【 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.
( 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. )
( a fair answer, even if it gets a lift of his brow in confirmation, and nothing more. instead, the offered cigarette gets put between his own lips, dragged from the box with the pressure holding it; the lighter comes next, a spark of flame to get the end going, a breath to keep it suspended. by the time he's stacked both the box and the lighter together, neatly nudged by his palm, she's already gathered up the stray glasses from around him--there had been a couple a few seats away, for awhile, and they'd gone through shots in almost record time, leaving only once the girl got sick. but she doesn't heft the tray up to take it back to the kitchen--instead, she slides onto the stool next to him.
entertain guests. he shares her look, a glance that's almost surreptitiously displeased at the vibrator that's still between them, like some kind of sick joke. the smoke that passes from his lips gets directed past the bar, instead of into her face; he shakes his head a little, lifting up the hand cradling the cigarette to rub a thumb over his brow. agitated. )
A new strategy? ( maybe he's reading it wrong, but the glance he spares her, sidelong, before another drag, is dubious--and a little concerned, hidden somewhere in the depths of expressionless blue eyes. ) You don't have to offer yourself for my entertainment.
( because he'd never be like that. denji might get his rocks off taking pilfered titty magazines from dead hybrids, staring at pin-up girls like they'd ever stare at him back--he doesn't view women as a source of entertainment, no matter what the resort seems to want him to think.
his gaze lowers, then lifts again. ) ...If you wanted it, that would be different.
( and maybe it's with this look, that he notices--the little stray feathers, struggling to peek out past the silken strands of her wig; it's a curious thing, but now he knows better, now he's learned not to touch things he doesn't understand. still, his gaze settles there, turning over the sight with his thoughts: what sort of creature is she, what is it that she's hiding?
wordlessly, he lifts his hand, gesturing mildly in near his own temples with the cigarette--as though to give her indication that she's exposing herself, a bit. )
( there's a startled laugh at his clarification, and with it, her feathers stick out of one side of her glossy black wig like a bird flying straight out of the brush. )
Is it really so easy to understand what we want here, when it seems like it's under duress—
( but his gesture... but that's really just so embarrassing. it does — catch her clear off guard when he points out her wardrobe malfunction with some small, noticeable gesture that curls the smoke in the air like a question mark. one stark white wing flutters like a live thing trapped under the fall of her hair. she, comically, claps a hand right over it, unruly feathers poking out between her fingers as she hunches sideways on her stool to duck out from his line of sight. )
E—excuse me...
( though it's nothing she should hide, per se, which makes the warmth at the tips of her ears and the accompanying mortification make her want to cringe right out of her mortal body. she has no recognition on this side of whatever galaxy — right? no sense in thinking a scandal will get published on a tabloid... but there's always after the reveal to think about, if somehow word got out that the songstress robin had been kidnapped and made to play in a... sex casino.
maybe she's still thinking about pr damage, even as she's hunched over and fixing her hair and looking more rattled than put-together with the broken bird wings flapping sadly along the bare plane of her back.
moreso when she's offering a conversation in the exact same position, turned away from him, less because she's shy and more because she must be having some trouble with her wig and wings. shame her intention doesn't matter. it's how it looks that does. )
... Forgive me. What I meant by strategy might have been presumption of what I thought you wanted.
You just seem like you really don't want to use it...
( thank you miss obvious. but the next question comes out... with a hint of careful consideration from the other side of the bar stool. )
... but would that change with a willing participant?
( it takes some effort to parse the words, with the way that she's hunched over; her movements are a little futile in a way that's exasperating, but only in a measure of near-fondness, like someone who tries to push their hair down only for it to keep sticking straight up. some things can't be changed no matter how hard a person tries, and some things can't be hidden no matter how much they should be. he watches, his free hand tapping to the bar as though he's resisting the urge to reach over and help--but then, those wings at her back, what do they remind him of? his fingers arch, pointed up, and he takes another drag of the cigarette instead of reaching out to her.
it's not her real hair, with the way the hairline starts to skew sidelong with her fussing--it's a wig, then, something to cover up those feathers, or whatever else might be underneath.
there's a sort of dry breath, almost amusement-- )
That depends. Is the willing participant in the room with us right now?
( a tease, because it's hard to say. is she offering, or suggesting that he find someone else? maybe they're both circling the obvious elephant in the room with too wide a berth to meet each other unless he asks it a little more directly: which should be easy, for someone like him, but then again, he's never propositioned someone with a vibrator.
another sigh of breath, shaking his head a little before he takes another drag. )
If you want to use it with me, then I'll ask you to take off the wig.
