multiversallogs | 007; strip my senses.

Entry tags:

007; strip my senses.

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.

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“Necessarily,” with a wry tilt of her head, acknowledging. Her approach is no more flawless than anyone else's - among her own cohort, she's particularly aware of the risk of her own satisfaction sliding towards something insensitive, and however fascinating she finds this place, there's still the abduction aspect that it's dangerous to forget - but she steps cleverly and carefully for the most part.

She flies below the radar here in ways she hasn't in other places, she finds; everyone, here, is a little odd.

“I suppose that is what's so disquieting to some, about Strangers; most, I think, would prefer not to so easily understand how it happens. And how natural it is, to yearn.” She wonders if some don't push themselves harder and faster into the city for that, if they don't cut their own emotional ties with more brutality than necessary, to better turn their eyes away.

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.

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?"

"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?"

"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.

"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.

Oh, goodness- he's adorable. Irene practically delights in shocking people- especially when they react like Charles. Not negatively, but uncertainly. Perfect.

"Bettie Page," she says in approval; "what a woman. But you're right- that was rather more adventurous."

More adventurous. That's Irene all over; constantly pushing, pushing, never letting things lie, never having enough of anything no matter how much she has. She proves it once more, demanding more information with, "Tell me more; I want to know what it was like for someone not part of the scene. Most of the people here are old hands." She narrows her eyes and smiles, leaning in closer. "Give me a fresh perspective."

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.

“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.

"It looked...painful. In some parts. But she, ah --that is, Ms Ozcelik seemed to be enjoying it. And not in a staged manner, even though it was a performance." He hadn't tried to read Hasibe's mind, didn't even think it was possible, didn't really want to in this place for fear of picking up on things that were best left unknown. But he had sensed certain emotions, all right, certain sensations. Those were what kept him in his seat.

It wasn't the dominant position that had fascinated Charles. And that's what makes it shameful. There are certain ideas of what normal men should do, and that's been a sore subject in private, lately. A lifetime of passing and keeping up appearances have left their mark.

"I'm not really sure what else you want me to say." And he takes a sip of his drink to hide the burn in his cheeks.

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.

“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.

Irene looks at him thoughtfully. So, his mind jumped to Hasi and her role. And he's still blushing. Hm.

"She was enjoying it," she agrees. "And it was painful." A beat, her lips curving, she jokes; "I, for one, will not be able to raise my whip arm tomorrow morning."

She settles back, crossing her legs and smiling at him- half knowing and half gentle- and somehow, all probing. "Did you like it?" she asks.

"I should think not," he says, picking up on the joke and going with it. The humour, the relaxed body language, Irene's more gentle approach, elicits a calmer state from Charles. He fidgets with the edge of his glass for a moment, before looking up from under the falls of his hair, a smile that quirks up in one corner as if this is as flippant a conversation as any.

"It made me curious." That seems to be their key word. "I think... I'd like to learn more. Although I'm not sure how, exactly."

"A member of our cohort who works here was gracious enough to give me access to the VIP area." He points upwards at the jellyfish-like structure descending from the ceiling and strains his head backwards for a moment, watching the glimmering lights.

"I'm trying to find some funding for a project. Strangely enough, this place is rather egalitarian, so long as you have the cash for the door fee. Otherwise everyone is welcome, which means it's a good way to inter-mix and, ah, make friends in high places." He turns his full attention back to Vanessza. "If you'll forgive the pun."

Irene watches with bated breath as he fidgets with his glass and gives her that smile. Cheeky. And she can't help but respond in kind, of course.

One of the first things she thought about him was that he reminded her of a certain type of client she gets- a certain type of client she enjoys seeing, actually.

She's rather pleased with her own intuition, to be quite honest.

"Nonsense," she says, eyebrows slightly raised. "I'm sitting right in front of you, aren't I?" Quickly- for the sake of not doing too much too soon- she adds, "Not that I'm proposing to drag you to the depths of some dungeon somewhere as fast as possible to, ah- show you the ropes." That's dreadful, Irene. "But doesn't everyone like talking about their career? And...demonstrating. I am an expert, Mr Xavier- you may as well make use of the fact."

With a thoughtful bite of his lip, he responds, "That doesn't sound too dreadful." Although it's mostly said in jest. He does look slightly startled at the word 'demonstration,' but not necessarily in a bad way.

"Where do you start? Is it only being tied down and beaten? Are there other, um, activities?" The pretense of what he's interested gets dropped, then. Inquisitiveness wins out once more.

