【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to a high volume of check-ins, temporary accommodations have been made in our parking garage for all new arrivals. We aim to have all guests moved into their reserved rooms as soon as possible. We deeply apologize for any inconvenience!
All are invited to There Is No Tomorrow, a Phoenix Casino soiree to celebrate our beloved guests. The festivities will begin at 1800 hours on January 20th and end at 1800 hours on January 27th. Please look forward to 168 hours of delight.
In an effort to raise happiness and encourage better guest relationships, attendance is required. The house will assist guests that are too shy to appear of their own accord. Please note that black tie attire is mandatory. As always, we hope you enjoy your stay! 】
PARKING GARAGE
ANY CAR IN A STORM
PHOENIX CASINO HALL
WELCOME TO THE NEXT 168 HOURS
Phoenix Casino is a-flutter with activity and packed to the beak with guests. As a famously ever-changing space, the staff would be remiss if they didn't deck the crown jewel of the Golden Peacock out. The casino glitters from top to bottom, shining brighter than diamonds, rubies, sapphires, opals! Party-goers are shiny and glamorous with picture perfect makeup, fluttering gowns, and sharp suits. Card tables are packed and the slot machines are a-ringing as guests play, play, play! Prizes, luxury, booze, attractive people, it's the place that everyone wants to be at.
Those people being dragged inside by some invisible force...? Silly, they were so excited to come that their bodies moved before they realized what was happening. Those are struggles of joy and definitely not the casino's infamous ghost hands dragging unwilling guests to the party at the behest of the house. Look, they're literally hurling their bodies at the card tables with unrestrained glee!
All clocks indicating day hours and night hours have been removed from the casino. Once a guest has entered, their Watch will jam, making it impossible to keep track of the time. You don't need to worry about that tonight.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's January event.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header. This month we also have an ongoing ATP / EMP where players can connect. Please feel free to utilize this for all of your peafowl needs!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
( immediately, it's obvious--from the slick leather seats, to the narrow hood, to the pane of glass that lets in the bright, golden light from the garage, this is not a place he recognizes, and more than that, he's alone. the vehicle is a slim thing, and he's jammed into the passenger seat, seatbelt unhooked, driver's side empty; some kind of sports car, he'd wager, and not the kind of roomy, standard issue sedan that might fit the company. groping a hand forward, he feels for the ignition: empty, no key in sight.
pointedly, he's not dressed for the occasion, either, given that all that's left of his uniform is--well, nothing, and instead there's a thin black robe belted around his middle, the sleeves gaping at his elbows. if this is another one of those stupid pranks that denji and power find so fucking hilarious, he'll kill them on sight, but even as he opens the car door, the silence of the garage is nearly deafening, so much so that it feels wrong to slam the door shut behind him.
barefoot, he takes in the surroundings: plenty of cars, but not plenty of people. which means there could be others here, trapped like he'd been, or others waiting to attack. with a grated sigh, he moves across the cold floor, immediately edging towards one of the larger vehicles; this one looks almost large enough to be some kind of limousine, and he peers at the tinted glass of a window before he's immediately rapping his knuckles against it. whoever is inside is about to get the loudest, most persistent awakening ever. )
Open the door. ( matter-of-factly, as he knocks again; his hair is loose around his ears, hanging down towards his neck. ) Roll down the window. Do you have clothes?
( an odd thing to have to say, but desperate times, as they say. )
ii. RABBIT ROULETTE.
( he's comfortable, dressed in a suit--comfortable, with his hair properly tied up, his shirt pressed, his slacks neatly hemmed. like this, it's easy to think that he's on some kind of bizarre mission, and a part of him still can't give up on the idea--like this is some kind of unconventional devil power, akin to getting trapped on the eternal eighth floor. without his weapons, he's relying on instinct here, and the distant thought in the back of his mind: if he called the fox devil, would they even come? or is he cut off from all of that, here?
so he's comfortable skulking around the edges of the party: a party that he'd been forced into, a party that's supposed to run for some 168 odd hours, which seems like insanity, but he's seen worse. he's comfortable getting a drink from the bar, tracking down cigarettes and a lighter, comfortable watching the other guests flicker and flit around like this is the high life, some kind of grand gesture by this entity they call 'the golden peacock'.
he is, however, less comfortable with the idea of some 'sex toy roulette'. uncomfortable enough that he's barred from leaving the area until one of the attendants there can finally force his hand to turn the wheel, assuring him that it won't land on anything too nefarious. uncomfortable enough that when it does land on something nefarious--
well, that's why he's seated at the bar now with a rather classic rabbit vibrator next to him on the bar top, as though he's given it a seat of its own. as he gulps down a mouthful of whiskey, his gaze goes sidelong, narrowed, at whoever might be staring at his 'date': )
Do you want it? Take it. ( he knows the warning: he's got another three and a half hours to 'use it in a sex act' or else. ) I don't care about a penalty from a place like this.
iii. HIGH ROLLER HOUSE OF CARDS.
( it's less that he's got the drive to gamble, and more that he thinks an area like this, with higher stakes, is more likely to have higher payouts--meaning more information, at best. he's pored over the perimeter of the party multiple times, but he still hasn't laid eyes on anything that really makes sense, or any indication of where they really are. somewhere darker, sharper, more serious: that has to give him some clues. the problem is, most of the games here, outside of the standard casino fare, are the same as the games outside of it; he pointedly is avoiding high stakes sex toy roulette, after his prior experience.
card games are always rigged to help the dealer win, so he's not going for that to start, either. he has only a meager amount of chips and he's not going to waste them--but the 'house of cards' seems easy enough, for someone with a delicate sleight of hand. most people in here are drunk, horny, or anxious over losing more than they bargained for--which means they'll likely topple the tower before he even gets a turn.
with a cool gaze, he waits for the staff to escort him to a table--he doesn't offer his new companion a greeting, but rather, gets right down to business-- )
What would you like to bet? They said-- ( there's a tilt of his head back in the direction of the staff. ) --it wouldn't be just chips, this time. If you lose, what are you giving me?
( he's used to offering all manner of self destructive things, on his part: his skin, his hair, years off his life. for this one, however, he waits to see what his partner will offer first. the staff did make it clear that most of the time, it should be sexual in nature, but he's not adding that detail. )
iv. HANGOVER AFTERCARE.