( his gaze slides to her, though he doesn't twist to face her fully, doesn't crowd into her fussing--he's still trying to decide what might happen if he did. )
Not because I care what's under it, but because it's just going to get in the way. It's already in the way.
it takes a moment, two, for the pause to translate in the slow untensing of her shoulders, or the way her nervy hands finally stop fidgeting, all of that fake hair in her face with no more real drive to fix it.
this time when she laughs, it's inelegant but genuine. apparently formality is a joke here that should be told to other people more interested in hearing it, because this man certainly isn't her target audience. breathe — but instead of relying on harmony, robin leans back on her imagination instead, imagining this boy's long fingers along his cigarette. strong hands. perhaps he might hold the smoke in his chest for a long time, letting it cool and coil in his lungs, grow heavy and steady her where she sits, and then she exhales and straightens up on the stool. )
How could anyone be anything but, with a charmer like you?
( as her hand tugs the wig free from where it last clings sadly to her head, black threads falling past her face like the descent of his next puff of smoke.
her hair is brighter underneath, and then brighter than that when the contrast is stark when it had been black before. it's the white wings that are, frankly, a little jarring, fluttering like a bird taking flight as soon as they're freed.
or like an angel, since aki has been trying so hard not to make the comparison on his side of the narrative. )
Allow me to start over, then. My name is Robin. It looked like you got saddled with a ride you weren't very eager to take.
( in very pretty lines, humored, courting neither controversy or even a real tease. the kind of lilting enunciation that must have been practiced once, or rehearsed for television in all its charismatic trappings for one (1) aki hayakama to find charming or incredibly off-putting. )
We could spend the next two hours discussing more convincing ways to get rid of it, if you prefer.
Or, if we're really both willing, we can use it together and save the chips and dignity that you — and I, having touched it — would otherwise lose.
( wings. it's to be expected, because what else would feathers mean, but even so--a little jarring to see, a little jarring to experience, and the slight wince of his features is held at bay, trapped instead by another pass of smoke. he can't make assumptions because it's not relevant, here, but the reluctance simmers inside of him despite it; how much longer does he have left? two years, maybe less? and how much more would an angelic creature like this take from him, what would the resort do about it, is it tied to the fact that his summoning doesn't work here?
all questions that swim--and drown, once he takes up his glass, carefully swallowing the last of the liquor in it. )
I'm boring, and lack all measure of charm. ( there's no vitriol in his voice, like these are words he's heard before that have hurt him; rather, he's almost amused, as though saying it out loud relieves him of the burden of expectation. ) And I have no dignity left. If that doesn't bother you, then...
( then there's just the matter of everything else. snubbing out his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, he palms his lighter, the box, sliding it down into one of the pockets of his suit jacket; he pushes his weight up onto his feet, hands sliding to snag the button at the front of the jacket into its hole. once that's done, he offers a palmed gesture towards her tray.
a quiet lift of the brow--and then reluctantly, grimly, he reaches to take the vibrator in hand as well. )
Can I take that back to the kitchen for you? ( or is it safe to leave it here? he doesn't want her to get into trouble on his behalf. ) We'll have to find a room, unless you want to do it back there.
( given the things he's seen in this place, having sex in the back of a kitchen would be the most tame. )
( a perfectly bland reaction. it's to be expected, because the majority of the crowd doesn't seem to know her here, and even so — this young man doesn't seem the type to be a fan.
still. it's a relatively novel experience to be watched like this, with his face kept so impassive, shockingly still even with the marked burst of smoke that might have meant that he had just held his breath. it blows a small amount of it in the direction of her face, all warm and bitter and acrid, and before she can debate if it's worth it to look below surface-level for some real emotion, he's already up and out of his seat.
hardly any reaction at all, and that could be boring. it could mean that he's so wrapped up in protocol, that even something like this is just another task to check off of some to-do list. it's business, it makes it easy, and so robin hums some lilting note that may not quite be assent. )
Alright then. I suppose this means we'll be perfectly boring together.
