[Side Story: Exposed] #BitrMe

[Claude Lambert (DELETED 8569)]

One marvellous thing about Mother Nature is that she’s largely unpredictable. Humankind might think that they have it all worked out, that A + B = C, that their deductions are faultless – but they really have no idea. In the same vein that Humankind had not predicted the true existence of monsters such as Vampires, Claude had not predicted the arrival of the man in gold at such an instance. His brows lifted beneath the full-faced mask, as did the corners of his lips, yet his eyes remained bronzed in that same lascivious show of intrigue. Claude admired the light again, the way it skimmed down the mauve coloured fabric as the new arrival stroked a hand down the horse’s back. The act might very well have been a possessive gesture, as the two mysterious gentlemen were obviously well acquainted. Claude, however, was not so easily rattled. His views on monogamy had been permanently twisted, and he now looked at people as individuals rather than soul mates. In the end, the nature of a relationship relied on perspective – mutual or otherwise.

While the male Medusa’s eyes had certainly taken a fancy to the horse, he couldn’t be blamed for his attention drifting so quickly. Or maybe he could be, but he would have persisted regardless. The man in gold had his work cut out for him in being able to distinguish himself from the similarly fashioned décor, yet he shone like a veritable star with that brash demeanour and wicked smile. Golden butterflies transmogrified into golden moths, fluttering to this light as it moved from behind the quiet horse to directly in front of him. Claude wondered whether this was their host for the evening after all. TheMonarch, who’d revealed himself as Lincoln King during their friendly correspondence, most certainly qualified as having the planets and moons revolve around him. Besides, the crown-shaped mask he wore was certainly a helpful indicator as to his true identity.

For the moment, however, Claude held his tongue. While it could be considered a highly educated guess, he didn’t want to make too many assumptions or declare he knew the truth immediately. People often found that rude, arrogant, and this was a Masquerade party so it rather defeated the purpose of knowing names. Yet, as the golden man continued to speak, focusing his attention on the male Medusa, it became quite apparent how a little haughtiness and exposure was not going to offend anyone in the trio. Claude’s small, mischievous smile grew behind the mask, and for all the flickering of his snake-like tongue that could have added an equally salacious retort, the German remained momentarily statuesque. It was almost as though he’d caught his reflection and turned himself to stone, the spell only coming undone when the potential Monarch summoned a server.

As the lady offered drinks from her golden tray, the German was reminded of Perseus’ shield – an ominous sign to be sure. He gave a polite wave of his hand and a bow of his head, expressing that he was fine, then raised his already full glass momentarily from the counter to confirm the matter. While it wouldn’t have bothered him to accept another glass so quickly, perhaps necking the first amount just to take the next would make an impression too soon. Besides, he didn’t want to blur his sensors just yet, not when there was still so much to explore. Claude became distracted immediately as the stallion beside him neighed at last, projecting this exotic voice that fizzed on Claude’s palate much like the champagne. Amber eyes flickered over to the stallion once more, noting an offered hand and an introduction. Claude released his grip on the champagne glass to take the presented palm and shook it tenderly; a thumb massaging the other man’s knuckle.

“A pleasure, Sal,” the German said before his eyes passed over to the man who’d been revealed as Lincoln after all. “You might call me Claude.” His eyes returned to Sal. “Though I have been known to answer to anything flattering.” He released Sal’s hand soon enough, not wanting to overstay his welcome, even if his eyes lingered for perhaps two seconds too long on those shapely lips. “As for details on my tailor, Mr Lincoln,” Claude announced, stripping his focus from one outrageously attractive man and redressing it on the other. “It’s not entirely a secret, but, I would prefer to whisper it to you later. I have every confidence in your ability to find a suitably discreet location for doing so.” A pause, before his attention drifted once again to Sal. “And don’t let yourself feel left out, Sal. I would certainly love to share the finer details with you as well.”

Claude had always been described as the ambitious type, but few would have guessed that such ambition would translate into the art of seduction. Of course, Claude still had no idea as to whom these men were to each other, whether they were lovers, partners, friends with benefits, or in fact nothing of the sort and were simply natural seducers. Each man had this aphrodisiacal aura around them. They spoke with confidence, charm, and made him feel utterly delighted simply to have met them. Whatever the case with the males, it didn’t entirely matter to Claude. There was plenty to get swept up in, plenty to see and plenty to do at this party, so he didn’t mind if their contact was brief or otherwise lengthy.

[Courtney]

Back to Courtney, for a second.

Back to the buzzing street lights over the car and the impending sense of doom.

Back to the early night and the drone of Swamp Rock and the old, red hatchback.

Back to another cigarette.

His skin felt like the thick plastic around a marinated, vacuum-packed piece of pork: Like somebody stuck the hose in his mouth, then started sucking all the air out. His lungs felt that way, too: Crumpled.

He cracked the Pacer's window and exhaled smoke into the late summer, early fall, into the strange and changing seasons.

A bum walked past. Courtney leaned further into the Pacer's front seat, hoping he wouldn't be asked for a smoke, a light, or money. But the guy did approach: Wary, at first, timid little steps that Courtney attributed to a newness in the man's social lacking.

The bum knocked on the window, and he asked exactly what Courtney thought he would ask.

"Hey, man, you got another smoke?"

Courtney reached into the front passenger's seat. When he did, he got one of those premonition flashes that weren't uncommon for him: His weird visions that made his body buzz and his whole spirit drop out of his butt [that was the only way to describe it, really, because that's what it felt like, like he was being drained out of himself, through his root chakra, down into the Earth, down into the black, so he could get his one-on-one movies]. This time the movie felt like a ghost gun to the back of his neck.

Courtney looked over his shoulder. The bum was very clearly standing on the other side of the cracked window. Courtney still had a cigarette in his mouth. Because he wasn't next to that crack, the smoke started filling up the cabin.

The premonition of the gun was only a flash: Cold metal against his spine, at the base of his skull.

Courtney carefully sat up and offered two cigarettes through the window, praying that the guy wouldn't come back, or say anything else.