( he's been awake for hours, with a stranger in his bed.
is it even his bed? it's hard to say, in a place like this, where nothing seems to have been provided, and there's no exit, either; so it's his bed, for now, his room, for now, and his partner, he supposes, for now. they haven't woken up, yet, which has given him a chance to, at the very least, scour the room for details, pour a cup of coffee, and obtain a pack of cigarettes, and it's once he's settled back under the sheets that he feels the person at his side stirring from where they're buried into the pillows.
it doesn't bother him, really. he'd like it if they had more clothes to wear, but the only thing he'd been able to find had been two matching bathrobes: one of which he's wearing, and the other which he draped over the end of the other side of the bed. as he takes a sip from the coffee, savoring the taste, his gaze slides, watching his partner come back to consciousness. )
I don't know where we are. ( he says it quietly, as though it'll likely be the first question asked. ) ...And I don't know what we did.
( his best guess is going to be 'nothing', given the way his body feels--or doesn't feel--but he doesn't trust a thing in this place. as he sets his coffee cup down on the side table, he bumps out a cigarette from the pack...and then thinks better of it, twisting to look at his companion again. )
Do you mind if I smoke in here? ( there's no balcony for him to go onto. )
WILDCARD & OOC.
i'm open to pretty much any of the prompts, so if nothing speaks to you, feel free to hit me with a wildcard! preference for brackets and present tense, but ota in terms of age and gender for aki. he's about 20 years old, and canonpoint is end of s1 of the anime, to make things easy. if you have any questions, feel free to send a PM!
[Hawks isn't exactly an early bird, but this morning, he wakes later than usual. While he'd tried to keep a level head at that exhaustingly long party, he'd strayed a little bit past tipsy into buzzed a few times. Lying in a soft, comfortable bed, he fights waking up because he can tell that when he truly wakes, he's going to have to deal with a bit of a hangover - his head feels heavy, which he's sure is going to bloom into a headache, and thankfully that's most of it, since he hadn't really overindulged that badly. No, he'd rather lie in a patch of sunshine in a comfortable bed, curled up on his side, his still slightly singed wings with their awkward feather regrowth folded up neatly against his back, than face a headache.
It's the scent of coffee and the stirring in the bed beside him that finally goads him into shifting and groaning and popping one golden eye open. It turns out that he's facing whoever is in the bed beside him, curled into a loose fetal position, and he pushes up on an elbow, one eye still closed against the vague thrum of pain that starts up in the back of his head when he moves. Usually, Hawks's sexual encounters are discreet and unemotional, and he's expecting for a moment to make his usual lackadaisical excuses and leave, when he realizes that he's pretty sure he didn't actually have sex.]
Fancy that.
[He groans again, softly, sitting up and crossing his legs, stretching out his wings and fluttering them a little bit before tucking them in neatly again, tugging the oh-so-sweetly provided robe over his naked lower half (not that he has much shame about that) and opens both eyes, offering the guy a lazy smile.]
I don't know where we are either, but I'm pretty sure we didn't do anything but sleep. Shame.
[A little chuckle. There's no reason not to flirt a little - Hawks is practically immune to awkwardness, and the guy is pretty with his pale skin and long dark hair and dark eyes. Classical beauty. One of the types of guy Hawks likes to look at.
At the question, he waves a hand.]
Go ahead, so long as you tell me where you got the coffee.
( a slight flicker of narrowed eyes at that shame, as though he doesn't know whether to believe it or believe that it's feigned: but he doesn't say anything about it. with the type of people that are in this resort, at least as much as he saw at that overextended party, there are surely more that give in to the hedonism rather than fight against it. he doesn't have any particular qualms; people are welcome to live their own lives, indulge in their own vices.
case in point--with permission granted, he puts the cigarette between his lips, snagging his thumb on the lighter. )
They brought a pot. ( he says it quietly, mumbled around the cigarette. ) And breakfast, if you trust it.
( true to his word, there's a cart tucked near one of the walls, and on it are a variety of covered plates, little dishes of butter, jam, syrup, salt; there's a pot of coffee and a pot of what must be juice, though he hadn't poured a glass.
as he takes in a breath, igniting the end of the cigarette, he takes care to at least blow the smoke in the other direction. now that he's awake, it's easier to assess the man beside him: man, or devil, maybe, given those wings, but he won't ask just yet. he's at a disadvantage, information-wise, and while his partner seems amicable enough, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. so, instead: )
Are you from here? Or somewhere else? ( that'll answer his question quicker, as he takes another drag, gently thumbs ash off the end of the cigarette onto the tray that's on the bedside table. ) I don't belong here, so I'm wondering if you're the same.
[Truth is, Hawks doesn't see much reason not to give in to the hedonism at least a little. It seems like the point of this place is playing this Game 52, and that's the only method he can think of that might lead to getting out and getting home. Then again, Hawks has never been either shy or a prude about those kinds of things, so it's understandable why the other man might narrow his eyes like that when Hawks flirts.
It's cute, though.
When the other man says that they brought a pot of coffee, though, Hawks slides to the edge of the bed, and stands up, tying the robe roughly around his waist since there doesn't seem to be holes in the back for his wings. While the other guy lights up a smoke, Hawks sets about pouring himself a cup of coffee and doctoring it up with sugar and milk. It's not his ideal, but it'll do to tie him over, and he makes his way back to the bed, settling down in the sheets with legs crossed, sipping at his mug.]
Haven't decided if I trust the food yet.
[A shrug of well-muscled shoulders and he watches the pretty man smoke for a few moments, lips pursed around the rim of his coffee mug and sipping. It's a companionable enough silence, and Hawks closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling the warm chocolatey scent of the dark roast in his cup and enjoying it.]
I don't belong here either. In fact, I had some pretty serious stuff going on back home that I needed to take care of.
[For all that the words are somewhat dire, his attitude and tone of voice are casual, and he sips at his coffee again, gold eyes looking at the other young man over the rim of his cup.]
( smarter than he looks, then, or so he wants to say--but the truth of the matter is, devil or not, this thing next to him moves with a shrewdness that seems to speak to a certain level of knowledge, or even training; his face is kind, and his smile is warm, but there's a wariness there, as though he's practiced at it, as though the lackadaisical nature is both earnest and put-upon. it's sort of oddly fascinating to watch it; he takes another drag of his cigarette, his other arm folded in tight against his stomach--his gaze follows the man, hawks, as he patters around with his coffee, as he eases back onto the bed, as he takes his few sips.
this isn't the sort of situation that he's ever been in before--and never planned to be in it, either. most of the times he's gotten drunk, he's been safe on his own living room floor, or ferried home in a taxi away from an izakaya after a company dinner. waking up to a handsome man naked in his bed is entirely unexpected.
but, if they're sharing names-- ) Hayakawa.
( another soft pass of smoke, thoughtful. ) Hayakawa Aki.
( it's not impolite, and certainly not tinged with any disgust--it's more like he's reading questions off a script, polite, as he lets the cigarette hang between his knuckles-- )
What are you?