( as for her charm and dignity... well, the sad, dark, mottled heap that was once her disguise is all tangled up on the thin carpet where she unduly... steps onto it, as she gets off the stool. arguably she doesn't have much of either, either.
but he affords her some dignity of not commenting on it, at least, and commits to the very serious duty that is his burden to bear. the straight lines of his suit present so severe, he looks ridiculous with something bright pink in hand, holding it in no certain way, and yet it springs to mind some battle-ready stance, how someone might hold a weapon, a blade.
a stark contrast to the kindness he still thinks to offer, and robin blinks to look at the full tray on the countertop, considering— )
( — right before it's swept right off of it, tray tumbling behind the bar top and the shatter of all of those neatly stacked glasses ringing harsh and loud, even above the clatter-call of the casino bursting with the life of the party in the golden backdrop.
of course she jumps, startling, but it's only when a couple goes barreling onto the countertop, too keyed up with ripping their clothes off to really pay attention to people who are just minding their own business, that she gets shoved out of the way and into aki's direction where she's reaching out to regain her balance.
she has gloves. but it's still a lot of skin showing with her uniform: bare arms and collarbones and the stretch of her back underneath those beaten-up bird (angel) wings. and he has — what.
( the cacophony of the glasses shattering, some of them hitting the floor, the others hitting the back of the bar, is enough that he's startled--well, his version of startled, anyway, a rounding of his eyes into something shocked and a little murderous. it's noisy, and rude, and more than that, she's hauled her tray everywhere to clean up after the people here, just to have it all ruined in the end? it doesn't matter that life often goes that way, the irony of bad decisions, but still--a part of him is tempted to immediately fish the couple apart from each other and charge them with attempted battery or something equally ridiculous. not that he has any kind of authority to do that, but still, it's--quite frankly bullshit the way people act in this place.
aghast, he shakes his head a little, taking a step back: and that's when she feels for him, a hand that brushes against his sleeve for balance.
he holds it, tightening up his arm for her, but his gaze is falling, racking down her arm, down to her dainty wrist, to the gloves she's wearing, and back up again. if nothing else, there's plenty of material between them--plenty of material that, perhaps, will no longer be between them later, but he'll have to answer his own assumptions before he can get anywhere with that. )
...You're not a Devil.
( a ridiculous thing to be asking, with the cacophony of the casino behind them, whoops and cheers from winning tables, the sound of a fight breaking out at another; loud music, glasses and dishes clinking, distant conversations, and the sound of the couple on the bar groping and pushing fabric out of their way, and yet what he asks seems to be the stupidest of them all.
too bad it's a chilled look that he's directly down at her, even though he's still holding still to be her balance--and her shield, if the couple ends up coming off the bar, already prepared to pull her behind him if he has to. )
You're not a Devil. ( saying it again makes him feel a little better, like he needs his own reassurance all the same. ) Am I correct?
something that transpires a bit too acutely when she catches his stare, when her pulse starts going like some bird in an ivory cage, all beating wings and restrained panic that puts her ill at ease.
she's been too out of it for days in this place to withhold all reaction, to keep an instinct buried instead of flowing out in a slivered pulse of technicolor, just to read an imminent threat for what it is. steady, and of course he is, still standing with his arm held carefully at his side and keeping her supported with her grip still dragging into his sleeve.
it's just the rest of what she feels at once — fear, duress, resolve — that sharpens to a razor-bladed loathing that fixes down to a single point.
it feels like she's on the other side of it with his stare. the small, sharp breath she takes, and the full step back must come a little jerky, a little awkward when she's suddenly less mindful of the couple on the countertop and the broken glass at her feet than she is of giving him a wide enough breadth for the feeling in his unspoken request.
because she could swear in that moment of feeling: he didn't want to be touched. )
I—
... I'm a Halovian. ( simple enough, with her paler face and her eyes kept on his dangerous expression. maybe even a devil would think to run.
but her wings curl inward, closer to her throat, and the look of it's made smaller because of it. her halo winks unseen above her head, like the punchline of a joke. ) I know that most of us aren't from the same world, with the same meanings...
What would a Devil be — what would it look like to you?