"Thanks, man, you got a light?"

Lighters were smaller than cigarettes. His fingers would be closer to the bum's fingers.

He'd have to take the lighter back.

He offered the bum the lit cigarette, instead, and the bum took it, then offered it back. Courtney shook his head.

"I'm starving. I've been out here for a few days with nothing to eat. You got a dollar? Fifty cents? Anything helps. Anything at all."

"I don't. I have, uh -- Well. I have some spaghetti. If you -- "

"That's great! That's fine. Bless you. Yes. Oh, God. Bless you."

Courtney cracked the window just enough to get the Tupperware and the metal fork through.

The bum took it and squatted and started eating by Courtney's car. And when the bum was done shoving food down his throat, he stood up and offered the dishes back.

"No, thanks. You keep them. Times are tough. A good, metal fork is a," and at that point, Courtney Apple kept talking, but it sounded like a foreign language in his own ears. He couldn't tell you that the word he used was, "commodity," only that he dropped out of himself, again, laughed with the homeless man, then rolled the window up as tight as he could, after the bum left.

Courtney sniffed. Hard. His face frowned for him: His brain didn't feel it. Not until the tension turned into a veritable tick and dragged the corners of his mouth down quick and heavy, like cement on a guy's feet pulling him under the water: And these masqueraders were his mafiosos.

He turned the engine off, completely.

[Tate]

Tate had first found the invitation in her childe's clinic, her only response to it having been to tuck it away on Trinity's desk. The social scene had never been something to appeal to her, alive or dead. It had always been one thing or another, but for the most part, had to do with the fact that she wasn't really a people person. Large groups gave her anxiety, which generally lead to hostility and anger. So, when Elizabeth mentioned the event, and invited her, Tate had been reluctant to agree to go. And in her reluctance, it had seemed she would think about it.

But, as the date rolled around, the petite vampire had made sure to find an outfit for the occasion on the chance she'd decide to go. Her red hair had been pulled into a top knot so that it would stay out of her face, make up minimal due to her dislike of products. A light spritz of her favorite perfume, L’Eau, had followed to allow her usual cinnamon scent in check perking up her mood. Her heels, beige in color, gave her a few extra inches of height, were added after she slipped into her dress.

Simple and navy blue, Tate had chosen the gown so that the colorful tattoos, always present and standimg out against the killer's naturally pale skin, that ran across her small frame wouldn't be taken away from. After she was dressed and ready to go, the hardest part of the evening had been to actually leave her apartment. "Look at you, Catty, actually showing off your skin." Alicia's voice echoed through Tate's mind as she collected her favorite jean jacket and pulled it on over her dress. It was an identifier for Elizabeth or anyone else she knew at the event. Eventually, it would be removed, but for now, it was something to keep her anchored.

It had gotten easier to ignore the spirit of her dead friend over the years. Her hand hovered over the doorknob long enough that she willed herself to turn it. "I'm going out, Keegan." She called out to her thrall, not expecting a response before twisting the knob, exiting out after an internal battle. At the same time she stepped out, she was unsurprised to see the look of amusement her attire gathered from her neighbor. "Hot date tonight?" The cuckold asked only to receive a mild glare from the tiny female. He had grown used to it and without a word, Tate stalked past him. Her heels clicked with each step as she went.

Only when she reached the club did she stop her heated walk, a rush of discomfort rolling over her frame like an icy shower. She hesitated once more, pulling her mask from her pocket before sliding it into place. The feathers tickled her cheek, Tate's only response to it being to blow at the spot from the corner of her mouth so it would go away. Once she calmed herself, the killer stepped inside and looked around, taking in the appearances of those that had already gathered as she tried to make out the familiar face of her friend.

[Lincoln King]

There were people everywhere now, and Lincoln was pleased to see them being greeted by staff with drinks, to see them laughing and interacting, seem even making use of the space and dancing. He'd tried to pick out the different, well, species was the best word for it he supposed. Was that woman a vampire? Her grace and controlled movements made him think she was indeed, and the one whose skin shone near translucent, a blueish tone when the lights moved across his exposed skin. There were blood thieves and sorcerers he'd invited, even a few Paladins though they'd been given a stern warning not to start trouble or he'd personally enjoy dealing with them. All were welcome, and it seemed that many had come forth to represent. Lincoln pondered how many would keep their masks, use them as a safety to move freely around the party and who felt uncomfortable keeping their true face covered, wanting desperately to step out of the shadows and announce themselves to the world. It would be stifling for some, having to keep quiet for fear of being shunned or shamed for what might have been a mistake of fate.

His gaze fell on Robin, making yet another clumsy display in a distant part of the room, a harassed looking Maddison helping him. Perhaps harassed wasn't the correct word, maybe it was flustered. He could see her pale fingers working against his paler throat, positioning that bow tie over bare skin. Cheeky ********, opting to go shirtless and keep the mismatched bow tie which Lincoln knew full well was purely to spite and get a rise out of him. His smile was rueful, he was almost impressed with Robin's act of defiance, and had half a mind to punish him for it later only because he could see that the man was secretly begging for it, even if he was unable to admit it to himself. Why else would he parade around so foolishly in that tie? Forgoing comfort for a statement? Yes, Robin Little wanted to stir the pot, and Lincoln was content enough to let him. Maddison wouldn't like it, not one bit, she was clearly more than a touch enamored with her salaciously attired sire.

The Monarch let his gaze linger a few moments longer on his other guests, a dark haired beauty he wanted to make a point of meeting later distracting him for half a heartbeat but it wasn't enough to keep him from Sal's reply. His smirk said it all, brows raised behind the mask so that his eyes spoke of mischief.

