|Not Enough to Tempt|
|Location||Oddball Coffee - Mutant Town, NYC|
|Summary||Maxim and Tiffany discuss seducing his girlfriend together.|
| Oddball Coffee sits on the edge of Mutant Town, near the northern 14th Street border, which may be why it's managed to keep its windows intact and its varied clientele happy. An eclectic, open-minded place, Oddball regularly showcases mutant artists and performers on its walls and on the tiny stage near the back. Framed photographs covering every spare inch of one brick wall show off wild feats that are only possible with mutation, and a few of their baristas make a show of using mutant powers in the making of their drinks.
It's made Oddball one of the few businesses which manages to appeal to both tourists and locals. The shop is nearly always busy, and it's not unusual for a stranger to request the empty chair at a full table.|
| It is a winter evening. The weather is cool and fair.|
Waiting in line for coffee is a giant. Not /exactly/ a giant, technically, but he's pretty damn big. Maxim looms two or so places back in line, looking down at an old datapad in lieu of using Eyes like a normal person. His clothes seem to be in denial about New York's lingering winter, being a simple black sweater that barely manages to contain him and a pair of black pants. Beneath his other arm is a motorcycle helmet, crooked under his elbow. Nobody seems inclined to tell him that it makes his arm stick out and take up more space than he should.
Tiffany stares down at the sheet of paper in front of her from behind her thick black wayfarers, having misplaced her prescription Eyes while packing. She wears a sleeveless dress that while opaque-black over the majority of her form, fades sheer and smokey where it ends just above her knees and at the garment's jewel-cut neckline. Quite unapologetically, the straps of her black push-up bra can be seen through the gray spectrum of the fabric, as well as the beginnings of the cleavage it creates.
The poet's pen juts out of her dark hair, holding it up and out of her face in a sloppy bun while she writes. Or tries to write. She can't find her pen! Gradually, this truth sets in and a slowly escalating search is born. Sliding onto her knees on her seat to give herself some height, Tiffany stretches over her table. She lifts up her stack of loose leaf papers, as well as the various scraps and napkins she's scribbled over.
Eventually, she cranes her neck to peer underneath the coffee-shop table that she sits at. The heavy metallic pen slides from her hair and clatters to the floor before rolling away. She bolts upright, hair drifting down to her shoulders as she watches the pen's migration across the room she'd been previously oblivious to. It 'pings' as it roll up to the back of Maxim's heel, coming to a stop.
Tiffany's eyes widen behind her glasses as they travel up the back of Maxim's leg, and his long torso, and the realization of who he is registers.
<FS3> Maxim rolls Alertness: Success. (2 2 1 4 7 1 2)
Maybe he's more observant than he seems. Maxim looks down when the pen plinks into his shoe, then tucks his datapad into his pocket -- honestly, it looks more like a phone given the size of his hands -- and bends over to pick it up, looking around to see where it came from. When he notices Tiffany, a flit of recognition brightens his expression, and he nods to her. A little bob of the head, like, hey, fellow human being. He holds up the pen and arches an inquiring eyebrow.
Tiffany more or less gives the same silent greeting. It's almost as if to say, 'I, too, am carbon-based.' Her eyebrows rise up over the rims of her glasses as she nods softly in confirmation at his unasked question, and she moves to rise to retrieve it. Bumping the table she sits at with the side of her hip, she's only delayed by a fumbling attempt to steady her own coffee before it spills all over her ...let's call it what it is ...crap.
Maxim leaves his spot in line -- which will surely mean at least another fifteen minute wait when he comes back, because like hell with New Yorkers let him take cutsies -- and weaves his way over to Tiffany's table to hold out the pen. Helpfully, he says: "Here." Words, Max. Use your words.
"Oh-" Tiffany breathes, blinking awkwardly as she looks between the slow moving bp-oil style coffee spill she's created and Max. With no napkins within reach, she stops the spill with some blank paper. "I would have come over there, you'll lose your-" Don't nag him, Tiffany. Use less of your words. She blinks up at the man again as she gently plucks the pen out of his hand, "Thank you." ... "It's my favorite pen."
"Excuse me," Maxim rumbles, pivoting to the table behind him. He gives the (slightly) terrified tourist sitting there a placid smile and picks up several of the extra paper napkins sitting beside the man's mostly empty coffee cup, turning back to blot helpfully at the spreading stain. "You are welcome, Tiffany." He frowns down at the paper and asks, "Did you lose much work? That is too bad."
