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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The usual.

Also the usual.

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.

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

Do what you like here!

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.

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."

“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.”

Edited (not a full minute, no ) 2012-02-26 09:09 (UTC)

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."

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.

“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.

"Well, I was also referring to the nature of this place. Better to abandon you here than the usual sort of establishment." Lucius' drink slides over once alcohol and ice is fussed with accordingly, money passed back in turn. He spiders his fingers over the top of it, watching detached the configuration of ice in the transparent mix, before glancing back at her and raising his glass in subtle cheers. "But I suggest; be flattered?"

Sip. He's managed to get the straggled ends of his hair snipped a few days ago, looking less like he rolled through a war to get here, and he fits in enough for all that the length and cut of his clothing always manages to side step purely Muggle fashions. Still, he feels decidedly out of place. And that's, by his standards, not terrible.

Her laugh is quiet but not precisely subdued -- measured, and it's less like artifice precisely (although she is that, but so good at it now) than it is a kind of benevolent distance. She's so present and still always at a remove.

“I will,” she decides, lifting her drink in a brief salute, assessing him over the glass's rim, still smiling. “But now I am curious. What do you make of the nature of the place? When you're not abandoning young women to it.”

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.

No more obscene than the rest of this city, he could say. Or, lucrative. Both of these have their pros and cons and are ultimately discarded, pressing a thin non-smile as Lucius again regards his drink, taking a gentlemanly lean against the bar as he casts a look out to their surroundings. Crows-feet lines at his eyes deepen in analytical squint.

"Stylish," he offers.

“I'll drink to that.” It struck her as a good occasion for the skirt - flashier than she'd usually be, an impulse buy as a reward after a long day, an indulgence she should probably lay off while she's figuring out how to keep paying Rex Lewis. Indulgence seems like the name of the game in here, though, and she's inclined to be in favour.

Crossing her knees, she inquires, “But you don't partake?”

It's a nice skirt, and Lucius isn't one to label anything gaudy for all that, these days, he dresses like a raven that is either having a sleek day or a ruffled day. She crosses her legs and he glances down where it opens, red shoes an elegant reminder for him to look up again and at her question. He can imagine what his answer would have been, a couple of years ago. Certainly not.

But then again, he wouldn't even be giving her the light of day, let alone attempting to earn some of her's. He's not sure he can afford to be insulted.

He isn't, either. "No," he says, simply, a slightly wry upturn at the corner of his mouth, chasing after some fleeting reflection in the bar top as he responds. "Typically. Stylish, but for someone else's sensibilities, I imagine. Yourself?"

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.

“Maybe,” in a thoughtful way, letting her gaze wander (catch, linger-- move on) what's visible, the sheer variety. “If it is to my sensibility...I'll never know if I do not try, no? Hm?”

A life's philosophy boiled down to its simplest parts. Try it; see. Maybe you'll like it. She shrugs in and out of mortal lives like she's trying on dresses, twisting this way and that in the mirror; is this really me? Is this the one?

Try it; what's the worst that could happen?

She can always buy another skirt.

The difference between feeling precious about your own sense of time, versus having so much of it to spend. Almost the difference between Vanessza chasing what's on show with her eyes in distanced regard and Lucius analysing the configuration of ice in his drink and the light bouncing off polished mahogany, and sometimes, Benevenuta's ankles.

That, and he's married.

Cosmically.

"Young women are permitted to enjoy certain liberties," he says, instead, bringing his gin and its shadow helping of tonic to drink from. "I believe that's written down somewhere. Where you came from--" And he almost wants her to say yes, here, having some sort of mutual understanding would be good, although goodness knows why. "Did you have anyone?"

The gesture is unconscious, her left thumb sliding between her fingers, pressing the space where she doesn't wear a ring (any more-- diamonds from Edvárd, Alec's plain, battered gold band, further back, even, and all of them in a jewelry box in her flat, heart's history condensed into something she can carry); she shrugs, lithe, and shakes her head with one of those small, wry smiles. “No, I have been...'at liberty', for a while.”

Nor is she seeing anyone here, for a 'relationship' value of seeing; booty-calling Tom doesn't count and her admittedly slightly odd friendship with Lucius doesn't, either. She's still getting her bearings here, in some ways, dealing with that which is even more strange and fantastic than she is, and here more than home she does feel as if she needs to understand what she's getting into.

Life was easier when she could divide the world into mortal and immortal; life here is interesting, and she doesn't begrudge it.

“But I'm enjoying my liberty, like you say.”

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.

There's a second where he wonders if he is being invasive (because turned back around, if potentially from someone else, he would count it to be), but then she responds, and Lucius knows no true visceral reaction after all. He isn't sure, exactly, what his duties here are as a husband, if it matters, because maybe tomorrow Narcissa will appear in a green tiled room or maybe Lucius will disappear like others have, like Severus did.

Neither of these possibilities feel real, somehow, or even likely. There aren't many examples to follow, as a result. Vanessza does not present one.

But he followed her here anyway, even if all he partakes in is a drink two parts gin. "Clearly," he says, a rather swift quip despite some other part of his mind wheeling away in self-indulgent contemplation, casting another look out from their immediate vicinity; aaand back to his gin-retreat, although even he can see a degree of humour in his own reserve. "I suppose that uncomplicates matters."

“Some,” she agrees, speaking more broadly than of pleasures offered by the Vault; she fades out like a ghost and begins again, and she's good at it, now, accustomed to it. Some things will always ache, but Baedal does not present the same challenge to her as it does to some. For all of its unique attributes, in some ways-- this is still just one more new lifetime to be lived. She's always wanted to be learning, and in so many ways this place is an irresistible opportunity.

This city, and this place. She doesn't forget about the Militia, the Candlelighters, the prejudices and the politics-- she's just long been temperamentally disinclined to lose sight of the beautiful for the grotesque. She has so much life to live.

“It makes me strange among our cohort, I know, to embrace this. But I think, not bad. I don't do it naively.”

"It's certainly in the spirit of the thing." His tone is a little weary, but not wholly cynical; Lucius has had time to find some silverlining. Like no one caring about the things he has done except outside of the ever-expanding wizard enclave he is more or less avoiding. Or no one caring that he isn't affecting the exclusive wealthy socialite from before.

Vanessza is better at being a blank slate. "There are neighbourhoods devoted to those on the opposite end of the spectrum. Unkind ones. You've probably had them as patients, at least, if you've not been to the Spatters yourself.

"It must be difficult, to yearn so for where you came from enough to discard all other comforts. I shouldn't think your position naive." A beat. "Necessarily."

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007; strip my senses.

BACKSTAGE

MAIN STAGE

SUB-STAGE B

THE CTENOPHORA/VIP LOUNGE

MISC

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

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