There was a series of flirtations, each making their own little mark on the conversation and presenting sides of their personality for the others to pick apart and devour, Sal holding his own and confidently introducing both himself and Lincoln in the process. Claude, it was indeed the man who had approached him with the request to meet for drinks, once which had resorted in Lincoln all too happily inviting the man to this very party. A way to test the waters perhaps, to dip his toe in and see if the temperature was just right. Now here they stood, with Sal in the mix and it seemed everyone was just about ready to dive in. Linc considered the man's words, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, letting the bubbles tease his taste buds before swallowing it with a pleased little noise. Such flattery indeed, i'd expect it from dear Sal, after all he works for me and the poor man is subject to my whims but you..." His pale green eyes danced over the figure, tongue drifting briefly between his lips to lick away the taste of champagne and strawberries. "I was correct to assume that bold was a good descriptor, mm? I'd be more than happy to lead you aside later in the evening, let you lean up and whisper in my ear..." His hand gave a light squeeze at Sal's shoulder then, shrugging, "Won't speak for Salvador, perhaps he might like to discuss something other than the length of your inseam, then again... I'd say that would be right up your alley, my friend."

Mr.King gave a soft chuckle, the taller of the three he let his posture relax, resting an arm against the bartop so it was easier to hide his brightness among the group. "Speaking of bold men, is Sage coming? I think he too would rather like Claude, though... That would become one crowded corner if he decided to insert himself in the situation." Linc liked Sage, but in certain settings. He'd he more than happy to see him at the party, interacting with the guest and making a scene on the dance floor, but for quiet and intimate discussions Salvador seemed the more likely of the pair. Lincoln wasn't entirely opposed to sharing, but competing the loud intensity of Sage could become potentially exhausting, and he'd rather savour a secretive rendezvous than sloppily struggle through it. The blonde reached out casually, as if he had been invited to do so and trailed a considerate fingertip against Claude's forearm, studying the feel of the fabric. "I really do like a man in green, and such luxurious fabric. I bet it would feel good to slip into." There was something overtly carnal about his words, spoken quietly and with a delicate little sigh that left his full lips parted, as if waiting.

Lincoln knew he would have to excuse himself soon, to speak to the party, welcome them and embrace them as his honoured guests. Such a shame, he was terribly distracted by making note of dark corners and empty rooms he'd passed, in case he had the need for one in the near future.

[Robin Little]

Robin rolled his eyes.

”Yes, Mum. I know the shirt doesn’t belong on the ground, I was going to pick it up when I was done,” he said as she returned to him, the ruined shirt now safely tossed in the bin. A shame, too. That shirt had cost Robin over twenty dollars. He rarely spent more than twenty dollars on any item of clothing. Now that he had more cash to spare, however, better outfits were becoming go to.

As Maddison performed the task of re-tying Robin’s tie, he stared at the blonde crown of her head, mesmerised by the swirls, and the way it still seemed to glow even in here, the light seeking it out only so that it could bounce off the curls. When he took a breath in he could indeed detect the familiar scent of Maddison – it was the same scent that lingered on the couch and in the bathroom, even on the sheets he used even though they had been washed. They had been washed properly, but it just said something about the preternatural sense of smell. Anything owned by a person is going to end up smelling like them the longer it stays in their presence.

When she was done, Robin nodded. He turned his attention back to the crowd; he could see Lincoln over in the distance, socialising with people whom Robin did not know – well, he wouldn’t know if he knew them. They were wearing masks. There was something vaguely familiar about one of them, but Robin couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe he’d find out later, if the two of them happened to cross paths. His gaze swept the rest of the room as if he might catch other familiar faces. But reminded himself for the second time in the space of a minute that everyone was wearing masks. That was the whole point.

”Yeah alright. Let’s go get some drinks,” he said. He didn’t even realise he’d slipped his arm around Maddison’s waist. It was purely for the purpose of leading her through the crowd without losing her; he let her go as soon as they got near the bar. He was aware as he moved past people that they did double takes; he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his jacket. How improper! It only made him smirk.

Robin squeezed them up against the counter; for himself he ordered a long island iced tea (why, Robin? It doesn’t matter how much alcohol is in the thing, you’re still not going to get drunk). He then turned to Maddison, asking her with an unseen arch of the brow and an open palm what she might like.

He just hoped she didn’t say red wine.

[Salvador (DELETED 8639)]

He had a name, of course he did. It wasn't the name he imagined, so while he could call him 'Claude,' Salvador was already giving this delicious male a name that was more fitting. Sal's eyes looked down at the hand that was just given and released by Claude; the one that was taken and caressed before Claude started talking. It seemed that Claude had a flirty air about him, which didn't sit one way or another with Salvador.

"I could call you Claude, but I've got something really special for you." Salvador said as he ran a hand over the material on Claude's coat sleeve. "You're like my favorite drink from Starbucks; a venti chile mocha. Sweet and Bold. Just how I like life." Salvador said as his hand dropped from the air it had been suspended in, to his side.

The hand was dropped to his side as Lincoln started talking, and Salvador slowly shook his head. "If Sage were coming, he would be here by now, baby. Not that either of us mind a crowd. The more, the merrier, right?" The comment about showing things like body parts or how things fit didn't go amiss, but wasn't commented on by Salvador either."Speaking of more and merrier..." Sal said as he looked around the room that was getting fuller and fuller by the second. "Find me later, Venti." Salvador toddled his fingers in Claude's direction before nodding his head in Lincoln's direction. He had names and numbers to get and impression to set about Bitr with the masses and not just one delectable guest.

[Claude Lambert (DELETED 8569)]

For all of his flaws – and it could be argued that Claude possessed a substantial list of them – he was a man of his word. It never took his company too long to realise how seriously Claude dealt with promises, even if he was often rather blasé and detached on the surface. Whether written or verbal, these promises were contracts to him, to be followed to the letter. It wasn’t always apparent when a promise was being made because Claude hardly the type to use his words sparingly. The German had a broad vocabulary, and despite his flamboyant mannerisms, he valued each word as though they were threaded to his soul. The impact of language was of great significance to him; due entirely to the fact that he was fluent in the world’s most common tongues – or at least the six most common. In his education, Claude had learned an imperative lesson: that it wasn’t merely about the words one used, jumbled together into a comprehensible phrase, but how they were used, and what the cultural implication of these phrases were.