( he's hunted and killed enough fiends, enough devils, that the feelings run like clockwork, shuttled along a track that's familiar; there's nothing to feel sorry about, nothing to be upset about, because every time he's fulfilled a mission, the opposition has always fought back. always made some comment about killing humans, maiming humans, always filled with such vitriol and evil that it's easy to feel righteous. to let everything fuel his anger and his guilt and his desire to wipe out the most evil part of them all, even at the cost of his life. and it had taken denji's stupidity to make him consider that there could be another option--that a painless death could be a kindness, for a thing that had never deserved kindness to begin with. he still thinks it's ridiculous, but that hard wall is starting to soften, even now; even at a distance, with neither denji nor power in sight, he still questions his resolve.
because robin's wings curl, like she's afraid of him. like he's going to go for her throat, slash and cut it open, stand over her body like a victory. he doesn't miss the little flicker above her head, either--and how ridiculous is this? that he should be faced with someone who would raise his guard up, only to be proven wrong, in the end? it's a necessary dig, maybe, for an ego that has hardened over the years, too focused on doing what he knows to do.
with a slow breath, he shakes his head. halovian. never heard of it. )
We aren't from the same world. ( he confirms it with a soft breath--and rather than close the space between them again, and spook her further, he takes a step back, almost inviting. like she can follow him, or she can escape out the other side of the bar--whatever makes her comfortable. )
I'm a Devil hunter. I know someone that looks...like you. A Devil.
( but one that cooperates with their squad, so he wouldn't have killed her anyway. he doesn't think explaining that now would do any good; he's already let himself into a complicated situation, and the best route is an easy defusal. )
It wasn't my intention to insult you, or your...appendages.
( his jaw rolls, like he can't decide if that's the right way to put it: but he takes another step, encouraging, as though he would rather continue the conversation in pursuit of an empty room. )
( all of these emotions that she catalogues in her mind for later, and nothing that she dares to tune into a harmonious calm when it's at odds with what might be fitting at this exact moment. all of his wildly firing synapses and robin can still feel it under everything else: the hurt, real and deep, but worse is some kind of distrust in himself that she can't fully understand... and only recognizes in someone dear to her heart.
a chain of command. someone's marching orders. flickers of memoria that his feelings carry like a film reel that she doesn't have nearly enough time to watch or decipher. it just helps her somewhat. there is no real malice to his fiercely guarded looks. just a sharpened focus trained on the possibility of survival and —
what... kindness, maybe. when he doesn't push the subject any more than robin doesn't invade his thoughts. there's no longer the halo effect of light refracting through jagged glass; just the dimmed lights of the bar, the gilded sheen of a grand casino yonder, and the space still left between them. )
Oh. No, you didn't, I —
( oh.
and the couple that is definitely still fucking on top of the bar. which is somehow not nearly as funny as the bright pink prop comedy that aki is still cradling in one hand like a blade as he steps away.
she should be more acutely aware of how strange it is, or how he's giving her an easy out, to take the space and run, but alas. )
... I see. ( she follows at his heels, taking an easy step with his stride, no longer afraid for all that the color is only just returning to her face now, her wings curling out like a bird about to take flight. ) I've never been called a Devil before.
( simply, with lilting honesty. possibly to lighten the mood: )
( a question that has him blinking rapidly, his gaze cast out to scowl at the rest of the casino, instead. it's this place, anyway, that's put him into this situation, not the fault of the girl next to him, the stupid vibrator in his hand, or the couple that he imagines is going to get sprayed off the counter by the time the bartender returns. something they'll have to hear of secondhand, as he angles his steps away from the bar, and more into the flooded chaos of the rest of the party. she's still following him, which either means she needs the credits, needs the catharsis, or just needs to keep teasing him; his lips purse, almost like he's trying not to jut out into a pout.
there's a slow, shallow shake of his head. )
You're incredibly frightening.
( the bland, almost playfully distant tone likely clocks that immediately as a lie. )
I have no idea who you are, or why you want to help me, or if i'm going to touch your face and your little--your ear--your... ( his free hand lifts between them to give a little gesture with a slender finger, like he's drawing her wing there onto his own head with invisible ink. ) ...If it's going to slap me away.
( it's a joke. well, he hopes it reads as a joke, anyway, dry at his own expense; when they start to move through a denser crowd, he does at least lift up that arm between them again so that he can press his palm to her back, lightly, closer to her hips than to her shoulders. he doesn't want her to get yanked around or pulled out of his sight.
it's easy to make the next assumption, then-- )
Have you been called an angel? ( probably by literally everyone else in the resort, he's guessing. )
( ... it had been a cute face for him to make, really. it makes her think he's a little younger after all, reframing the suit on him, and the habits he has are suddenly clumsier.
funny, really. when she laughs, light, airy, it isn't so much for his joke, for the fact that he's playing around and trying to dissolve the strange tension still lingering after one misunderstanding. she thinks, she'd have an easier time of it if she were frightening — maybe they could skip over all of the awkward parts and treat it indelicately the way that everyone else seems to do so naturally, in the way that a monster might, more animal than the niceties of what she thinks should be done. )
Well, let me see if I can help with some of that.