"No, it's all..." Tiffany reaches out her own small hands to help, only to retract them almost timidly when she risks brushing against his. Still, her voice doesn't alter much from her standard dry tone. "...not very important." She reaches out again, this time folding a bit of the paper together and trapping some of the wet napkins and scraps inside.
"Still, this is mess. Here. Let me get more napkins." Maxim sets his helmet down on the table's empty chair, walking over to the little fixings counter that almost every coffee shop in the world seems to have to fetch some napkins. He twists around the close-in tables rather nimbly for someone his size, his hips shifting back and forth around a child that darts between tables carrying a muffin. Once he's back with a small handful of clean dry napkins, he sets them down as if they were important, very carefully. "Okay now?"
Tiffany can't help but let out a breath of laughter at how he sets down the napkins, "Yeah." She nods, looking up to the boyfriend of the girl who just invited her to have a threesome with shyly from behind the safety of her glasses with the smallest, tiniest, most subtle smile. "I think, together, we got this under control. No more innocent people have to suffer." Blushing, for once in her goddamned life, Tiffany looks down to ball up one of the napkins and give the table one more once-over. That it doesn't need. Because it's already pretty dry.
Maxim watches this and frowns after a moment -- not a heavy frown, just a quick dimpling of concern between his eyebrows. He probably doesn't /mean/ to rumble, but it's a thoracic volume thing: there's just too much damn air for it not to sound rumbly. "I am sorry. Do I make you nervous?" He eases back just the tiniest of bits and relaxes his shoulders, the sort of thing big people do when they're trying not to scare smols.
“No, no,” Tiffany starts off shaking her head but soon stops. “I mean, you didn’t like,” she shifts her eyes, “Before.” Is that too honest? Oh, well. Her naturally large eyes slide back up to meet his, quite unsure of herself. “Do you…” Tiffany presses her lips together flatly, blinking in a pause, “...want to, I don’t know, join? Me? Or whatever?” She motions flatly towards where his helmet already rests.
Maxim listens to all of this with a lowered chin and grave expression -- which, all of a sudden, clears. "Oh! Did you speak to Lexie about doing sex with us? Ah, now I understand. Let me get coffee. We should talk." He smiles again, putting up his hand like 'wait here' and then moves back to the line. With a quiet word to the woman he was standing in front of, he slides back into his place and orders -- plain black coffee, of all things -- and then slides out of the way again. (The woman looks down at his ass the whole time.)
As Maxim steps away, the tourist at the other table comes right into Tiffany's sights. He's obviously been listening, at least to the last part. He grins lewdly at Tiffany, who responds by baring her teeth and feinting a step towards the stranger. This causes the man to all but pack up and leave the cafe.
Of course, by the time Maxim returns Tiffany is a totally normal human just like him. Running her hand under her to smooth out her dress before sitting back down, Tiff does her best to get her poems back in order and maybe out of sight. Unfortunately, being flustered doesn't aid in the process.
With his large coffee, Maxim returns and picks up his helmet, relegating it to the floor at his feet as he settles into the chair. (It doesn't groan beneath him, but it thinks about it.) That done, he looks at Tiffany gravely and says, "You do not need to be nervous with me."
"He said," Tiffany narrates, "Looking at her gravely." She eases her stack of papers to the side before leaning back in her own seat. She looks at him with a doe-eyed expression, like really looks at him because honestly, she hasn't done that yet. "I'm sorry," she apologizes for her narration almost immediately in the same monotone she'd spoken it in, "I'm just a naturally very strange person."
Maxim laughs, eyes crinkling. "You do not need to apologize for that. We are all strange, I think, in our way." He doesn't laugh much, or at least didn't do so often on the long road trip to Colorado and back, so. It's entirely possible this is the first time she's heard him do it. "Lexie thinks you are funny. I think so too. Is good."
The laughter does appear to put Tiff a little more at ease. Her posture goes more slack, as do her spindly little arms. "Yeah," she starts, wetting her lips, "I get along with Lexie. She exudes this-" Tiffany brings up a hand, dancing her fingers in the air along her neck as a descriptor, "-magnetic, bold, I don't know... confidence. I think she comes by it honestly." In saying this, she looks to the corner of her eyes in dreamy thought.
"I call her iskra, 'spark'," Maxim agrees, "She turns the room to light." I think you mean 'she lights up the room', Max. He does, also, look a bit dreamy and woobie. He usually does when his girl's the topic of conversation. "She likes you very much, I think."