The English language, despite being the most widely spoken language in the world, was not the easiest to learn. Over 700 million people speak English as a foreign language and of all the world's languages (over 2,700), English is arguably the richest in vocabulary. The Oxford English Dictionary lists about 500,000 words, with half a million technical and scientific terms still not catalogued. It was for these reasons, and many more, that Claude was careful, precise, and committed with his words. It was easy to create the wrong kind of impression, which ironically had led to the present affair. Claude’s accidentally grating comments had resulted in his need to apologise to Lincoln, repay him with a drink, and in doing so, he had been rewarded with an invitation to this party. Claude was more than grateful to be allowed the opportunity to make up for the misunderstanding between them, but, the German understood that Lincoln was here on business matters, not merely for the pleasure. Watching those green eyes roam whenever a new arrival had slipped through the golden curtains made Claude smile quietly to himself. Perhaps tonight would not be appropriate to make good on his apology, but, he certainly wouldn’t break his promise.

Bold. That was the word Lincoln had chosen when describing Claude, and somehow, repeating the matter in person had an uncanny reaction on the pair. The King appeared quite proud of himself for such an accurate deduction, and yet was also vaguely impressed. It was possible that he was also curious as to how far Claude’s boldness extended, causing the German to grin. He was utterly amused when Sal had quickly concluded the same, granting the bold German a nickname, Venti. This was going far better than Claude had anticipated, especially so when his attractive new companions – whom were taking turns to stroke his arm through the velvet of his blazer – spoke of a possible fourth party. It appeared the man went by the name Sage, and well, Claude had already determined that he would like the stranger. After all, green was his favourite colour, the smell of the burning herb invoked such fond memories for the German, and Sage – the man – had good taste if these were his comrades. Although Sal was quick to point out that Sage would actually not be joining them, and that Sal himself seemed to have some place better to be, Claude didn’t feel his hope entirely withheld. There was always a chance that they could meet again, maybe at another time, maybe in another place…

“Do enjoy the party,” Claude announced, as if he’d momentarily forgotten his place as a fellow attendee. “I know I will, and I will most certainly come find you later, Sal.”

Amber eyes watched the horse retreat into the crowd, and despite the swarm of lean and glistening bodies, never quite lost sight of him. Perhaps it was a moniker of the predator in him – the hunger that was always there even if it ducked under the surface – it allowed Claude to track his prey even as they sought cover. Whatever it was, it took real effort to lift his focus from the mauve-coated stallion and return them to the gilded King beside him still. Claude almost felt the need to apologise for the distraction, in case he hadn’t shared his attention quite as equally as he’d meant to, but in the end he simply swallowed down the silly quirk and licked his lips – a deed that could easily go unnoticed behind the mask.

“I suppose it won’t be long until you desert me as well…” the German pined, though his eyes were altogether singing a different tune.

His voice was deep, bass-like, with a slight rasp to add contrast to the soft, elegant manner in which he spoke. Yet, his eyes were far less smoky; like vibrant discs of bronze, they were set on Lincoln now as if he were the only man left in the whole of the world. Of course he didn’t want Lincoln to abandon him – he was unashamedly keen in seeking out and retaining attention on himself – but he wouldn’t be accused of stealing the man’s company for the whole night, potentially ruining the event. Lincoln had worked exceedingly hard to make this party a night to be remembered and enjoyed, and Claude would be beside himself if he intruded in any way on that success. They were strangers, of course, but Claude gave the man his respect – one (former) businessman to another.

Claude took a slow step closer to Lincoln. His gaze lingered on the man’s emerald eyes then dropped inexplicably as he reached to brush his hand along the lapel of that golden suit. It was as if he were pressing out a crease; the flat of his palm stroked down the length of the man’s front, from the clavicle and to the very base of his sternum. The touch was insistent, assertive, and yet hardly there at all. As it lifted cleanly from the contact, it then re-engaged to pat the man tenderly on the shoulder. Those salacious eyes fought to settle between the placement of his own hand, the man’s lips, and his eyes, but eventually decided on the latter. The smile Claude wore, although not immediately visible behind the mask, was apparent in his voice.

“There,” Claude purred. “Now you are ready to shine, my dear.”

[Kaspar]

<Kaspar> The world was upside down, but no blood made his head swim dizzily, not the way it had done when he was a human. It was one of his favourite thinking exercises, draping most of his frame atop a bed or couch and let his head dangle freely over the edge until the pressure built and he’d slide to the floor, jumping it to let the blood rush back where it belonged and his head would suddenly feel so much clearer. He watched the dark haired man eyeing the closet speculatively, pulling out bags and containers that had yet to be unpacked, shoved unceremoniously to the back of the closet with Kaspar given stern instructions not to try and be helpful by hanging up the clothes within. Of course it had peaked his natural curiousity, but he hadn’t the time to go snooping around his partner’s belongings and besides, this was Grey, whatever was within those tubs would come out eventually with some sheepish explanation or dismissal. It always did.

“Liebchen, the party is tomorrow and I want to drag you to bed. What is the big decision? Would you at least let me help?” Kas’s own clothes had been laid out, a few different options depending on what it was that Grey finally settled on. There was the royal blue suit, a sapphire tone with small black skulls across it or the black and silver butterfly beauty which he’d yet to find a valid reason to wear. Modern, opulent, sexy… That was what this party called for, something with an edge. He was warring with the decision to colour his hair, or wear it slicked back under some kind of hat or simply with the mask to better hide his features. He’d already put aside a pair of gloves to cover his hand tattoos, though he was in the process deciding whether it was worth the effort. After all, wouldn’t it be perfectly normal for Kaspar, better known to some as Hel, the lead singer of the band by the same name and owner of Morningstar Inc, to attend a party? He did so regularly, he was out and about often putting in appearances.