She could positively eat him up. Really. He's terrific fun.

"Dear," she says, sounding slightly startled- to her, as involved in BDSM as she is, the over-simplification is a bit a surprise. Not a bad surprise, though, not when she considers the fact that she might just have a chance to open his eyes. Wouldn't that be wonderful? "Yes, of course, there are countless other things that come under the heading. Tying up and beating someone-" the difference in their automatic use of the language only occurs to her after she's said it "-is the first thing that comes to most people's minds, but there's much more variety than that. And much more subtlety. Some of my clients aren't even masochists. I mean, quite aside from fetishes- there are far too many ways of- well, dominating for me to list. That's the point, really. Pain, humiliation, whatever the method- they're just different ways of getting to the same place."

“How could you have resisted that?” she laughs, following his glance to the Ctenophora for a fleeting moment. It's beautiful just to look at; the view from there must be fascinating, and the thought diverts her momentarily. (Only momentarily.) “What sort of project, if I may ask--?”

"I see." Or at least, he's starting to. "It's sort of...putting words to something I already understood, if that makes sense?"

Generally he liked to leave people's intimate lives alone (the novelty wore off a long time ago at an age when he probably shouldn't have been privy to such things) but he couldn't help but pick up on occasional fragments of needs, wants, desires. Or stop himself from comparing them to his own. The result, as with other issues in his life, was an odd fragmentation of knowledge and reservation.

There's a thoughtful bite to the bottom of his lip (a habit he'd never been able to drop) and a look that borders on coy. "And when you said demonstrating before...?" He leaves it hanging, unsure, and quite okay with Irene to take the lead in such things.

It's refreshing not to know it all for once.

Irene nods- it makes sense. Most people have an idea of what kink entails, but the specifics, the precise terms- and there are many- elude them. Often, so does the psychology. She's had so many men come to her with no understanding of what they want, only that they want it.

And speaking of--

The way he bites his lips and that look, coupled with how uncertain he sounds, is positively intoxicating in a way that isn't quite sexual, though it's related. The whole situation wouldn't be nearly so appealing were she not conscious of how clever he is, of course. She has to wonder how often he's the less-educated person in a conversation. Not very frequently, she'd wager.

"Darling," she says, quite calmly and gently, though there's something absolutely in charge about it. It's professional. Don't worry, I know what I'm talking about. "You're curious." She gives him a smile that suggests that they're co-conspirators. "Quite frankly, so am I. The men who come to me usually know precisely what they like." If not why. "But what I'd like is to take you to a private room and work it all out with you. Show you how it feels." She keeps eye contact in a way that suggests she knows absolutely everything about him and that there's really no point hiding a thing. There's a beat, and then; "Naturally there's a degree of discussion necessary before I whisk you off anywhere- which I have a feeling you'd prefer over trial and error, but some men seem to honestly expect me to read their minds."

...haha?

"I think understanding the Strangers is one step closer to being one yourself," Lucius adds, tone a little careless. "Upon sympathising with the notion of what one has lost, what little there is to gain." Which means he does, or did, understand it at one stage, for all that the very state of them, their poverty and their mutual rejection and all the shallow appearances of how they live day to day inspires visceral, pitiless distaste in someone like Lucius Malfoy.

He drinks a little more until melting ice collides, submerged. "All a matter of perspective, of course."

“Yes, it's my thought.” For some people, to understand something is to give it power; so many arguments that exist because of this inability to separate understanding from acceptance. To understand why something happens isn't necessarily to condone or to conform to it--

Benevenuta is a historian, after all. Of course she has opinions on such a closely related subject.

“But,” lighter, “it is a different yearning entirely that brings one here.” Probably.

The Strangers would probably balk at that idea. As it stands, it doesn't sit wholly well with Lucius either; in a way that doesn't fit, as opposed to taking offense. In much the same way that the Vault has style that is not, exactly, his style.

"Do you believe so," is prompting rhetoric.

"A community resource, primarily for vulnerable people in the city. Either because they're discriminated against here or they were back in their own world." The CiD gets slipped back into his pocket, any necessary notes and appointments having been made.

"It's all nice and well to give people two weeks of shelter, some vouchers and a bit of cash --equal treatment, and then a shove out the door. But for the people who aren't on equal footing when they get here, for the people who need a little bit more time... There's very few places for them to go." He doesn't add and that's not right, but the look on his face says it plainly.

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007; strip my senses.

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