( a human? a devil? hybrid? in the end, it likely doesn't matter, in a place like this. but it would give him some peace of mind; he's never seen wings like these, soft, like something's happened to them--there's a slow swallow, and then he tilts his head back against the headboard. )
...It's not out of spite. You look injured.
( if not at his back, then maybe it's the look in his eyes--like he keeps expecting the world to fall down around them. )
[uncomfortable, irritated, tie's too tight, pants feel too crisp, and the damn belt's digging into his hipbones. nary is he out of sight from the entry way does bakugo notch a finger under the tie and yank it loose from his throat. a quick pull of his head and tensing of his neck braces the column as he drags the item away completely. he rolls it up and stuffs its entirety into his pocket. feels better, like he can breathe again, once he undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and pulls the dress jacket open. pants adjusted enough the belt's no longer cutting into his pelvis and he heads into the casino proper in a more comfortable version of the previous suit.
no one who knows him would call him a wallflower, permanent scowl etched on his face, red eyes narrowed in a glare roving across slot machines, roulette tables, prize wheels, and card games. antisocial? definitely peeling off from the main hub and taking up nest on the curved side of a bar. bad enough they dragged him and everyone else into this shitshow; now they're supposed to be stuck here for an entire week without break. tch, yeah right. he'll watch them try to keep him here when he's good and ready to go.
he's gone through buildings and leagues before.
a clatter of cardboard box interrupts his thoughts and he glances askew to the guy sliding into the seat nearby. dark hair, light skin, the hell's up with that topknot? ... che, looks like someone ran afoul of the wheel of fortune they call roulette. given the space put between toy and owner, bakugo clocks him for adverse to it. good, a sane person. throwing down a glass of alcohol like it's apple juice.]
You're gonna care as soon as those hours are up. [he snorts in annoyance before bringing his bottled water to his lips.] A suit activation's a fucking pain in the ass.
( a small breath, half-amusement, half-irritation, spared over the lip of his glass--there's barely another mouthful left, but he tips it back anyway, lets the alcohol burn down his throat. )
I doubt it.
( it's not that he's looking to pick a fight, but he's never been the type of person to temper his blows, either. he doesn't know what a 'suit activation' means, though he's gathered, from the way that he's seen others weaving around the party, that it has something to do with this 'card value' assigned to every guest. he's seen strange tattoos that come in four distinct symbols: and it's not like he doesn't know the suits in a playing card deck are one and the same.
but then--his gaze slides, notes the way that the stranger's collar is undone, the way he drinks a bottle of water; it makes him look back to his empty glass, setting it down on the bar. )
What should I be expecting, then? ( a roll of his gaze again, up towards the other--and it flickers again, from his hand up to his face. ) Why aren't you drinking like everyone else?
( is that part of it? maybe he shouldn't have trusted the bar after all. )
[sounds like a mirror, albeit quieter with less words. he said those same words months ago, snarled back in anyone's face who attempted to warn him about the payments. what a surprise someone else new has the same damn reaction.]
Che. I said the same thing.
[reality's a bitch and he fucking hates it plenty. without knowing if this guy's been around for a few days or is drinking off the first hours of his existence, it's not his problem to coach him in results. even now, wheels spin behind those dark eyes. he rejects it with a defensive dismissal, but he's thinking about it all the same. good, someone who takes a warning seriously rather than recklessly charging into the unknown. he'd been the same, dismissive, but listening...
turning back to the casino, he leaves his focus on other people, brows furrowed above a face radiating "don't fuck with me" vibes to anyone who might be looking for some fun. bristly ass wallflower, this one.]
Depends on your suit. They all end up screwing with your head and body, making you go crazy until you fuck around with someone.
[that's the nice way to put it, each suit has its own preference. he's disgusted with his own: spades. as for the other question-]
( his mouth twitches, the beginnings of a frown--and rather than turn towards his helpful companion, he instead twists to face the bar again, gripping both hands around his empty glass. it's a frustrating thing, feeling particularly helpless; it's not something that he's wanted to entertain, something that he's pushed down under adamant declarations of intent, and revenge, and that even if something felt impossible, that he would somehow manage it at any expense. from the way he's understanding things, it seems the only way out is through--and that's one of the last things he's wanted to do.
what the hell is he supposed to accomplish, with something like that? it feels too egotistical to assume that he'll be able to control something controlling him; it's not like he has anything but his own stubborn attitude to depend on, and even that can only go so far.
so, it's with some measure of disdain, that his gaze centers in on that stupid vibrator, again. )
Fucking around is for losers, too. ( quietly, as though he can just hear denji's wailing in his head. ) Are you offering?
( how the hell else is he supposed to get through something like this? it's not like he can go up and down the bar, or up and down the party, waving the toy around like a white flag; so that means his gaze is now rooted on this stranger's face, even as he's turned away to watch the party move. a quick refusal is expected. it's what he would do. )
[ there's a smile on atsuhiro's face, genuine, but perhaps a little murky in its interpretation. a keen eye, much like the doe-wide ones across from him, is likely to catch amusement, curiosity, and something a little more sly behind it. but already two drinks and two wins deep, atsuhiro isn't in a particularly mischievous or vengeful mood. no, this time, he's genuinely surprised at the confidence of a man who somehow managed to scrape together chips enough to enter the high rollers area despite being a face he's never seen here before. and he'd recognize a face like this—or at the very least such a questionable coif.
not that a man voluntarily dressed in a brown plaid suit has much room to judge another's taste. ]
A man betting something other than chips is either looking for companionship or information. I get the feeling you're looking for the latter, so... I'll bite. If you win, I'll answer three questions. [ he props his chin in his left hand, a small sliver of metal peeking between his glove and sleeve, glinting in the faint ambient lighting. ] What are you willing to bet in return?
( this stranger has at least got one thing right--he's not particularly interested in companionship.
three questions is generous, which makes him wonder how bountiful this person's knowledge is, about this place. could it be that he doesn't know much of anything? could it be that no one knows much of anything? it might be a waste, then, to get some matter-of-fact nos and maybe sos murmured from those cat-like lips.
but the offer sets the bar, and though his gaze is drawn, at once, to that glimmer of metal, he jerks it away just the same. prosthetics, if that's what that hint implies, aren't unheard of in a place where devil hunters lose life and limb almost instantaneously.
he's not going to be able to offer his skin up for a trade like this. well, not the way he would normally-- )
Then are you after companionship, yourself?
( his eyes go from the pretty house of cards, to the pretty lashes peering at him--and then back again. )
A handjob. ( there's not even a blink, not a stammer, nothing but the calm confidence of a near virgin. ) Do you accept or not?