It was the recent exposure of vampires and what attending a party for an app that encouraged relations between them and humans might imply that worried him. He was still deciding how best to approach the whole thing, he’d been working with a small group of friends gauging human reactions and vampire reactions, putting together marketing ideas. In fact, the man of the hour ran a PR company did he not? Perhaps he would be of some use down the track, the owner of Bitr speaking out for vampire kind in a positive manner… Kas filed that under his mental to do list, rolling over on the large bed to stare incredulously at his boyfriend who was holding an intriguing garment in his hands. “WHAT… Is that?” He said, blue eyes widening, scrambling to sit up and get a better look.

‹Grey Weston› The tubs dominated much of the floor space; rectangular shapes creating faint outlines in the dense carpeting like weathered chalk outlines, once meant to starkly illustrate the boundaries of a crime scene. They hadn't been touched in over a year; regulated to the back of their joint walk-in closet. Grey'd managed to hold the other man's curiosity at bay, for the most part, with a breezy statement of 'winter clothes.' It was an explanation Kaspar seemed to respect, if not entirely believe. "In a minute." He replied. His tone was distracted, his gaze sweeping to the shapeless pile of clothing that took up the foot of the bed. The rejection pile. It had begun modestly enough. By mid-evening, half the hangers had been stripped, and the tubs were reluctantly dragged from the recess of the closet. "I just don't --" he started. His words were cut off by rush of oxygen as the vacuum on one of the tubs was broken. Grey's fingers were deft as they worked the lid free. For the briefest of seconds, a scent lingered; crisp and unmistakable. A mixture of soft leather and the sharper, somewhat stale scent of vinyl.He'd only just reached in - gingerly unfolding the top most garment- when Kaspar spoke.

A sound escaped him - something soft and guttural. It was halfway between an incomplete, sharp inhalation and a chuckle of defeat. Some part of him was tempted to turn away; to clutch the too-thin fabric to his chest with the same dry-mouthed, pulse quickened guilt of a teenager discovered with a stash of pornography, poorly mixed in amongst their kid sister's dog eared copies of Seventeen. He cleared his throat, smoothing the material flat against his chest with an almost fond sweep of his palm. The 'that' in question was a matte black shirt. It was too finely woven to be considered 'fishnet,' but the mesh weave was unmistakable. So were the thin, vertical bars of faux leather that formed a vague geometric pattern along the shoulders and chest. Enough to hint at modesty without ever quite achieving it. Combined with the sharp, low-cut 'v' that plunged well below the shoulders to expose both collarbone and throat, and the slight intake at the hem so that it hitched just so long the lower back, it was a clear crutch for those with otherwise limited imaginations. "I...can explain."

‹Kaspar› Kaspar stood up abruptly, the smell coming from the closet was unmistakable, leather and vinyl kept in good repair with oils and layers of cloth separating them was glimpsed as he peered eagerly around Grey. Any seasoned party kid who had dabbled in alternative scene would know that smell, could here the sound of latex snapping and sliding over skin, the squeak of final or imagine the soft buttery feel of warmed leather being pushed away from frame after a long night of dancing. Grey was to no one's surprise acting as if he'd been caught out, cheating on a test or hiding some piece of evidence and Kaspar could only grin, a wild sort of look full of utter glee. "I ******* KNEW IT!" He declared, pointing boldly between Grey, the shirt and the tub, "You are so full of ****, Grey Weston, my god. I knew it!" His hips rock side to side in a seductive little victory dance, sidling up behind his partner and snatching the shirt from between his hands. "This is... Are you kidding me? Why the hell would you try to HIDE this? Our second meeting you wore a vintage Nine Inch Nails shirt, i've found other little bits and pieces out along the way... Are you ashamed or something?" The rockstar stared at him, baffled and thoroughly amused all at once. He was a kid in a candy store, overwhelmed by all the sights and smells, unable to taste them all. "I mean... THIS." He waved the shirt at Grey, reaching around him to hold it up against the slighter man's chest, lips finding the side of his throat with deliberately slow, lingering kisses. "Is sexy as hell. I'm not hugely into that scene, but on you? Oh, I could see it. This is going on the best day list." He snickered, wriggling his hips again in that little victory dance, it becoming a sort of playful grind against his partner's backside. "I can not believe you tried to hide this from ME."

‹Grey Weston› He released a sigh - the sound shallow and full of faux resignation. There was more, if Kaspar cared to look. The first tub was practically overflowing; beneath the shirt was a sleek pair of pants, carefully folded.The fabric was supple; well-worn enough that it caught the light along its folds. There was no fading, despite the years. It was still an impressive shade of black; sized to where it was obvious, even in its dormant, folded state, that it molded to a frame as if applied with brush strokes. Impossibly snug. Entirely leather. There were other gems; some with rivets, others with thin strips of cloth or leather that laced midway up the thigh. Jackets with faux fur trim. "Knew what?" He asked blandly. The coy little curve to his lips gave him away."Well. You know. All work. No play. I've been a dull boy." The question caught him slightly off guard, and for a moment he shot him an uncomprehending stare, before snorting rudely."Of?" The question was softer; contented, despite the halfway sly tone. He reached back a split second later, the fingers of one hand blindly threading through Kaspar's hair, while his free hand curved around his hip, jerking him closer. He leaned into the teasing press of his hips. "Throw it in the 'maybe' pile," he said at last, twisting in his grip so that the pair faced each other. "Technically I never said you couldn't look," he pointed out.

‹Kaspar› Kaspar carefully placed the garment aside, the delicate fabric dripping from his fingers to land atop the box he fully intended to go through. His eyes had caught on the matte sheen of leather, and was already seeing it paired with the shirt, a good pair of boots and some accessories along with a mask would look amazing on Grey, enough of a unique stand out but in colours that would blend in and would work well with the silver and black suit he was considering. "You did, you told me very pointedly not to go through those things, and made excuses that they were winter clothes and just not needed. You were very sneaky about it, thank you very much." Kaspar's huff was light, no real malice or annoyance in his tone, already too distracted by the hand reaching up into his hair, the other other at his hip dragging him heedlessly closer. Another ploy, of course, but he was more than happy to bite and he did just that, teeth trailing across delicate skin with little nips and drags. "I think I know exactly what you are wearing, which buys us, oh, another hour if we are happy to be fashionably late. You know me, Grey, I am all about being fashionably late." His arms tucked around the man, drawing him close as he back up a few steps towards the bed, whispering in his ear. "You are such aclub kid... And no, this will not be forgotten, but you might be able to distract me for a little while. What do you say, Grey?" His mouth curved into a grin, tongue flicking out against the man's earlobe before lips resumed trailing down the side of his neck and across the nape in hungry sweeps.

