t difficult to lose, either, though by the time she’s on the bottoms, she’s starting to wonder how much longer she’s going to be able to go without touching. It should only take about a minute, but with the pace she deliberately takes, it ends up being closer to three or four, which seem a lot longer in her head.

The thigh high stockings, though, with their looped garters--those she leaves on.

“Is that better?”

He doesn’t say anything --in fact he hasn’t said anything the whole time, only watched intently and with a certain intensity that isn’t unlike that time in the dressing room. The difference is he had taken his time to trail around the room then. Now he strides over, smooths a hand up towards Hasi’s collarbone and stops, there, at the base of her neck, fingers pressing in firmly and persistently.

His smile isn’t playful any more --not in a human way, at least. But he kisses her, slow and hungrily, before pushing her back onto the bed. Not that he goes along with her. His knee presses against the edge as he starts to take off articles of his own clothing.

“Don’t move.” If looks could pin someone down, his wouldn’t be far off. When he’s down to nothing but black boxers, he reaches for one of the leashes to the side of him and begins to knot it through one loop.

“I wasn’t kidding earlier,” he says as he goes. It would almost sound conversational if it wasn’t for the hard edge to his voice.

She was a little ragged at the edges before, but his hand on her neck undoes her a little more, eyes closing just until she ends up on the bed. Hasi leaves one knee propped up, the other flat--conveniently, as that’s the leg he’s leashing, presently. She holds still with a deliberateness that is intended to let him know she’s obeying, but her heart is pounding.

“I know.” Hasibe’s voice is hushed, and she watches him at an angle. “I wasn’t, either, when I said I’d do what you tell me.”

It’s not passive (she’ll leave marks on his back and on his neck with her nails, biting him whenever he lets her), but there is something about yielding this way that she’s really, really missed.

“Right now, Mitchell, you can have anything you want from me.”

This is not a safe thing to say, with no rules, no safety net. That’s what makes it so terribly, deeply enjoyable. It’s a perfect kind of trust--a surrender, although not one, as noted, without her active enthusiasm. She wants this so much that she’s almost but not quite trembling already.

“What would you do if I moved?” She is aware he might not want her to talk in a minute, which she’s more than willing to do, too, but it means she wants to ask now (not out of concern, but out of fascination), before any further commands are issued.

Finished with one knot, Mitchell winds the leash around his fist with sharp tugs, before leaning over to plant a kiss then a soft bite on her thigh. “If you do, one of these goes around your wrists.” He moves back to tower over her once again, leg pulled with him. “And if you keep trying to move...”

His free hand, which has been trailing the back of that thigh, moves back sudden and sharp as if to deal a stinging blow --but stops, centimetres within touch. “Until you can’t.”

“So,” he says, mouth cruel around the edges, “are you going to make this easy or difficult?”

He’s honestly not sure which one he would prefer right now. That too-sharp part of him is close to the surface, and yet the thought of agonizingly drawing things out for both of them appeals to him in a way he can’t explain.

And it’s not like he’s never jumped on small excuses before.

The dilemma is not exactly a crucial one, but she feels entirely torn--on the one hand, she takes a certain pleasure in doing what she’s told, but on the other hand, what he’s proposing in return is hardly a deterrent. She bites her lip--hard, in fact, he can probably tell that she’s close to drawing blood, though she remembers herself a second later and lets go, staring up at Mitchell.

She remembers seeing his eyes black, in the dressing room, and although they aren’t like that now, she thinks this is similar enough that they may as well be.

When he nearly brought his hand down on the back of her thigh, there was a preemptive intake of breath from her that was more anticipatory than anything else. A lot of the men she knows are afraid to go there, afraid of hurting her, but she trusts this, and she wants that pain. To someone outside, it may not make a lot of sense, but for Hasibe, this confinement is freedom.

“I can be a good girl for you,” she says, softly, after a long pause. The words she chooses indicate she’s trying her hand at her usual innuendo-laden playfulness, but it doesn’t quite work this time, and ends up being more in line with trembling sincerity than anything else...and she doesn’t really mind. With less hesitation, she adds, “I’ll try.”

Eventually, she knows that she’ll give in and move, but at first...she’ll do her best. A little of column A, a little of column B.

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