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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"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?

The word choice gets a polite laugh, which eases some of the tension within him while producing more (he'll probably need to divulge that little detail at some point soon, then).

"I can only imagine," he replies, before considering how to go about the evening. There are people he needs to become better acquainted with, after all. "Would you be free later on? About three hours or so? Another day is fine, too, of course."

"Later," Irene agrees, smiling and thinking- does he want to sample the other flavours of debauchery on offer, does he want time to think, is he meeting people, does he want to wait until it's less crowded? "Here, then? In three hours?" There's no point in directing him to a private room, after all- for one thing, the Vault is enormous and occasionally labyrinthine, especially given its slightly surreal atmosphere and the proliferation of drugs and alcohol- and for another, there's no need to encourage guests to hang around the private rooms alone. She trusts him not to be an idiot, but exceptions are dangerous things to make.

"In three hours," he repeats, and there's another of those bordering-on-coy smiles although there's something slightly more mischievous about this one. For now he finishes up his drink and, as he does so, catches the eye of someone across the room that he's been meaning to talk to.

"But if you'll be so kind as to excuse me for now." And he rises from his seat, adjusting his suit jacket as he goes. "I'm afraid I need to attend to a few matters elsewhere." Business calls, etc.

"Oh, I'd hate to distract you," she says, eyebrows up, watching him get up and prepare to go.

This is an utter lie.

"Look at you. At a sex club on business. You know, I don't know what to make of you, my darling." She gives him a grin that's all teeth, drumming red nails on the handle of her riding crop. "Yet." A threat or a promise? "Have fun."

She, after all, has business enough of her own to attend to- and while she suspects she sees a bit of her ruthlessness in him, the same ambition and clawing drive, she highly doubts that they have the same aims. And they definitely won't be using the same methods.

Time, then, to get to work. Pleasure can come later.

Three hours is all Charles needs to create a good impression with a number of people, arrange several meetings for the coming weeks and gain a few invitations to some select events. So he's looking fairly pleased with himself the next time he sees Irene, this time accompanied with a half-full champagne glass, and seats himself slightly on the edge of his former table.

Once Irene shows up, he's full of sly mischief and smiles, before pressing his lips together and pressing on with-- "I have something to confess to you before we go on."

Not that he seems anxious about what he's about to say; there's a certain positive buzz about his person.

She parts the crowd once more, after a few engagements with gentlemen of varied tastes- and a few drinks, all though she's careful never to get drunk when she's working.

That, the promise of a confession, gets her attention. Her eyebrows go up, and she puts a hand on her hip, standing close to him. "Do you."

He seems so excited that's it's infectious- though it's not as if she wasn't excited anyway. Some part of her has been wanting to do this since she met him. Her smile widens.

"Then confess," she says, voice a low murmur, words a command.

"I don't know if it'll come as too much of a surprise; I'm xenian."

That stalls the positivity, and for a moment there is this hesitant nervousness as he pulls about him the comfort of the ideas and theories that he uses to drive him, to define him. "Or mutant, as we've come to say in my world, although only recently. The next stage in evolution. I'm sure that explains my chosen specialty more than adequately, but when there's no information about your kind anywhere in the world --or at least nothing openly accessible-- you don't have to be a genius to want to find the answers. Although in my case, it's certainly helped."

This is the part where it always gets interesting. "Each of us are born with a particular ability. Or more than one. My sister can change shape at will. My best friend can manipulate metal. And I-- I'm a telepath."

He watches carefully. It always catches people off guard, but then he's prepared for that.

She nods slowly as he tells her he's xenian- he does, after all, live in Mafaton, doesn't he? Of course, there are humans there too, but it does raise the possibility distinctly.

His slight nervousness alerts her to the fact that she should prepare to control her features, and then he drops that bombshell-

It feels like someone pouring ice water down her neck, a sudden cold shock of what does he know before reason and logic catch up with her thudding heart and remind her that he trusts her to take a crop to him, or whatever they're going to do here.

He can't know it all. Her disguise is intact. She's going to have to be careful to give him no reason to go looking, and she's going to have to treat him very, very well.

This all happens deep down, locked inside. Her face doesn't change, which might be more of a giveaway than a slight expression of shock. She blinks, that's all.

Keep. Calm.

Suddenly- a lifesaving new thought- she realises how he did it, the first time they met face to face. She concentrates on that rather than on the fear of discovery, the cold, hard panic of being pinned down, unable to control what another person thinks of her- and the act comes naturally, because it is natural, somewhere.

"I should have known," she said, voice full, suddenly, of astonishment and amusement and approval. "You cheat, Charles Xavier."

Of course, he can feel it, hear it --the shock and the forethoughts that he'll always pick up on, so long as he has his mind open to such things-- but he's prepared for that. And as soon as that is done racing through her mind, as soon as he hears her words, he thinks to himself that that's a lot better than most people take it.