'Iska,' Tiffany repeats silently. While the man across from her is speaking, she can't help but probe out her little hand and inch the stack of papers towards her. She scribbles down a little verse before it can escape. "She wants to fuck me very much, I think," she responds without thinking. She looks up from her writing from behind sultry, heavy-lidded eyes. However, when her own words reach her ears, she experiences sudden resurgence of timidity. She sets down the pen, chewing gently on the inside of her bottom lip.
"These things are not mutually exclusive," Maxim drawls slowly, tapping his long fingers against the table lightly. He's careful; he doesn't leave dents. "She does, yes. This she tells me." (So, good note: if you want Max to keep a secret, make sure he knows it's supposed to be a secret.) He leans forward a fraction. "How do you feel about this idea?"
Tiffany takes a moment to process the question. With a heaved sigh, she folds one arm over the other on the table. As she leans in closer, the position showcases her chest. “How do you feel about it?” Tiffany’s tone is frank. Her normal resting face acts as her poker face.
"I am not sure; I have not done this before. You are very pretty," Maxim pauses to make sure this part is understood clearly, "But -- well." He shifts his weight on the chair, awkward. "I love Alexandra. I had not thought to be with someone else while we are still together. This is puzzling to me. But I think she would be very happy, and I do like making her happy, so. This is dilemma for me."
Unaffected by the compliment, Tiffany remembers her coffee and draws it closer to herself. "But 'pretty' isn't enough to tempt you." She brings up her pen, tapping her chin while she watches him, "You ever cheat on anybody before?"
"Nyet," Maxim answers. "I have never had someone to cheat on, before her." He lowers his eyes for a moment, thoughtful. "And you? Have you cheated?"
"No." The slow headshake Tiffany gives carries into her entire body so that she sways. She looks down to her coffee, "I've been the other woman before, though." Her dark eyes flick back up.
"It is not cheating if both partners know and agree to it." Maxim says finally, quiet. "Everyone has different needs and desires." He pauses. "You know. We could...both seduce her. At same time. She would like this, I think."
"And how would we go about doing something like that?" Tiffany asks, going quiet when Max does. She's on the line, dude. Don't say, 'With snacks.'
"I can think of two ways." Maxim lifts one finger. "First option: we dare her. She is very competitive. I think she would climb Empire State Building in monkey suit if someone told her convincingly that she could not do it." He holds up a second finger. "Second option: We play strip poker and see where evening goes."
"You're such a dude," Tiffany leans back again, pursing her lips. She's amused, but the statement isn't exactly meant as a compliment. Gradually, an idea crosses in front of her eyes. From Max's point of view, it's probably the same look some megalomaniacs get when they come up with another world domination scheme.
Maxim purses his lips and admits, "Usually this is not difficult for us. We are very good at sex together." He goes quiet, tapping his fingers on the table again, before finally giving in, "What is your idea?"
"I'm sure you two are. But I'm here, now. And I like a little finesse. I'm going to make a list," Tiffany wets her bottom lip, eyes narrowing deviously. She leans forward, scrawling the words Threesome Shopping List in actually quite lovely cursive before underlining it. "Of things for you to buy. ...Do you have a key to her apartment?"
"-- No," Maxim says, frowning. "But I can bring her to my apartment. She has roommate, too, who does not like surprises. I think." He gets out his ancient luddite datapad. "Okay. I can take list, buy things. What am I buying?"
Tiffany adjusts herself in her seat, sitting on her legs once more to lean in closer to Max. She shifts the paper she's writing on for him to read, "Well, roses. You can sprinkle the petals leading to the bed. Some taper or pillar candles, or both. Maybe a nice red wine." She drums her pen, "Coconut oil." Her eyes go wide, "...or uh, I don't know what you guys use."
"For lube? Is important to use water-based. Much safer with toys." Maxim makes notes, fingers careful on his screen. (He has ruined several by accident.) "I think I understand where you are going with this. Yes. I can make work." He glances at the time on the screen and makes a face. "I must go -- work does not appreciate tardiness. Here is my number. Contact me, if you wish." His fingers send the contact info over to Tiffany. It's just his name, Maxim, and a number. No social profile, no background information or twitter avatar or anything like that. It's like he's a ghost.
"For lube, and y'know, for massage," Tiffany pouts and flourishes her pen. She saves Maxim's number, suggesting that she send him a plan of attack later on in the evening.As she watches him slip out the door, Tiffany suddenly stands. "Wait, how big is your-!" But it's too late. He's gone. And now everyone in the cafe is looking at her.