( a tutting sound, still sweet, still a melody, clear even as he cradles some spot low along her back, over the corset piece of her dress and not quite skin-to-skin. he guides her along in the crowd, and she has to lean into him to be heard, and it must be her hair or a feather that brushes his cheek long before her voice drifts warm after it, grazing the curve of his ear like a second thought. )
My name is Robin... I want to help you because I want to, and really... if you're frightened, you don't actually have to touch me at all.
( ...? maybe that requires some clarification. later. somewhere where it wouldn't be so hard to hear her, and even then, the smile in her tone's obvious even in the lush sound of the casino crowd. )
... is that too cold of an impression to be an angel?
( it tickles, when she's close. he's not sure what else he would really expect--the little brush of her hair, of her feathers, of her breath is so close to his skin that it does feel treacherously dangerous, or maybe that's just because the only person he thinks that he's let this close is the type to pull his cigarette out of his mouth to clamp her own lips around it, as though there are no boundaries between them whatsoever. he can't picture robin doing that, not necessarily, but the fact that her melodic voice and lilting words are both hard to believe and hard to bleed the truth out of...well, that has to mean something. maybe he's thinking his impression of her over again, like a sketch that's now being painted in with color.
the casino is loud around them, the sound of various card and dice tables lush with the noise of not only the patrons but the staff; he reigns her in a little closer, his arm tightening, and considers that offer. would that make things better, or worse? her spread out on the sheets, her hands between her legs, and this atrociously bright thing--
his shoulders tighten a little, a small, resolute shake of his head. )
You're not cold. ( he can tell, even when it's just the curl of his palm against her back, through the corset of her dress. ) Don't pretend to be just for my sake.
( by the time they've cleared most of the casino riffraff, it's a quieter hallway that meets them--and the promise of private rooms, lines of doors down with no indication of what might be inside. with a glance to her, he lets his arm slip down, moving forward so that he can reach the first door on the left, twisting the knob to bob his head in--and immediately out, shutting the door firmly.
there's a minute shake of his head, a muttered 'occupied', before he goes for the first door on the right, creaking it open with less determination--and then he stands there for a moment, with a sigh, before he cocks his head in invitation. )
( so they go through all the motions of what she figures is what people call a casual hook-up.
walking down the hallways, having just met some hapless stranger at a bar, all robin really has is his impression — a good posture; vices that go along the lines of smoking and drinking; how fiercely he can look in a single, heart-rendering instant when he perceives an imminent threat. his expression doesn't shift much at all even after opening the door to an otherwise occupied room, but discomfort seems to tic his brow, just a little, whenever it happens. she gets the sense that he wears the suit easily out of habit, jacket brushed into worn submission, but his rough-edged authenticity would make him a poor businessman.
her smile winks at the edges of each eye as she thinks about it, as he heaves some world-weary breath and tips his head in a reluctant invitation for her to join him in the room. he'd already told her what he was, after all. there's no illusion. )
You could be colder, Mister Devil Hunter.
( she says, with no real heat in it at all, as she walks up with more confidence than she might be feeling. she's given him her name, but he hadn't given her his, and it's with that knowledge and clinical surety that she helps coax the door open and walks in right after him.
... where they might stand, for a moment, in the middle of that enclosed space with that awkward stretched silence. the room's not built for much besides that it contains the accoutrements of what might be necessary for a careless fling: dim lighting, and a minibar with a sink attached, and drawers that contain who-knows-what, and a bed that seems attached to the wall in a luxurious circle, pillows and sheets almost flooding over in maroon and gold that still shines in the shadow.
the door, despite one so easily opening a few doors down, does lock from the inside. this, she finds out, by clicking it counter-clockwise herself. )
( she isn't wrong. he could be colder. hadn't he been, once upon a time? it's odd to think of it, to consider a child faced with the obliteration of his whole family, his whole life, meandering through with ragged determination to kill the source--to the person that he is now, edges sanded down by his buddy, by the devils in his home, by all these little things he's let inside. could she be something else, like that? something that would crawl its way inside of him, twist his insides, breathe a small breath of warmth into the ice around his heart? it's a daunting thought, distracting enough that he doesn't even fully recognize that she's the one that's already closed the door behind them, until he hears the lock click into place.
with a hazy glance, he perceives the room around them. it's dim, and quiet, surprisingly distant from all the loud ruckus outside--the bed looks comfortable, rich sheets and a plush mattress, and though he's tempted to pour them both a drink, as though out of apology, he decides not to. instead, he carefully sets his cigarettes and his lighter down on the counter, instead, next to the sink.
the vibrator--he looks at it with a small purse of his lips in dismay, and moves to carry it to the bed. )
A favor? ( he repeats it slowly, thoughtfully. ) I think I owe you at least three or four, at this point.