[ it says something, he thinks, about the man he's become since his arrival here nearly a year ago. back home, he might even have the decency to balk at such an offer, likely wouldn't even consider it, since currency (or food) was so often at the forefront of his mind. here, now, however, acts of service are their own currency, oftentimes more valuable than chips themselves. it doesn't hurt, of course, that that familiar itch is at his palm again, a reminder that even now he's hardly keeping up the way this place wants him to. there are certain ways in which an old dog never changes, it would seem, though he'd like to think that he's made enough change to get by. he's still here, after all. ]
I'll call. [ a cheeky response, with an offer of his flesh and blood hand, the one that seethes beneath his glove with a curse of compulsion. looking at the man across from him, he doesn't seem like one easily swayed. or perhaps that's a front made easier by youth; a strong jaw that sets like wet sand, with the will power to match in the end. ]
And~ I'll go first.
[ he doesn't suspect that his game partner will consider it anything other than a ploy, since, much like in chess, a game like this presents some favor to the first player. the cards are more plentiful, but more importantly they're more stable. he takes an easy one, from the top, plucked between gloved fingers with a metered delicacy. he can't go giving away his sleighting tricks on the first turn, now can he?
but he balks, at last, at the question before him before reading it aloud. ]
Would you kill your family and friends to save the world? Punishment for taking an easy one, isn't it? [ his smile is murkier, as he sets the card aside, face up, to begin their discard pile. but he likewise returns his chin to his hand, dark eyes settled on his opponent. ] No. I wouldn't even kill them to save money. Your turn, Handsome.
( honeyed words, met with silence--he doesn't offer any back, as though he wants to see how far he has to wade into the sticky waters to get to the truth of them. sure, going first is a ploy that gives his companion the easy way out, but it also means that it will show the kind of game this will be, card question-wise and otherwise. the man moves with a hand that's practiced and slow, and though he can't say he knows for sure what the man does, he can tell that he's good at this. delicate enough, smooth enough, that he's going to be a problem the further they go on.
he keeps his sigh behind his teeth, glancing over the card tower to the card in the other's hand--and then, with a jerk of surprise, up to his face at the question.
it boils his blood, a little. the idea isn't something he's ever considered, especially not when his family is already dead; he would gladly give his life to bring them back again. and that's the root of it, really: that he would offer up his own throat for anyone else's in order to save the world. the fact that his companion answers the way that he might surprises him; he doesn't let it show on his expression.
with a lick of his lips, he reaches for his own card--high on the tower, still, but something that requires a slow slide, drawing it towards himself with equal delicacy. )
Have you ever masturb-- ( his cheeks flush a little, jaw set, annoyed. he sets the card down. ) ...masturbated at work? No.
( a quiet mutter. ) You got the easier one. I would have answered that the same way.
[ fig had never liked cars. something to do with his previous life, he thinks, the way they feel so big but restrictive, the worst kind of cocktail of grievances for someone who only ever enjoyed contradiction if it came from himself. one would think the lack of engine hum would appease him, but all it does is set him further on edge. the silence in and of itself is taunting, as if all the cars were waiting for the exact moment fig lets his guard down just to roar back to life.
needless to say, he hasn't moved from his spot on the far corner of the backseat since he first woke. tense and jumpy, it's an awful combination to be in when that knock and those terse words eventually come in, making his grip on the armrest go near clawing. ]
Go away!
[ he does not, in fact, roll the windows down. he does very little else but give the stranger a withering glare through the tinted windows. ]
( there's definitely someone inside. that voice doesn't appear out of nowhere, not some phantom murmur from inhuman lips; he doesn't have to squint at the window again to see it. naturally, however, the occupant is reluctant to give up their position: which either means they have what he's asking for and refuse to give in, or they're scared, stubborn, the kind of person that would rather die in the fire than be rescued and pulled out. he doesn't have the time to deal with someone like that--which is why the knocking ceases.
instead, he's sliding his hand down to find the door handle. one pull, then another: it's locked, and with his jaw set, he looks up again, and tries a third, final time, another yank.
this time, the door gives--the resort's on his side, at least for the time being. as the door creaks open, he dips a pale knee into the exposed backseat, already ducking his head inside so that he can grip a hand around the back of the driver's seat and lean further in. )
...So you don't have anything. ( he says, even while he's searching, pushing at the headrest of the passenger side seat, leaning forward between the two, then peering back at the stranger and his coveted backseat. with another sigh, he ducks his head out of the car, straightening up again to stand on his feet outside the door. ) That would have been easier if you had just said so.
( and yet it feels wrong, just leaving a near naked stranger behind: ) Are you coming or not?
[ the door cracks open and — salvation. unfortunately a short-lived one, when a body soon occupies that space, peering past fig (who has flattened himself against the seat and the door) to occupy himself with investigating the rest of the space itself. the man seemed intent on finding something.... that's right — he'd asked for something, hadn't he? along with all that incessant knocking.
his frown folds deeper when the man's assessment leans more towards accusatory than disappointment, as if it were at all any of fig's fault they're lacking what they're lacking. (clothing wasn't nearly as high on his list of concerns as it might be for anybody else; as such, he doesn't even think twice about the flimsy robes they're left in.)
he is right there once the doorway is no longer blocked, a bare foot flattening on the cold concrete just as the man's aggrieved words reach him. he huffs, visibly shaking off the tension that had gotten him so wound tight. he still looks rather upset, but considerably less dire now that he's out of that damned car. (and to think, he was in one of the more spacious ones.) ]
Do you even know where you're going?
[ no thank you, no who are you. he scampers away from the car and slinks to the man's side, neither clingy nor hovering... but simply just there, like an unwanted shadow. ]
[ Adaptable person that he is, Kabru's slotted in well with the rest of the party, his natural skills at socialising coming into play as he goes from table to table, talking to whoever he can and trying to build relationships with people. He's adept at fighting with a sword, yes, but he's been stripped of his weapons here and doesn't quite have any other strong abilities to protect him. Small talk? Currying favour with whoever looks like they might have some influence? That's his strongest survival skill, and the one he's relying on the most in this unfamiliar territory.
There will come a time he does need to unwind, and to do that, he starts heading toward the bar, intent on helping himself to a mug of strong ale. Kabru never minds company, of course. This man in the top knot looks like he would be decent one, even if quiet.
What's with the toy taking up a whole seat, though?
He's heard of these things, but he's never used one himself. They don't come by too often where Kabru comes from, where people were far more conservative about sex and intimacy. ]
I've heard that the penalty can be quite harsh. [ There's a glance at the date. ] I don't think you should risk it.
( his gaze steadies, measured and slow, as though he's trying to decide how clinical to be about it; he decides, in the end, that the words bother him only enough to be calm. )
It doesn't matter to you what I risk or what I don't.
