007; strip my senses.

[norea]

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik, Irene Adler, and OPEN.
What: Just another night of expensive debauchery.
Where: The Vault.
When: Sukkardi.
Notes: N/A
Warnings: Sexuality, BDSM, swearing, probable allusions to drug use. Sex club, y'all.

Hasi debuts a new costume on Sukkardi: thigh-high stockings, black lace underwear, a corseted wasp-waist, and a sheer black blouse with long sleeves and a high collar. It is so sheer that her torso, aside from her stomach cinched in by the wasp, is visible, including her breasts and the nipple rings she wears. As one might expect, this attracts some attention, accentuated by the fact that in her high heels she is a head above half the crowd. She wears her hair loose, and makes her rounds with charm and a smile; if she is discomfited by recent events in her life, she'll never let it show. This is her job, and her job right now is to make sure everyone else has a good time, that they feel wanted, that they feel that they fit in--and it takes precedence over her worry about reprisals from the Candlelighters.

Plus, she has a wonderful new show lined up, and that gives her something to be pleased about--and good reason to entice everyone she can find to sub-stage B, when her second act of the evening (her first, on the main-stage, with the fire-dancing, is still performed earlier in the night, though this time it also includes aerial silks) occurs. The VIP lounge is especially relevant to her conquest, as she hasn't forgotten her promise to seek out Xenian-friendly high rollers for Xavier.

And now she isn't pretending to be anything other than Xenian.

Comments

BACKSTAGE

[norea]

The usual.

MAIN STAGE

[norea]

Also the usual.

[gotbottle]

The last time Rachel came to the Vault, for the big party, she'd been timid and tired and hidden in a private room rather than explore much. This time, she's decided to make a proper outing of it.

She's put on a nice dress, and she's screwed up her courage and left the bar. She walks into the main stage area, taking a seat at a table right up at the front. There's plenty of room and she won't say no to company.

SUB-STAGE B

[norea]

Not so usual.

On sub-stage B, Irene Adler and Hasibe Ozcelik perform a joint set.

In it, Hasibe initially takes the role of "favored pet"; the two bring in audience volunteers to boss around and dominate, with Hasibe occasionally bratting, pressing at Irene's authority with a certain stagey drama. She flirts with the audience when she does it, drawing the eye, batting eyelashes, playing the girlish coquette. Eventually, this results in a fairly stern punishment, rendering Hasibe gasping, twisting, arching on the table at the center of the stage. She is naked but for her underwear and a gold-and-black velvet collar for the majority of the act, so the physical reflection of her punishment is especially apparent. Initially she tries to wiggle her way out of it with exaggerated pouts and pleads, all to no avail. Hasibe wears a fox mask, toward the end, with hints of the act veering toward a Story of O homage, culminating in what appears to be an actual impersonation of a death at one point--a willing death like Odile's was in the story, a penance for her bad behavior, an act of adoration and devotion that she privately finds romantic if ill-advised even outside the stage. It leaves some gullible members of the audience looking a touch anxious. When the lights darken and the act finishes, however, there's her barely-visible silhouette, still breathing on the table.

(They couldn't do something ordinary. Whips are lovely, and certainly were well-used, but there's so much more subversion to be had.)

Only Irene can probably see the breathless little grin on her face, though. She's still quite flushed, blooming bruises and pink blushes decorating her skin, but absolutely enthralled with what they've done.

[thedominatrix]

Irene can see the grin on Hasibe's face- and mirrors it with one of her own, wolfish and hungry and positively delighted with herself.

That was the sort of show her college age self could never find a partner willing to join in with, much to her chagrin- and her heart's still pounding in her chest with excitement, sweat prickling on her skin, the most fantastic adrenalin rush flooding her chest with light.

She's wearing more than Hasi, for the sake of emphasising all her co-star's bare skin- though why anybody would need a reminder to look at Hasi half naked, she's not really sure. She's positively burning beneath sheer silk and tight leather, her high boots not helping much (though they'd helped eliminate some of the slightly image-ruining height difference between them), and she'd love to tell Hasi she was marvelous, but they aren't quite off the stage yet. That can come later.