( his attempt at a joke, wry and bemused: he's already shrugging out of his suit jacket, showing off the slim lines of his back, his hips, bared to her as he faces the bed out of embarrassment. with nowhere else to put it, he gives it a light toss onto the floor; then his fingers start to work at the knot of his tie, gently loosening it, tugging, as he turns back to face her.
he could do much worse. she looks like she belongs in a room like this, pretty as she is--that she's the type of girl who looks pretty no matter what filth she's surrounded by. )
silly (slutty) costume; a doll-like face. it's just the way that robin dawdles, maybe, or how she's looking anywhere else except directly at the places that actually count for anything, that probably gives her away.
even now. he isn't giving her a show, but it feels like it holds weight in their privacy as he shrugs off the suit jacket — glimpses of lean muscle pulling under his dress shirt; the same long fingers with tendons stretching taut around a whiskey glass, undoing the knot of his tie. it's as respectful as she can get when she's still admiring the view he makes, when she's politely regarding him with her eyes trained on his face the moment that he turns back around.
give her a moment. because maybe there's also an answering wry note of laughter in her voice as she considers her reply. )
To be completely honest... I haven't the experience to promise you much of one...
( softly. perhaps a little (a lot) shy. a favor? that sounds so awful in this context, as if he has to be saddled with the burden of being her first.
but, )
... but that thing. Vibrates — right? It technically... needn't go inside.
( they just need the snarling catharsis of it, really. from what she's found out from others, the house doesn't seem to care about the particulars beyond a certain point. maybe aki doesn't either. is that cold? she could be colder. but her fluting voice still offers, so angelic as to seem like it's a joke, )
( for just a moment, it's like the words aren't computing--like he isn't parsing them, isn't putting together the melodic sound with the curve of her lips, or that look in her eyes. his fingers still, the tie loosened, but not undone; his mouth parts, pushes shut, and then it hits him, and embarrassment rockets through all the same. he doesn't know if it's worth it to even tell her that he's got very little idea of what the hell to do, here, outside of the distant knowledge that comes from listening to people like denji and himeno, rich with thick, perverted jokes that don't really fit, either--maybe it would be a comfort to her, or maybe it would just scare her off. it isn't that he's against it, either: this is his problem, and she's only been kind enough to go along to fix it.
but his fingers work the knot of the tie loose, shrugging it out from his collar with a practiced hand, letting the unraveled material shrivel to the floor at his feet; he's torn between continuing his monotonous, practiced stripping, or crossing the space between them, and his weight pivots there for a moment, lips pursed. )
You can. ( it's easy enough to answer that question, but his gaze rolls across the mattress again, looking at the stupid thing--and then he's abandoning it, moving to cross the room so that he can stand in front of her, instead of at a distance.
he might regret this: or his ego might regret this, but it just doesn't sit right with him, something that feels colder than he wants either of them to be. )
But I want to do something, to you. ( it sounds wrong; his eyes close for an extended moment, annoyed with himself, before opening again. ) For you.
( it's not transactional, when his hands reach for her hips; they steady there like he's not sure he should have put them there at all, but his grip is light, fingers that spread out and hold her like she's something precious, not like she's something delicate. )
( she's not sure what she expects to come out of it. as far as propositions go, someone with more experience would probably take more time to ease into it instead of waiting until the door's locked for the awkward rejection, and the no escape. way to go, robin, committing a sex-dungeon-posing-as-a-casino faux pas right out of the gate. no one will ever want to sleep with you.
but it could be worse. it could've gone differently, too, if he'd said no and she would've stayed anyway, let the pieces fall in the appropriate slots where they may otherwise. part of it isn't kindness, because part of her is still disbelieving. if they do this, then what do they really get from it? and what price do they really pay? songstress embroiled in a sex scandal, the headlines would say in the taglines of that pornographic paraphernalia. she thinks she'll pay the price eventually, somewhere down the line. most people do.
and it's still not worth someone else's punishment.