"The world's biggest." He says, hesitance breaking into something much more easy. "Or at least in the top five. And to think you matched me." Which he'd been instantly charmed by.

Then, a little more seriously, "You'll forgive me for not telling you before, but we're something of a hidden minority in my world. Old survival habits die hard. And I assure you, I'll give you your privacy, not that my assurance seems like much."

"Hardly much to forgive," she assures him, touching his upper arm- casual, testing the waters as she goes, more friendly than anything else but still, perhaps, more friendly than they usually are. They talk rather than touch, after all. "I'm a cheat, not heartless." Anyway, she understands the concept of revealing your real self- or real status, perhaps that's more appropriate, considering the societies they have lived and currently live in- only to a certain, small circle of people. She's gay, and she came out in small doses, as it were; she's drawing parallels.

And- through her shock, her worry- she appreciates that he's told her. Especially before this. "I'm glad you came out with it before we got into anything," she tells him, before giving him a smile and adding, fondly; "Thank you."

"Not at all." It's a similar sort of assurance as Irene's and the hand on his arm elicits a private smile from him, before he takes a moment to look around the room.

"My mutation allows me a unique vantage and advantage. When I look around this room, when I see into the minds that I can enter, it's...something I'm used to, but I never take it for granted. It's like some glittering web; I see people's experiences, their hopes and their dreams, their sorrows. And I feel it, too --all the joys, pains and pleasures. In all their astonishing beauty. I have a deep and abiding love for people, because even though I can see them at their worst, I also see them at their best."

It's not something he gets to speak about a lot or share, not even to other mutants (probably because he expects them to reach those conclusions on their own, since they should know. But then again, they don't know this. And so they don't, and they never do, and he's always a little disappointed). Perhaps it's best that Irene is human. She styles herself as the person who knows everything about you, and Charles would really like that, for once, even though it wouldn't strictly be true.

"It must sound overwhelming to anyone else," he says, turning back to look at her with that same small, closed-lipped smile. "But it's something I've been able to do almost my entire life. It's a gift. The people I've been able to help alone makes it worth it."

Funny; he reminds her so much of Sherlock, just in reverse somehow. The willing hero. She can't tell whether it makes him more or less interesting, or if she can really compare them in this area, but his speech about knowing people- it rings bells.

Not that Sherlock knows people. Sherlock knows facts. Irene and Charles have more overlap when it comes to areas of expertise, really; she knows all about seeing people at their worst and their best.

It's a gift. He's a darling. Irene's not honestly sure what to do when it comes to good people, she realises with faint amusement. "I can see that," she tells him- not in any attempt to patronise him, but in a way that suggest I understand.

All the same, she doubts this is idle chatter, or just a confession. He's leading up to something, isn't he? Good.

"I wouldn't say it's affected any intimate areas of my life. Overall secrecy, yes. But telepathy... Not really. I know what people like, and that. Let's just say that's useful." There's a bright eyed, mischievous smile to accompany that last part. Even though he's so very polite, he's also being much more frank than convention usually dictates. And that's fun.

"My partner's needs aside, it's also --well, it leaves me wondering. It's so difficult for anyone to surprise me." He looks Irene in the eye when he says, "And I want to be surprised, I do. I want suspense. I want shivers up my spine."

It's only a touch tremulous.

"But at the same time it's, I feel--"And he loses the ability to measure out his words so carefully. "I'm not ashamed of my abilities. Giving them up completely would be beyond alarming, the closest I can come to describing it is like chopping off an arm, but at the same time I --I want to know. I want to know what it's like not to know, or come close to it. I want to give it up to someone," and he puts his glass aside, before holding up cupped hands, "like that. And let them take charge for a little while. For once."

His hands are lowered once more as he looks at Irene, head tilted and eyes searching as if to ask does this make sense?

She watches him closely- and looks quite honestly fascinated, but also entirely unsurprised. The particulars are different, but the theory is ever so familiar; surprise me, excite me, take everything I have to deal with on a daily basis away from me...

It always strikes her as brave, admitting this sort of thing.

"I understand," she assures him, something undeniably fond in her eyes.

"And I can help," she says, sounding arch and rather pleased with herself- but excited, too. Send shivers down his spine? She would love to. "It might be something I'll have to work on rather than something I can give you right now- unless you know a way- but I'll do it."

Very few things escape her when she puts her mind to them. Her confidence and eagerness- this is, after all, a dynamic she has never played with before- are not just for show.

"With our combined efforts, I'm sure we could find a solution fairly quickly." He works in a hospital; Irene is not doubt accumulating an array of acquaintances. It's not as though he's the only telepath to ever live in the city, so there must be something.

Other than that, he smiles with more than a touch of relief. This had gone more or less how he'd hoped.

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007; strip my senses.

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