There are no restraints to remove by now, though previously Hasibe had been straining against them for the look of the thing- the audience expects a certain about of B in their BDSM. In planning, they'd judged it better to have her 'die' when she had the choice to get up and leave if she wanted to, though, and from a staging perspective it meant she had been more capable of writhing. Irene offers a hand, and is hit once more by the bruises on Hasi's skin, a thrill of fascination and pride running through her- mixed with arousal, yes, fine, she does what she loves, but it's far from just sexual.

She wants to get off the stage- but she goes against her own decision just before they vacate it entirely, murmuring, "Stunning," into Hasibe's ear.

[norea]

When Hasibe first got into this industry, it was through means best described as 'shady'--but it's never really been a thing of shame for her. It's not just that her personality fits into performance easily, but her very make--her species--lends itself toward this kind of wanton sexuality, the sort that is quicksand to the onlooker. At first, the gaze may be somewhat horrified, even frightened, but the longer one stares, the more drawn in they become. She likes thinking of the audience as part of what she does, and she's too-acutely aware of every breath in their lungs.

Irene's, too.

At the quiet compliment, she alights in a bright grin, more full of racing blood and adrenaline than any kind of exhaustion.

"That went perfectly," she says (accent thicker than usual--that happens), once they are cleared of the stage, "and I feel like I am about to topple over, but I love it. You must be on fire."

Both in terms of how those stage lights can heat things up, and given the coup just performed on said stage.

[thedominatrix]

On fire is the right word. She feels super-charged, dangerous, in control, on top- her heart's thudding wildly and it's as if there is nothing she couldn't do just now.

"Oh, burning up," Irene agrees breathlessly, her voice low and full of wild excitement, predatory and yet conspiratorial; this achievement is a shared one. And it is an achievement. No one in that audience could look away. And no one is going to go home with anything else in their mind. It's wonderfully satisfying, and wonderfully erotic, too; spell-binding an audience is a powerplay of its very own. "In the best way."

She has her whip still in one hand- the other brushes against the small of Hasi's back, an automatic touch; she's a naturally tactile sort, and unwilling to lose the connection they've created. "How are those bruises?"

She sounds more interested than concerned, asking about what she rather views as her own artwork.

(And 'bruises' is rather an understatement).

[controlledvariable]

At a small, fairly private table a little further away from the stage, Steph watches the women perform. She's here to investigate Irene, but right now her thoughts are too in turmoil for that. She knows, logically, that Hasibe must enjoy this, because Steph can't imagine any other reason why she'd do it. She briefly caught some of Hasibe's regular show on the main stage, so it's not like she's a newbie signed up for the performance no one else wanted to do.

But...

It makes Steph feel raw and vulnerable, watching Irene punish Hasibe. There are too many associations that she can't help making, although she feels guilty for even mentally comparing Irene to Black Mask. Maybe that's why she forces herself to stay. It's not the smartest decision, to make herself confront her own issues by watching a BDSM performance, but she's proud of herself for making her way through the whole thing without having a panic attack.

[cerebral]

Nobody's dirty little secrets are safe from a telepath and it's fair to say that Charles has seen a lot of things in his time. Or at least, a lot of imaginings (usually followed by swiftly getting out of there, or the psionic equivalent of a head-tilt and 'huh').

And while he's as sexually active as one can imagine a bachelor in his late-twenties in the early 1960's to be, it can be said that he's stuck to certain ideas of how things are supposed to go. Mostly according to the partner at hand, and whatever her likes and comforts may be.

Which is to say, although he enjoys sex, he's never exactly done much exploration beyond what he knows he should like. The act on stage gives him pause for thought, and once it's over he's not sure whether to stick around or leave. He has more than a sneaking suspicion that Irene is going to come looking for him, anyway. It may as well be now.

Whenever she approaches him, he'll be sitting at a table by himself, legs crossed, dressed smartly and a Scotch in one hand.

[thedominatrix]

It takes Irene a while to emerge. She's reapplied her makeup and perfume over the sweat of exertion and fixed her hair back up into its rigid updo- she'd have liked a shower after all that, but there's no real point. It's a sex club, after all, and she has work to do.