‹Grey Weston› An eyebrow arched, steadily rising as if astonished by the insinuation. "It was going to be your birthday gift," he said at last. "In my defense. I think there's a riding crop in there somewhere..." He added, words trailing off thoughtfully. It was difficult to tell whether he was entirely sincere; his face schooled into a stoic expression. He shot the shirt another fleeting look. It was a touch too casual for a formal setting, but that could be easily fixed. His lips parted, the beginnings of a rebuttal dying on them moments later. The drag of Kaspar's teeth had him fighting to swallow a groan, his skin flushing an attractive shade or two darker by degrees. "Oh yeah?" He managed. The words were an octave lower than usual; rough and slightly cracked. He allowed himself to be drawn backwards, comfortable in his grip. At ease in a way that spoke of a fondness and implicit sort of trust. "Pretty sure I can make you forget a few things," he countered, the barest of involuntary shivers traveling along his spine at the damp flick of Kaspar's tongue against the sensitive skin of his earlobe. "**** it, what's an hour?" He suggested, the words hitching, catching in his throat so that they were barely more than an exhale. 'What was an hour’ indeed. One, as it turned out, that left him mildly disheveled, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He’d taken care to run a comb through it; leaving the short locks to form mild waves. He’d perched on the edge of the mattress, the shirt spread across his lap. His lips formed a thin, flat line, taut with concentration and the effort of holding the sewing needle between them. A handful of stack rings - ranging in color from white gold to the duskier shade of rose gold - adorned the fingers of his right hand, the bands thin and spaced evenly. He wasn’t quite dressed - at least, not fully - but that could be chalked up to the fact that Kaspar had commandeered the bathroom for himself twenty minutes before.

‹Kaspar› Hel rather resembled the cat who'd got the cream, though some of his previous enthusiasm had settled, he was still rather cheerful at confirmation of one of many long running suspicions. He and Grey knew each other well, intimately one might say, but there were still many facets of their lives to discuss and discover. Kaspar in a way was far more open than the other man about his past, so much of it had been magazines, on T.V. or the internet, so many people knowing little facts about him and his favourite things. Of course there was much he kept private, though it was a struggle, and things from his childhood that had been glossed over to avoid delving deeper into them. Hidden talents had come out along the way, like when Sigrid had informed Grey about some of Kaspar's extracurricular activities his mother had encouraged, one of them he'd taken to rather well had been Ballet and Contemporary dance. The tall blonde was slinking back into the room, a comb busy at work slicking his wet locks back with a light amount of gel, taking sections and twisting the around his fingers once all tangles were gone to help the curls. He tossed his head over, lightly scrunching at the curls to help them form so that when they dried they would resemble more closely the ringlets of his youth. The black suit with the silver butterflies had been chosen, a McQueen creation tailored to suit his frame. He’d gone a plain black shirt instead of the black and silver butterfly creation that had been bought with it, and laced up a pair of his favourite black dress boots. Accessories came in the form of a silver skull mask, not yet applied to his face, and a multitude of rings, all in tones of silver and white gold, except for one in traditional gold that never left his ring finger. "AND he sews... What else are you keeping locked away up there?" He reached over, gently tapping against the man's temple, gaze narrowed playfully at him. "I'm beginning to wonder if I truly know you at all!" He pouted, dropping down carefully to sit by the man, not wanting to knock him too sharply.

‹Grey Weston› The difference between the pair was that Grey had spent the better half of his youth attempting to put distance between himself and the life he’d lived. It was a restless compulsion; something he gave no more thought to than a snake spares a thought to the gossamer thread of skin it shed, once it outgrew its need for it. He glanced up as Kaspar made his way into the bedroom, the right sleeve of the shirt pinned neatly against his chest, framed by the twin hollows of his wrists. A froth of delicate fabric in shades of black and a shade of metallic white poured from either sleeve in a mildly ruffled pattern. It was vaguely Victorian in design; just elegant enough to keep the garment from being too casual. It was still wildly inappropriate. The weave of the tulle-like fabric meant that the contrast of the black upper layer transformed the white, giving it an almost silver appearance in certain lighting. Grey had come from a household where the ability to sew had been more necessity than a hobby. The secondhand clothing his mother salvaged from donation bins and discount racks generally came two sizes too large for his slight frame, or quickly fell victim to the price of belonging to a young boy, tearing easily.

By high school, the rips went from a source of embarrassment to a fashion statement. He was half-tempted to reach out and seize Kaspar by the lapels; to run his palm up the man’s chest, tracing the thin, teasing gap of the open shirt front and drag him onto the mattress. Instead, the needle trapped between his lips wavered for a moment before his fingers rose, carefully pinching the thin metal as he eased it from between them. “Badly,” he countered. It was a lie, and a poor one; that much was obvious from the neat lines that belied a steady hand and an eye for craftsmanship. His tone was light; playful, and he accepted the gentle knock of Kaspar’s knuckles with a snort of affectionate laughter. The stitches, though straight, were loose enough to where he could remove the froth of fabric easily enough, at the event’s conclusion.

“I’ll reserve us a seat on Maury immediately,” he deadpanned. “In the meantime…” He rose, giving the shirt an experimental shake, before pulling it over his head, “you can play twenty questions on the way, if I get to strip you for every one I answer.”