he walks up to her with that honed, respectable veneer of calm, and she offers him the gentle politeness of her full attention, her eyes kept respectfully on his face. he said he was boring, uncharming, and without dignity — and maybe it had been unfair to ask him when she's more than capable of putting that all together, when the chances of his refusal are next to none, with a personality like that. but then, his low, level voice, his hands seeping warmth into the slanting curve of her waist, his own flubbing tongue around a slip that sounds, frankly, subconscious are all interesting. charming. dignified enough.
she smiles at that, her face lighting up with a dust of pink to match how embarrassment slips into both of their mannerisms. mister devil hunter could be colder. mister devil hunter is too kind, and much kinder still, to not tell her his name or maybe even no. )
... Not quite.
( it's a quiet non-answer. her gaze finally drops, regarding him somewhere at collar-level as her hands lift up, popping open the first button of his dress shirt with very little flourish, almost domestic in the gesture as she sets about his previous bland attempt to take his clothes off.
she's going down the row of buttons, anyway, not quickly or slowly but evenly enough that the way she steps forward, how she's just as meticulous about it, might make him feel less like he's being herded back and more like it's just part of the process.
just like a dance, she thinks, with the proper steps to go about it. )
You're just very kind... It makes me feel like I'm taking advantage of it.
( and is that the problem, in the end? it doesn't feel like she's taking advantage of anything except their proximity, when her fingers lift, teasing buttons out of their holes; it doesn't feel like he's afforded her some kind of overextended kindness, when the steady beat of his heart, beneath his shirt, feels just as bared as the fabric that's starting to slip apart with her movements. had he always just been afraid of the same thing? that no one would willingly walk into some kind of agreement, like this, without some measure of pity, kindness, some kind of burden that would fall onto their shoulders? he can't read the expression as well in her face, when she's touching him; mostly that's because he feels thoroughly distracted by the heat that's threatening to pool up into his face at the thought.
the step backwards, and the next, feels like they're tethered together; his fingers flex, squeezing at her waist, and if she's guiding him back towards the bed, he doesn't mind it. doesn't feel like he's on the offensive, but rather, more at her mercy. )
Would it help... ( he starts, then thinks against it---rather than leave his touch at her waist, both of his hands lift, a calloused shadow over the back of her hands; his fingers run over hers, sliding down her knuckles, gripping in at her wrists if only so that he can use the guidance to start encouraging her to pull his shirt tails out of the waist of his slacks. ) ...to tell you that you're pretty?
( no, that sounds juvenile. another embarrassed breath goes through his nose, irritated at himself. )
You're not unattractive. ( that's even worse. he continues. ) You're very attractive. I'm sure you've heard this before.
( his grip loosens; his hands slide, a brief touch along her upper arms before he drops away, leaving the rest of his shirt at her mercy. )
So it isn't 'taking advantage'. ( it feels--a little stupid, saying all this, but it's not going to change anything; it's not like it's some kind of weakness to admit it, or maybe it is, but he's willing to take the loss if it comes to it. ) I'm interested.
( ... somehow, for the blip of that shared awkwardness, it does actually help.
somehow. anyhow. even when, yes, it is a little silly. even when, yes, there are his long fingers caging each of her bird-boned wrists, and somehow she can sense his calluses through the fabric of her gloves as he maneuvers — not ungracefully — to get her to ruck up the fabric of his shirt.
it helps because he's still steady, his heartbeat even, even when hers is somewhere up in her throat. and it especially helps because he keeps running through his words until he trips up, and it tells her that he isn't as impassive as his expression makes him out to be, his cards and consent laid out on the table for her to do with what she will. )
... thank you. Though I'd hoped you were, at least a little.
(that depends, he'd tried teasing once. is the willing participant in the room with us right now?
she must be one in this narrowing space, in the end. her lashes flick down as she trails over the lean muscle of his body, considering the bare sight with soft, sudden attention. her hands drift then, less hesitation and more curiosity as she marks the lighter outline of an old scar, some splotchy keloid where the flesh and blood must have stitched over something terrible, making a path over his bare skin without much warning, without permission, without fanfare. but at least her gloved fingers are soft over the indentations between each of his ribs. there's just no way for her to know if that does anything for him.
well. except the one. )
Otherwise I don't think we'd be in this room together...