She comes gliding through the crowd in a high-necked lace gown which reveals everything from her excellent choice in knickers and stockings to her apparent disregard for the bra in all its shapes and sizes, looking exceedingly pleased with herself, and distinctively curious- wondering what he thought of the show. Not seeking validation or praise, but certainly wanting to know his opinions- which is quite something, for her. Well done, Charles. Anyway, she wants to see what he's here for. He doesn't look out of place exactly, but she wasn't entirely expecting to see him. Quite the pleasant surprise.

"Mr Xavier," she says, leaning a hip against his table rather than sit down. Her riding crop is in her hand; props are important. "Don't you look dashing?"

[cerebral]

"Ms. Adler," he says, with a little side-glance at the riding crop, before meeting her at eye-level. "Your stunning self as usual."

An appropriate choice of words, although the difference between their last meeting and now is not lost on him, and he doubts it's lost on Irene, either. But other than that, he doesn't know quite what to say. And that's unusual for Charles. Surprises all around.

The small, distracted moment passes as he tries to ease into a boyish smile, although he can't quite shake off the bashful edges. "Would you care to join me or do you have other business to attend to?"

[thedominatrix]

"One of the things I love about my job is the freedom to pick when I do it," she says with a grin as she slides into a seat by him. "Don't worry. I wouldn't let you monopolise me."

He doesn't know quite how react, does he? How absolutely delightful. She smirks at him, the contrast between their game-playing in Queequeg's and this perfectly obvious.

"What did you think?" she inquires, and she makes it sound like a test.

[cerebral]

"I," and it lengthens out as he settles on what he wants to say, "have never seen anything quite like it."

Not that that's surprising --Charles comes from a pre-internet age and, while there's always been a scene, it's a lot more shocking than it's made out to be in the early twenty-first century and a lot more difficult to find (although he could, if he wanted to. The thought just hadn't occurred.)

"I mean, ah. I've seen pictures of a model named Bettie Page, once or twice, but that's not quite on the same level." The apples of his cheeks haven't turned pink at all, of course. That's the light, nothing more.

THE CTENOPHORA/VIP LOUNGE

[norea]

Ultra-exclusive, way up in the air, extremely sparkly...and it looks like a jellyfish.

MISC

[norea]

Do what you like here!

[asklepios]

Meeting Lucius at the Vault isn't a date; realistically, if Benevenuta gets laid tonight (a possibility she isn't ruling out--) the most he'll have to do with it is receiving a text that she had a nice evening and will find her own way home. What it is: a friendly night out for a bit of a laugh, because after he tossed his hair about having had a meeting there, yes, truly, this whole thing will be worth the expression on his face when she blithely said how lovely, he can show her around!

The red heels that make a burst of colour through her skirt's split stand out the most in her otherwise unobtrusive arrival, holding onto her clutch (if only inexplicable sword-hiding skills applied to other items) and moving, after a few moments consideration, toward the bar. It's not a bad place to start, and even if it doesn't occur to Lucius to actually look for her there, it's probably the first place he'll go, too.

[amourpropre]

She is right, to the surprise of no one.

Lucius stared balefully and unmoving in front of his wardrobe for the few minutes it took for him to dress in, well, black, although certain movements allow for the dark red satin lining of his frock coat to be visible in small hints and glimmers of rich colour, while a patterned sheen dances along black hem. There is silver at his cuffs and on his fingers, and it's taken him a while, since arriving in Baedal, to be able to look like money, which was once his normal state of being, and probably gives a false impression that he is here to spend more on his evening than just the entry free and a few drinks.

His cane is held like it's a thing he has to take around with him, although not entirely inelegantly. CiD is in his other hand, preparing to coordinate her to the bar-- before actually looking towards it and noticing, first, flashy silver and then the woman wearing it. Slows, speeds back up, slipping the device into a pocket.

Lucius has been here exactly twice. Including right now. He looks slightly hunted, but also cleaner shaven.

"Well," he says, tone gently sardonic, and slightly more comfortable automatically now that he is in the vicinity of someone familiar, "I think we've already exhausted my knowledge of the layout."