( because they don't know each other--and he's sure that it's a kindness, that the stranger is just offering him some kind of good advice, but even so, he thinks that he'd rather contend with whatever it is the resort thinks it can do to him, outside of chasing someone down demanding they mess around with him.
it just doesn't seem right. his gaze slides back to the toy, then up to the stranger, considering again: )
Would you do it? ( use it? ) Have you done it?
( that question is pointedly left rather open ended. )
[ It doesn't surprise him too much to get that cold response. One look at this man's demeanor and he has a sense they might be closed off; not so keen to be vulnerable in front of people he doesn't know well. Or maybe he doesn't care about how it would affect him? For Kabru, complying seems reasonable given what he's heard about the effects. He's heard that the house can make people lose control of themselves, filling up their heads with impulses or unpleasant emotions. If Kabru has to do something, he would rather it be on his terms. He doesn't do well with the feeling of not having control. He doesn't contest the fact that it shouldn't matter to him, because he doesn't think this man would like a fake display of overt concern. There is some concern, of course, but only as far as one can have for a stranger.
The next question causes him to pause in consideration. ]
I've never used a device like this before. We don't have anything like this where I come from. [ He is from the equivalent of fantasy middle ages. Kabru's heard about these devices from eavesdropping around though. ]
But it isn't poison or sharp enough to be a form of torture. If the penalty means losing control of myself, I would rather choose this.
( This game is Leon's way of getting away from the other consequences of some of the other ones. He's still not a fan of the requirements of this damn resort, and if it's a choice between potentially losing chips or a suit flare out? The choice is pretty damn obvious to him. Though the cool demeanor of his companion isn't missed, nor is the way he gets right into it.
When those blue eyes look over at Aki, there's a few seconds where it's like Leon is looking through him. Dark hair, dark eyes, down to business. What Leon sees for a couple of seconds isn't Aki but Ada. And a part of him expects there to be a sudden flash of red or a gun in his face. Except it doesn't come. He snaps out of it, turning his head towards the house of cards as he considers the question. What is he going to give him? )
What do you want? ( He counters as he turns back to him, lips curving into a thoughtful frown. ) I don't have much in this place these days unless you're looking for a card.
( the answer is obviously a disappointment to him, given the way his mouth twitches, the slight hint of a frown--and the mention of 'a card' has him glancing at the tower of them in front of them at the table, then back to the stranger again.
that's right. collecting cards. he hadn't waited for someone to explain, really: the staff had given an adequate rundown, along with the messaging on his watch. as far as he's concerned, there has to be some other way to get out of here other than blatant sexual promiscuity; he gives a faint shake of his head. )
A limb? ( is it a joke? it could be a joke, given that he sounds faintly amused, but that would be the only indication. )
A show, then. ( as far as he can tell, it's worth the same: as long as he's a 'participant' in some way, the card should register. ) You'll get off and I'll watch.
( A look of disappointment. If he got a few chips for every time he saw that on someone else's face in this place, he'd probably be rich. But as it is, all he can manage is to frown back at him, following those dark eyes towards the house of cards. All they have to do is make it through it without knocking it over, and no one really had to do anything, right? He thinks he can manage that.
But the joke (at least, he thinks it's a joke), earns a soft heh and a quick shake of his head. )
I think I still need all of those these days.
( Leon manages a small grin, even if it's falls slightly with the response. It's expected, and, well, he'd been the one to mention a card at all. Comes with the territory. And that's the point of this place in particular, isn't it? To bet high with whatever you've got.
One shoulder lifts in a shrug and there's a slight tip of his head. ) If I win, you'll get off and I'll watch. ( Which, all things considered, isn't the worst thing win or lose. )
( the speed at which she drops that fucking bright pink vibrator right back onto the bar top as if it's just burned her )
Ah... I'm sorry, sir, I thought it was—
( ... what? an empty bottle? well, yes, because this place serves all manner of strange drinks in even weirder shaped bottles that robin hasn't seen even in the wildest of dreams.
and to be fair, she's only been a waitress for less than a day — dressed in a corset and fishnets of the bird girls made to serve drinks to the patrons, styled with other little flourishes: a skirt trail that flutters behind her like feathers; a pair of flimsy wings that must have been whiter once and have seen better days after getting grabbed by a drunk or two. she's still wearing a wig after everything, even if she's relatively sure that most people here won't think to recognize her.
in other words, she's starting to see the cons of having enlisted into becoming the house's help willingly... even if it's gotten her to other places around the venue that she might not have been able to explore without a proper rank or... experience. still, even if it isn't her wheelhouse, she's still doing the work, her tray full of empty glasses and trash and still held properly so she doesn't drop it in her fluster.
... but a feather or two's poking out from under that black hair now, fluttering slightly as she stabilizes. )
... I could remove it for you if you'd like... but will you be able to handle that?
( the clatter isn't as bad as he thinks it is, as the vibrator hits the bar again, rolling slightly before coming to a neat little stop--or maybe it's just that his embarrassment is guarded behind the lip of his glass, swallowing down another loud mouthful of whiskey. normally he'd be happy to drown his sorrows in pitchers of beer, a bit of sake, cheaper things to sate a head that fills more with ghosts than with liquor; the fact that it's now one of the hired help that's acting like the toy burned her delicate touch makes him want to smash his glass into his palm just to feel cut by his own irritation. it's not her fault. she has better things to be doing, judging by that tray in her other hand; he eyes it once, as he sets down his glass.
the truth of the matter is, a part of him had hoped that someone eager might swipe up the thing and run. they would get better usage out of it than he would, and then maybe he could make a paltry excuse to the resort staff to delay his punishment: how can he complete a task without the tools to complete it with? but the thought of foisting the vibrator onto this girl--
there's a slow shake of his head, dismayed. )
Handle it? It wouldn't bother me. But I don't want you to get cursed instead.
( who knows if it works that way? maybe it's some kind of sick joke, like a cursed videotape that haunts anyone who comes to watch it next.
grimly, he reaches for his cigarette box, pilfering out one--before he holds it up, as though offering it out to the girl; he can't tell whether she's been forced into working here or not, but judging by the way that everyone he's met so far has been kidnapped to this stupid resort, he wouldn't be surprised.
with a flicker of his eyes down to the seat, and then back up to her again: )
If it gives you an excuse not to work so hard, you can say we're negotiating.