[Grey Weston]

<Kaspar>

Of course he hadn’t missed the look in Grey’s eyes, but had studiously chosen to ignore it for the sake of both their outfits, not to mention the fact that their lateness would be bordering on rude if they gave in to the desire to slink back into bed instead. His eyes took in the additions to the shirt, giving a dramatic huff. He had thought it was fine as it was, with the mask, accessories and other outfit pieces it made a bold statement. Grey had the figure and looks to make it look like something that could slink down the catwalk, very chic in an understated way. Of course, the frills certainly made it more appropriate for a masquerade, and while Kas was trying to work out where the hell the fabric had come from or how he’d managed it so quickly he merely raised his brows. “Very… Frilly, liebchen.”

The blonde bent to adjust his laces, doing a quick check of himself as Grey continued to speak. His fingers were finishing fastening buttons up to his throat, smoothing out the sharply pressed collar, face crinkling into one of confusion. “What is Maury? Is it a boat? Why would we want to go on a boat?” Kas watched Grey putting on the shirt, reaching up to smooth a hand down his hip, plucking casually at the hem of it as if he were adjusting the garment rather than just admiring. “You look fabulous, my Grey. Are we ready? Do you think I will do? I do not want to embarass you in front of your new friend. As for the questions… It is a tempting deal, but showing up naked would be a scandal. Of course, we could always simply stay in the car, it wouldn’t be the first time…” He trailed off, not waiting for reply as he made to collect their masks and his keys.

Kas left his boyfriend to ponder his words, seeking out his wife where she sat dozing on the couch. They’d already put their son to bed, and she seemed to shake herself awake when she heard his gentle footfalls on the floorboards. Sigrid gave a low whistle, sitting up to reach out and run her fingers across a butterfly that lay where his heart used to beat. “Sometimes I make good choices, like convincing you that we had to get you this suit… And the floral one, which you have worn so I am clearly a genius. Are you going to be home later?” It was conversational, no expectation in her words, and Kas couldn’t resist the desire to lean down a brush a warm kiss to the corner of her lips. “Of course, my darling Wife. I will try my best not to wake you, you get some sleep.” He stroked a hand over the length of her dark brown hair, tangling his fingers in it as he kissed her goodbye, letting his lips linger as Grey took his time to join them.

‹Grey Weston› Supposedly, after a sufficient length of time, a good relationship went beyond minor, subtle nuances and developed into a wordless sort of language. One that bled subtext - allowed the sentiments normally kept to themselves to color their tone. So the rumor went, at least. Grey was inclined to believe it. Kaspar had a way of speaking that said more in a handful of words, no matter how non committal. Grey shot him a wry look, before rising from the edge of the mattress. He slunk closer. ‘Slunk’, that is, as generously as the remainder of his ensemble would allow. Kaspar had, under mild protest, managed to coax Grey into the pair of leather pants he’d noticed earlier in the evening. They were a plain, unadorned affair; dark enough to wear any light they reflected was a pale, weak color at best.

Grey wore them like a second skin. They were just tight enough to border on indecent - at least, indecent for most public events and rich for potential scandal among the scattered handful of Harper Rock’s gentry. He paused a second later, pressing lightly against Kaspar’s chest. “I made it easy for you,” he commented, taking a corner of the nearest sleeve between his teeth and tugging lightly. Almost immediately, there was the faint sound of a stitch tearing under the strain. He made a face a split second later. “A--” he began, releasing a sigh. “It’s not a boat. It is a showcase of dubious paternity and basically where my faith in humanity goes to die.”

The careful pluck of Kaspar’s fingers didn’t escape his notice. He was tempted to allow it. To lean into him and give in to the impulse to express mutual appreciation. As it was, he gently swatted his hand away. “Hardly. I believe that award goes to you. ...You’re cute,” he finished with a low, fond chuckle. “My ‘new friend’ will probably spend half the evening trying to get on your radar.” He’d paused for a moment, taking half a second to adjust the lay of a sleeve, when Kaspar spoke again. “I might let you have one or two. And...maybe,” he finished, as Kaspar drifted from the room.

He wasn’t far behind. He descended the stairs a handful of minutes later, gingerly stepping around the twin dozing forms of both Bear and Stoker, stretched out against the cool of the carpet. Bear, no longer an ungainly ball of fluff, had grown rapidly in recent months. He was roughly the size of Stoker’s upper half. His head had nestled between the shepherd’s shoulders as they dozed. He stepped into the living room a second later, shaking his head at both Kaspar and Sigrid. “Gross,” he commented mildly, tone teasing. “Shall we?”

<Kaspar>

There were fingers curled around the nape of his neck, toying with the drying curls as the pair kissed and murmured affectionately. It wasn’t always the easiest of lifestyles, especially not when he knew that it wasn’t all Grey had hoped for or dreamed of, but he knew Kaspar came with baggage. In fact, there had been a hell of a lot more to consider when they’d first met but over time he’d begun to realise he could no longer keep up with it and he had to make his choices. Sigrid was his wife, he shared a son with her and history, that was something that he would not be so willing to give up. He traced her cheekbones with feather light touch, lips moving to brush against her closed eyelids as Grey made his presence known with a single word. Kas raised a brow, scoffing as he turned to glance at the man. “Rude.” He admonished, and Sigrid said nothing, just sinking back into the comfort of the couch. Her expression did shift minutely as her eyes did a sweep of Grey, feeling as if her jaw might drop or an indecent remark might leave her if she let it.

The woman gave a little wave of her hand, recovering quickly. “Go, have fun boys. Grey Weston, you bring him home in one piece. Don’t let those naughty vamp haters eat him alive.” To which Kaspar made a choked sound of protest, considering arguing that he was perfectly capable but knowing better than to argue where his safety was concerned. He nodded obediently, though the gesture was somewhat stiff and far from agreeable, his lips forming a devious little grin as he slunk towards Grey, capturing the man around the hips. “Ja, Liebchen, we shall.”