[asklepios]

“I had a feeling,” she laughs, not unkindly, raising a hand (put a bra on, Benevenuta) to catch the bartender's attention; he's occupied at the other end, they have a moment before Lucius can retreat into the safety of alcohol. She already has a drink - a Sazerac in a lowball glass - and she slides it slightly closer toward her as she shifts her knees not to crowd him as he joins her.

A moment later, off his expression-- “Courage, man.”

[amourpropre]

Lucius takes a seat next to her, hooking cane in place against the bar itself, and ignorant to his own guarded tension until Vanessza points it out to him. "I'll have some on ice in a moment," is a muttered quip rather than flaphand dismissal. Once the bartender does make his way over, the drink of choice is a double gin with only a splash of tonic.

"It did occur to me that had I chosen to change my mind, you wouldn't be wanting for company."

[asklepios]

“Your fulsome compliments, Lucius,” with a slightly dry tone, taking a sip from her glass, “what will I do with myself.” In theory, some of that company he mentioned; it's not as though the Vault has any shortage of interesting ways she could pass her time. She's noticed a few already, but nothing she feels the need to move on quickly.

If nothing else, she's always got time.

The first time you looked / at her curves you were hooked

[djravenfall]

If you've ever had one of those moments where you have no idea why it is that you're doing something, something you would probably never other wise do, and you're pretty sure it's only raw curiosity that drives you, than you know how Kaitlyn feels as she nervously makes her way through The Vault. She can blame Irene for this easily, the woman's description of the place had piqued her interest more than she'd ever be willing to admit.

The Vault is far and away different from any place she's ever visited before, and now that she's actually here, she's taking in the sights with a mix of awkwardness and amusement, a wide smile on her face as she shies away from getting too close to anything or anyone. For the moment. Lord knows how the night will go once she gets a few drinks.

[cerebral]

In amongst all the meetings and greetings of the evening, Charles decides to slip away for a quiet moment to himself and manages to steal a seat by the downstairs bar. He seems thoroughly unperturbed by his surroundings --and why should he be? The Vault embodied what going on inside people's heads on a regular basis, except now it was out in the open. Honesty is the best policy, after all.

Martini by his side, CiD in hand, he appears to be making notes and shuffling appointments around. Busy busy, as usual.

[asklepios]

“Dr Xavier, isn't it?”

By this point in the evening, Benevenuta has shed her blazer and she drapes it on the low back of the barstool she slides into beside him; she's done a circuit of the room, making a few interesting new acquaintances (and an appointment, that's for later), and now she's back at the bar for another drink (Sazerac, as before). She's a little flashier this evening than her colleagues typically see her, but she and Charles Xavier have had little reason to cross paths in the workplace thus far - she knows of him, can put a name to face, but beyond that...

What an interesting place to make his better acquaintance. The thought makes her smile, like she's inviting him in on a private joke, but with that ever present hint of some separation. Maybe it's because he's a telepath-- no, probably not. She's wary of that, conscious of it as she keeps her always orderly thoughts on safe paths, but she's just always like this.

"Vanessza Bernát. Trauma surgery.” In case she isn't quite as memorable.

[cerebral]

Luckily it's downright impossible for Charles to forget a face. He turns when he hears his name and smiles upon remembering Vanessza. "Yes, that's right. Genetic counselor working mainly from the Family Clinic, but you know how these things go."

Only after the auto-pilot niceties are over and done with does he remember the nature of this club and what an interesting place it is to bump into a colleague. His forehead creases slightly, seemingly lost in though for a second, as he tries to think on how to continue the conversation.

"If this were any other place, I'd be inclined to ask if you come here often. But I think that's perhaps a little too personal." Best to address the elephant in the room immediately, etc. And best done with some humour to it.

[asklepios]

“That would be very forward of you,” she laughs; lazily playful, not quite flirtatious. (Even at a slight distance, well, they are co-workers and she's generally found not fucking those to be a smart policy. Getting your genitals involved in interdepartmental politics just never works out; just ask Shonda Rhimes.) “But, no-- I was curious.”

There's not really far around personal you can go, when dealing with the Vault as your subject matter.