( amazing how easily she can tell that she did something wrong, even when the impression's made in bas-relief, with no real form or substance to base it on. she doesn't need to sense emotion to see it anyway, from his large gulp of burning top-shelf liquor, or the way he grips his glass for that single instant, forming some bloodless white line across the meat of his palm before he sets it down.
all easier things to read. but not nearly as easy as chivalry can die when this young man goes through at least four out of the seven stages of grief with one shake of his head.
she... thinks for a moment, standing there, awkwardly quiet and a little guilty as aki commits through his array of vices in record time and holds a cigarette box for her to decline with a soft no, thank you. he's so transactional about it. she's had business dealings with agencies that had more emotion. his poker face is rather impressive if the other little tells didn't give him away. )
I... don't really intend to slack off on the clock. ( she offers earnestly, coming to a decision after a moment of regarding his hunched over form. she probably means it by the way she's collecting other empty glasses to pile on top of the tray she now sets on the counter, heavy enough to wonder if she's really got the arm strength to bring it back with her to the kitchen.
when she eventually goes back anyway. because she slides into the bar stool next to aki after she finishes tidying up, her feather trail of skirt flaring behind her like she's coming to perch. she's looking at... the vibrator... and then to him and then back again, in that order. like she's deliberating with him how best to dispatch a poisonous snake. ) But part of my job description is to entertain guests, I guess.
Three hours, is it?
( or so she surmises, from the countdown she might've glanced at his wrist. )
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peacockstop2025-01-15 09:00 pm
hayakawa aki | chainsaw man | new character, current player
ii. RABBIT ROULETTE.
iii. HIGH ROLLER HOUSE OF CARDS.
iv. HANGOVER AFTERCARE.
WILDCARD & OOC.
hangover aftercare
It's the scent of coffee and the stirring in the bed beside him that finally goads him into shifting and groaning and popping one golden eye open. It turns out that he's facing whoever is in the bed beside him, curled into a loose fetal position, and he pushes up on an elbow, one eye still closed against the vague thrum of pain that starts up in the back of his head when he moves. Usually, Hawks's sexual encounters are discreet and unemotional, and he's expecting for a moment to make his usual lackadaisical excuses and leave, when he realizes that he's pretty sure he didn't actually have sex.]
Fancy that.
[He groans again, softly, sitting up and crossing his legs, stretching out his wings and fluttering them a little bit before tucking them in neatly again, tugging the oh-so-sweetly provided robe over his naked lower half (not that he has much shame about that) and opens both eyes, offering the guy a lazy smile.]
I don't know where we are either, but I'm pretty sure we didn't do anything but sleep. Shame.
[A little chuckle. There's no reason not to flirt a little - Hawks is practically immune to awkwardness, and the guy is pretty with his pale skin and long dark hair and dark eyes. Classical beauty. One of the types of guy Hawks likes to look at.
At the question, he waves a hand.]
Go ahead, so long as you tell me where you got the coffee.
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case in point--with permission granted, he puts the cigarette between his lips, snagging his thumb on the lighter. )
They brought a pot. ( he says it quietly, mumbled around the cigarette. ) And breakfast, if you trust it.
( true to his word, there's a cart tucked near one of the walls, and on it are a variety of covered plates, little dishes of butter, jam, syrup, salt; there's a pot of coffee and a pot of what must be juice, though he hadn't poured a glass.
as he takes in a breath, igniting the end of the cigarette, he takes care to at least blow the smoke in the other direction. now that he's awake, it's easier to assess the man beside him: man, or devil, maybe, given those wings, but he won't ask just yet. he's at a disadvantage, information-wise, and while his partner seems amicable enough, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. so, instead: )
Are you from here? Or somewhere else? ( that'll answer his question quicker, as he takes another drag, gently thumbs ash off the end of the cigarette onto the tray that's on the bedside table. ) I don't belong here, so I'm wondering if you're the same.
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It's cute, though.
When the other man says that they brought a pot of coffee, though, Hawks slides to the edge of the bed, and stands up, tying the robe roughly around his waist since there doesn't seem to be holes in the back for his wings. While the other guy lights up a smoke, Hawks sets about pouring himself a cup of coffee and doctoring it up with sugar and milk. It's not his ideal, but it'll do to tie him over, and he makes his way back to the bed, settling down in the sheets with legs crossed, sipping at his mug.]
Haven't decided if I trust the food yet.
[A shrug of well-muscled shoulders and he watches the pretty man smoke for a few moments, lips pursed around the rim of his coffee mug and sipping. It's a companionable enough silence, and Hawks closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling the warm chocolatey scent of the dark roast in his cup and enjoying it.]
I don't belong here either. In fact, I had some pretty serious stuff going on back home that I needed to take care of.
[For all that the words are somewhat dire, his attitude and tone of voice are casual, and he sips at his coffee again, gold eyes looking at the other young man over the rim of his cup.]
I'm Hawks, by the way. And you?
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this isn't the sort of situation that he's ever been in before--and never planned to be in it, either. most of the times he's gotten drunk, he's been safe on his own living room floor, or ferried home in a taxi away from an izakaya after a company dinner. waking up to a handsome man naked in his bed is entirely unexpected.
but, if they're sharing names-- ) Hayakawa.
( another soft pass of smoke, thoughtful. ) Hayakawa Aki.
( it's not impolite, and certainly not tinged with any disgust--it's more like he's reading questions off a script, polite, as he lets the cigarette hang between his knuckles-- )
What are you?
( a human? a devil? hybrid? in the end, it likely doesn't matter, in a place like this. but it would give him some peace of mind; he's never seen wings like these, soft, like something's happened to them--there's a slow swallow, and then he tilts his head back against the headboard. )
...It's not out of spite. You look injured.
( if not at his back, then maybe it's the look in his eyes--like he keeps expecting the world to fall down around them. )
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ii. RABBIT ROULETTE.
no one who knows him would call him a wallflower, permanent scowl etched on his face, red eyes narrowed in a glare roving across slot machines, roulette tables, prize wheels, and card games. antisocial? definitely peeling off from the main hub and taking up nest on the curved side of a bar. bad enough they dragged him and everyone else into this shitshow; now they're supposed to be stuck here for an entire week without break. tch, yeah right. he'll watch them try to keep him here when he's good and ready to go.
he's gone through buildings and leagues before.
a clatter of cardboard box interrupts his thoughts and he glances askew to the guy sliding into the seat nearby. dark hair, light skin, the hell's up with that topknot? ... che, looks like someone ran afoul of the wheel of fortune they call roulette. given the space put between toy and owner, bakugo clocks him for adverse to it. good, a sane person. throwing down a glass of alcohol like it's apple juice.]
You're gonna care as soon as those hours are up. [he snorts in annoyance before bringing his bottled water to his lips.] A suit activation's a fucking pain in the ass.
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I doubt it.
( it's not that he's looking to pick a fight, but he's never been the type of person to temper his blows, either. he doesn't know what a 'suit activation' means, though he's gathered, from the way that he's seen others weaving around the party, that it has something to do with this 'card value' assigned to every guest. he's seen strange tattoos that come in four distinct symbols: and it's not like he doesn't know the suits in a playing card deck are one and the same.
but then--his gaze slides, notes the way that the stranger's collar is undone, the way he drinks a bottle of water; it makes him look back to his empty glass, setting it down on the bar. )
What should I be expecting, then? ( a roll of his gaze again, up towards the other--and it flickers again, from his hand up to his face. ) Why aren't you drinking like everyone else?