‹Grey Weston› His response was to wordlessly raise a brow. It was mildly catty, the effect left in shambles a split second later by the sharp quirk of his lips that, however lopsided, revealed the man’s rarely glimpsed dimples. Not the full set; that was a rarity. It was borderline innocent; that is, until he flashed a brief, undeniably saucy wink at Sigrid. “I’m pretty sure he’s mostly going so I don’t ‘accidently’ invite the host home.” The tease was a gentle one; more of an attempt to put her at ease than because there was an actual danger of any such thing.

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes, exhaling a short, shallow breath. “They’d be in the wrong place --” he started, trailing off as Kaspar’s fingertips found the curve of his hips, leaning into him with a light nudge of the left one. His hands dropped, fingertips lightly toying with the back of Kaspar’s hands. “Yes, ma’am,” he finished. “Home by six. Sober. Ish.” The fingers of his right hand lifted, waggling slightly in a brief wave before settling to curl around Kaspar’s wrist as he turned on his heel, dragging him towards the door.

It was only as the door swung soundlessly open that he displayed the index and middle of his left, crossed neatly over each other, careful to keep the door between them and Sigrid’s line of sight. Tugging gently at the taller of the pair, he slipped through the door.

<Kaspar>

Hel let his eyes lift, rolling dramatically at Grey as he presented the crossed fingers. “Oh, you are such a child. Also… If i’m not allowed to bring home pretty boys, then neither are you! How rude.” His tone was light, the words carrying no real gravity. It was the beauty of trust, he supposed, much the way that Sigrid made attempt to be concerned but there was no real restriction of expectation. As long as he eventually returned home in one piece, and performed his fatherly duties then she was happy. It was a large part of what made it work between them, honesty and trust, and what kept Grey trying.

It didn’t take long for the two men to get in the car and drive to the event, parking only a short distance away so they could stroll towards the entrance. While Kaspar had made it seem he was going on sufferance as Grey’s guest, when they arrived at the door he handed his own personalised invitation to the bouncer. The man’s brows went up in astonishment, leaning to get a closer look. He often worked at another club Kas’s band played gigs at on the regular, and a slow grin spread across his broad face. “I wouldn’t have recognised you, man, looking good. Go ahead, have a great night.” Kaspar’s hand fell to the large man’s shoulder, giving it a friendly pat as he pulled Grey along beside him.

Hel’s familiar face was hidden behind an impressively ornate mask of twisting silver, delicate floral designs that created a skull shape which nearly covered the entirety of his face. Flashes of those blue eyes, his confident smirk and pale gold ringlets were the only true signs of who it was unless one chose to look closer. He’d left his hands uncovered, the rings he wore did a good enough job of interrupting his tattoos but he suspected few would look at them considering what else was on display. As they entered the party he took a moment to look around, surprised at what had been done with the often bland club. It was impressive, but it didn’t keep his attention long, gaze falling once more on his party and finding that he couldn’t resist stroking a hand down the length of Grey’s side, fingertips curling around a hip. “I am already regretting letting you leave the house…” He murmured, leaning in so that Grey could hear him above the noise.


‹Grey Weston› The smug expression he wore didn’t flag. His grin was persistent, even as his shoulders hitched carelessly. “That’s rich, coming from someone who was sulking like one a week ago,” he commented dryly. He paused, one foot settling onto the second step of the porch. He shot a glance over the low rise of his shoulder, biting back the scoff that threatened. “First of all,” he began, “My interest in ‘boys’ is nonexistent,” came the prim response. “Secondly, you are prettiest, so shut up.” As if that resolved the argument - such as it was - he made his way down the porch steps and onto the fine gravel of the driveway. The sound underfoot was muted; crisp. It was the sort of stone that was a solid blow from becoming a chalky powder; more for aesthetics than practicality. It was prized for its ability to absorb ambient noise and its low dust. He paused just long enough to absently brush the barest scuff of white from the tip of his shoe before entering the car.

He was content to follow Kaspar’s lead as they neared the entrance to the building. He leveled a mildly startled look on Kaspar; one that was more or less lost on the taller man, given the cascading links of silver that obscured his face. They were of varying length; some of the chains were fine, easily knotted with too rough of a touch, spilling past the edge of his jaw and extending towards his throat. Others were larger and thicker. The confusion of both silver chain-like mesh and the dull, metallic gleam of studs offered an understated compliment to the rest of his outfit. There was a touch of a delicate upsweep; just enough to soften the bolder edges, and prevent them from appearing too separate, rather than a couple.

“You,” he muttered, as they were ushered inside, “must be v--” he started, only to trail off, gaze sweeping over the club’s interior. He was relaxed; clearly more comfortable in the environment than he let on. The brush of his fingers along his side caught his attention once more, and he graced him with a fleeting smile, allowing his hand to settle at his hip. His own dropped, blindly seeking the man’s opposite and bringing it to his lips in a soft kiss. “Oh, so you don’t like sharing? Color me astonished.” He gave Kaspar’s fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze. “We can play the mingle game for an hour or two. Then I’ll make it worth your while.”

[Maddison (DELETED 8452)]

Maddison instantly bristled when he called her mom. She was not pleased at all with the sass she had just received. Maddison knew how Robin lived and sometimes he was just a tad bit messy. So she had figured he would have left the garment on the floor. However, Lincoln might not have been too pleased with that. She didn't really know, all she knew was now she needed a drink and to not feel so bristly.

She bristled once more when his arm wrapped around her waist and lead her to the bar. She was very much capable of walking herself to that bar. She had almost left Robin to do so, but instead the blonde let it happen. Once at the bar, she squeezed herself in against the bar top and looked around. So many masks. It was just a tad bit liberating not being able to see the faces under the masks. She only recognized two people. Robin, because she had dressed him. Lincoln because well, he had found her and introduced himself. No one else was recognizable. But that was the point.

She caught the gaze of the bartender and gave a little wink. The blonde then decided to strike up a conversation with the bartender, right in front of Robin. It was her way of paying back the male for calling her mom. She grinned some and let out a little laugh. However, it was completely fake. After a few minutes, the bartender asked what they'd like to drink. Maddison, in all of her glory, said, "Red wine, please."

She then turned and smirked at Robin.