( is that part of it? maybe he shouldn't have trusted the bar after all. )
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Che. I said the same thing.
[reality's a bitch and he fucking hates it plenty. without knowing if this guy's been around for a few days or is drinking off the first hours of his existence, it's not his problem to coach him in results. even now, wheels spin behind those dark eyes. he rejects it with a defensive dismissal, but he's thinking about it all the same. good, someone who takes a warning seriously rather than recklessly charging into the unknown. he'd been the same, dismissive, but listening...
turning back to the casino, he leaves his focus on other people, brows furrowed above a face radiating "don't fuck with me" vibes to anyone who might be looking for some fun. bristly ass wallflower, this one.]
Depends on your suit. They all end up screwing with your head and body, making you go crazy until you fuck around with someone.
[that's the nice way to put it, each suit has its own preference. he's disgusted with his own: spades. as for the other question-]
Getting wasted's for losers.
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what the hell is he supposed to accomplish, with something like that? it feels too egotistical to assume that he'll be able to control something controlling him; it's not like he has anything but his own stubborn attitude to depend on, and even that can only go so far.
so, it's with some measure of disdain, that his gaze centers in on that stupid vibrator, again. )
Fucking around is for losers, too. ( quietly, as though he can just hear denji's wailing in his head. ) Are you offering?
( how the hell else is he supposed to get through something like this? it's not like he can go up and down the bar, or up and down the party, waving the toy around like a white flag; so that means his gaze is now rooted on this stranger's face, even as he's turned away to watch the party move. a quick refusal is expected. it's what he would do. )
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iii
[ there's a smile on atsuhiro's face, genuine, but perhaps a little murky in its interpretation. a keen eye, much like the doe-wide ones across from him, is likely to catch amusement, curiosity, and something a little more sly behind it. but already two drinks and two wins deep, atsuhiro isn't in a particularly mischievous or vengeful mood. no, this time, he's genuinely surprised at the confidence of a man who somehow managed to scrape together chips enough to enter the high rollers area despite being a face he's never seen here before. and he'd recognize a face like this—or at the very least such a questionable coif.
not that a man voluntarily dressed in a brown plaid suit has much room to judge another's taste. ]
A man betting something other than chips is either looking for companionship or information. I get the feeling you're looking for the latter, so... I'll bite. If you win, I'll answer three questions. [ he props his chin in his left hand, a small sliver of metal peeking between his glove and sleeve, glinting in the faint ambient lighting. ] What are you willing to bet in return?
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three questions is generous, which makes him wonder how bountiful this person's knowledge is, about this place. could it be that he doesn't know much of anything? could it be that no one knows much of anything? it might be a waste, then, to get some matter-of-fact nos and maybe sos murmured from those cat-like lips.
but the offer sets the bar, and though his gaze is drawn, at once, to that glimmer of metal, he jerks it away just the same. prosthetics, if that's what that hint implies, aren't unheard of in a place where devil hunters lose life and limb almost instantaneously.
he's not going to be able to offer his skin up for a trade like this. well, not the way he would normally-- )
Then are you after companionship, yourself?
( his eyes go from the pretty house of cards, to the pretty lashes peering at him--and then back again. )
A handjob. ( there's not even a blink, not a stammer, nothing but the calm confidence of a near virgin. ) Do you accept or not?
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I'll call. [ a cheeky response, with an offer of his flesh and blood hand, the one that seethes beneath his glove with a curse of compulsion. looking at the man across from him, he doesn't seem like one easily swayed. or perhaps that's a front made easier by youth; a strong jaw that sets like wet sand, with the will power to match in the end. ]
And~ I'll go first.
[ he doesn't suspect that his game partner will consider it anything other than a ploy, since, much like in chess, a game like this presents some favor to the first player. the cards are more plentiful, but more importantly they're more stable. he takes an easy one, from the top, plucked between gloved fingers with a metered delicacy. he can't go giving away his sleighting tricks on the first turn, now can he?
but he balks, at last, at the question before him before reading it aloud. ]
Would you kill your family and friends to save the world? Punishment for taking an easy one, isn't it? [ his smile is murkier, as he sets the card aside, face up, to begin their discard pile. but he likewise returns his chin to his hand, dark eyes settled on his opponent. ] No. I wouldn't even kill them to save money. Your turn, Handsome.
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he keeps his sigh behind his teeth, glancing over the card tower to the card in the other's hand--and then, with a jerk of surprise, up to his face at the question.
it boils his blood, a little. the idea isn't something he's ever considered, especially not when his family is already dead; he would gladly give his life to bring them back again. and that's the root of it, really: that he would offer up his own throat for anyone else's in order to save the world. the fact that his companion answers the way that he might surprises him; he doesn't let it show on his expression.
with a lick of his lips, he reaches for his own card--high on the tower, still, but something that requires a slow slide, drawing it towards himself with equal delicacy. )
Have you ever masturb-- ( his cheeks flush a little, jaw set, annoyed. he sets the card down. ) ...masturbated at work? No.
( a quiet mutter. ) You got the easier one. I would have answered that the same way.
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arrival
needless to say, he hasn't moved from his spot on the far corner of the backseat since he first woke. tense and jumpy, it's an awful combination to be in when that knock and those terse words eventually come in, making his grip on the armrest go near clawing. ]
Go away!
[ he does not, in fact, roll the windows down. he does very little else but give the stranger a withering glare through the tinted windows. ]
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instead, he's sliding his hand down to find the door handle. one pull, then another: it's locked, and with his jaw set, he looks up again, and tries a third, final time, another yank.
this time, the door gives--the resort's on his side, at least for the time being. as the door creaks open, he dips a pale knee into the exposed backseat, already ducking his head inside so that he can grip a hand around the back of the driver's seat and lean further in. )
...So you don't have anything. ( he says, even while he's searching, pushing at the headrest of the passenger side seat, leaning forward between the two, then peering back at the stranger and his coveted backseat. with another sigh, he ducks his head out of the car, straightening up again to stand on his feet outside the door. ) That would have been easier if you had just said so.
( and yet it feels wrong, just leaving a near naked stranger behind: ) Are you coming or not?
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his frown folds deeper when the man's assessment leans more towards accusatory than disappointment, as if it were at all any of fig's fault they're lacking what they're lacking. (clothing wasn't nearly as high on his list of concerns as it might be for anybody else; as such, he doesn't even think twice about the flimsy robes they're left in.)
he is right there once the doorway is no longer blocked, a bare foot flattening on the cold concrete just as the man's aggrieved words reach him. he huffs, visibly shaking off the tension that had gotten him so wound tight. he still looks rather upset, but considerably less dire now that he's out of that damned car. (and to think, he was in one of the more spacious ones.) ]
Do you even know where you're going?
[ no thank you, no who are you. he scampers away from the car and slinks to the man's side, neither clingy nor hovering... but simply just there, like an unwanted shadow. ]
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ii
There will come a time he does need to unwind, and to do that, he starts heading toward the bar, intent on helping himself to a mug of strong ale. Kabru never minds company, of course. This man in the top knot looks like he would be decent one, even if quiet.
What's with the toy taking up a whole seat, though?
He's heard of these things, but he's never used one himself. They don't come by too often where Kabru comes from, where people were far more conservative about sex and intimacy. ]
I've heard that the penalty can be quite harsh. [ There's a glance at the date. ] I don't think you should risk it.
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It doesn't matter to you what I risk or what I don't.
( because they don't know each other--and he's sure that it's a kindness, that the stranger is just offering him some kind of good advice, but even so, he thinks that he'd rather contend with whatever it is the resort thinks it can do to him, outside of chasing someone down demanding they mess around with him.
it just doesn't seem right. his gaze slides back to the toy, then up to the stranger, considering again: )
Would you do it? ( use it? ) Have you done it?
( that question is pointedly left rather open ended. )
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The next question causes him to pause in consideration. ]
I've never used a device like this before. We don't have anything like this where I come from. [ He is from the equivalent of fantasy middle ages. Kabru's heard about these devices from eavesdropping around though. ]
But it isn't poison or sharp enough to be a form of torture. If the penalty means losing control of myself, I would rather choose this.
iii
When those blue eyes look over at Aki, there's a few seconds where it's like Leon is looking through him. Dark hair, dark eyes, down to business. What Leon sees for a couple of seconds isn't Aki but Ada. And a part of him expects there to be a sudden flash of red or a gun in his face. Except it doesn't come. He snaps out of it, turning his head towards the house of cards as he considers the question. What is he going to give him? )
What do you want? ( He counters as he turns back to him, lips curving into a thoughtful frown. ) I don't have much in this place these days unless you're looking for a card.
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that's right. collecting cards. he hadn't waited for someone to explain, really: the staff had given an adequate rundown, along with the messaging on his watch. as far as he's concerned, there has to be some other way to get out of here other than blatant sexual promiscuity; he gives a faint shake of his head. )
A limb? ( is it a joke? it could be a joke, given that he sounds faintly amused, but that would be the only indication. )
A show, then. ( as far as he can tell, it's worth the same: as long as he's a 'participant' in some way, the card should register. ) You'll get off and I'll watch.
Fair enough?
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But the joke (at least, he thinks it's a joke), earns a soft heh and a quick shake of his head. )
I think I still need all of those these days.
( Leon manages a small grin, even if it's falls slightly with the response. It's expected, and, well, he'd been the one to mention a card at all. Comes with the territory. And that's the point of this place in particular, isn't it? To bet high with whatever you've got.
One shoulder lifts in a shrug and there's a slight tip of his head. ) If I win, you'll get off and I'll watch. ( Which, all things considered, isn't the worst thing win or lose. )
You first.
( He nods his head towards the house of cards. )
rabbit roulette;
Ah... I'm sorry, sir, I thought it was—
( ... what? an empty bottle? well, yes, because this place serves all manner of strange drinks in even weirder shaped bottles that robin hasn't seen even in the wildest of dreams.
and to be fair, she's only been a waitress for less than a day — dressed in a corset and fishnets of the bird girls made to serve drinks to the patrons, styled with other little flourishes: a skirt trail that flutters behind her like feathers; a pair of flimsy wings that must have been whiter once and have seen better days after getting grabbed by a drunk or two. she's still wearing a wig after everything, even if she's relatively sure that most people here won't think to recognize her.
in other words, she's starting to see the cons of having enlisted into becoming the house's help willingly... even if it's gotten her to other places around the venue that she might not have been able to explore without a proper rank or... experience. still, even if it isn't her wheelhouse, she's still doing the work, her tray full of empty glasses and trash and still held properly so she doesn't drop it in her fluster.
... but a feather or two's poking out from under that black hair now, fluttering slightly as she stabilizes. )
... I could remove it for you if you'd like... but will you be able to handle that?
( his penalty... )
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the truth of the matter is, a part of him had hoped that someone eager might swipe up the thing and run. they would get better usage out of it than he would, and then maybe he could make a paltry excuse to the resort staff to delay his punishment: how can he complete a task without the tools to complete it with? but the thought of foisting the vibrator onto this girl--
there's a slow shake of his head, dismayed. )
Handle it? It wouldn't bother me. But I don't want you to get cursed instead.
( who knows if it works that way? maybe it's some kind of sick joke, like a cursed videotape that haunts anyone who comes to watch it next.
grimly, he reaches for his cigarette box, pilfering out one--before he holds it up, as though offering it out to the girl; he can't tell whether she's been forced into working here or not, but judging by the way that everyone he's met so far has been kidnapped to this stupid resort, he wouldn't be surprised.
with a flicker of his eyes down to the seat, and then back up to her again: )
If it gives you an excuse not to work so hard, you can say we're negotiating.
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( amazing how easily she can tell that she did something wrong, even when the impression's made in bas-relief, with no real form or substance to base it on. she doesn't need to sense emotion to see it anyway, from his large gulp of burning top-shelf liquor, or the way he grips his glass for that single instant, forming some bloodless white line across the meat of his palm before he sets it down.
all easier things to read. but not nearly as easy as chivalry can die when this young man goes through at least four out of the seven stages of grief with one shake of his head.
she... thinks for a moment, standing there, awkwardly quiet and a little guilty as aki commits through his array of vices in record time and holds a cigarette box for her to decline with a soft no, thank you. he's so transactional about it. she's had business dealings with agencies that had more emotion. his poker face is rather impressive if the other little tells didn't give him away. )
I... don't really intend to slack off on the clock. ( she offers earnestly, coming to a decision after a moment of regarding his hunched over form. she probably means it by the way she's collecting other empty glasses to pile on top of the tray she now sets on the counter, heavy enough to wonder if she's really got the arm strength to bring it back with her to the kitchen.
when she eventually goes back anyway. because she slides into the bar stool next to aki after she finishes tidying up, her feather trail of skirt flaring behind her like she's coming to perch. she's looking at... the vibrator... and then to him and then back again, in that order. like she's deliberating with him how best to dispatch a poisonous snake. ) But part of my job description is to entertain guests, I guess.
Three hours, is it?
( or so she surmises, from the countdown she might've glanced at his wrist. )
Plenty of time to come up with a new strategy.
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