( later, if aki were to ask what was done to him, then robin would tell him the truth. that she's no devil, but that she can read his mind, that resonance sometimes feels like the sudden passing of a headache — clearing, clear-mindedness, and a multi-colored sensation like you're light-headed and standing up too quickly.
maybe that only sharpens the sensation of everything else: how she presses her thumbs against the crests of his hipbones until he might try to squirm away, or thinks about it, or literally anything until she digs her fingertips into the junction of his hips instead, guiding him back until his legs finally hit the edge of the bed. )
( ugly scars, bared now with the parting of fabric, feel like shame beneath her feathered touch--the light, airy fabric of her gloves feels almost silken against him, a promise of something that he doesn't deserve, or maybe has never deserved, pressed against the sins of battle. it's easy for a devil's body to knit itself back together again; easy for a hybrid to pop their arms back or slurp up their innards. human devil hunters don't fare so well, which is why the death rate is so high: and though he takes care not to endure anything beyond what is necessary, the path he's made across his body is obvious. it's a means to an end, a vessel to carry him to revenge, and nothing further; the scars that she wonders over have no grand story, like a hero who's been off fighting a dragon for the sake of the town. he fights to protect the people, but they sure as hell don't know anything about him.
neither does she. is it a kindness to spare her those details? to not bother with a name, in case she thinks of it later and regrets it? is it easier for her to forget about him if he just leaves her with all the grimy, filthy details--that he fights devil, that he'd thought her a devil, that he's unkind and lacking charm and tact?
it's somewhere near where her hands connect down near his hips, where her thumbs push in near the crests of his hipbones and his knees jerk, like they might just buckle at the contact; no one's ever touched him there, and the ticklish feeling, spiraling up into the pit of his stomach, is foreign and uncomfortable. his legs hit the end of the bed, but his weight teeters, well-balanced between his heels, before he stops himself from toppling backward.
a strange, warm feeling: like his head is swimming. )
It's Aki. ( maybe this is the part where he's decide he wants to leave a mark on her after all. ) My name. Hayakawa Aki.
( she might want to do it herself; he stands his ground, practiced hands moving to his belt to start working it open, a crackle of metal and leather as it gets tugged and pulled apart, dropped near the end of the bed.
he doesn't know if expectation means he should reach for her, too: or how to even maneuver her out of her skirt with all the fancy trails and enticing fishnets; but he does at least make an attempt, reaching forward so that he can feel for her waistband, trying to circle it with long fingertips to find some zipper or latch. )
robin shouldn't try to read any of it and spare him his privacy. the scars don't seem pleasant — obviously. what she could glean from touching them aren't likely to be pleasant either.
she touches him anyway. she reads his reactions. even now, harmony flows out of her in a slow, subtle tuning, some musicality to be found in the way her fingers map his body, a distant, emotional crescendo that must skew each heartbeat to feel as if it's from something else. and then suddenly it's calming, coaxing. he still feels like he's uncomfortable, and she can't blame him when she can see flashes of blood and vast, hungry mouths to go with every scar, how it's difficult to filter what must've once caused his injuries from how he might feel, now, with her hands on his marked skin.
there's knotting tension that feels almost formative as she's leafing through the corners of his mind. she must be trying to work it out of his psyche the way her thumb is working the knot of some muscle in his side, how she's... carefully... hooking into the waistband of his slacks with a little hitch of breathing for his hand landing somewhere on her hip in turn. )
... Mister Aki.
( a little laugh accompanies it, because she realizes it's uncanny, mister like there's any distance left between her and his half-naked body. )
Mister Hayakawa? ( but she tries it again, a little breathy this time, and thinks it has to be a kindness. otherwise helping him now, to save him from some curse and some poverty, isn't a kindness at all but an excuse. ) Or... do I call you Aki?
( she doesn't help him with her clothes. granted she doesn't bat his hand away either, and only turns a faint shade of red as he has to struggle; after all, it took more than that for her to figure out the corset, and she had been just as alone.
it isn't her focus. it's harder to think of what comes next when there's no sense of urgency, and there's only his blue eyes and his kindness and the feeling that he would do this for her, would do more for her, if she only asked. he's taken scars for less. she bites her lip. )
( maybe it's something in her eyes. something pretty, something that moves like waves do across the tide, where sand seems to scatter but never really goes away; trails and patterns of it, across a shore, where the water takes something away, but always returns to give something back, all the same.
he doesn't feel like they're scars that can be healed, or it could be that he's never taken inventory of the ones left deep below the skin, severed across a heart that beats only for revenge, for retribution, and nothing more. he hasn't had dreams since he'd been seven years old, ten years old, when he'd wanted for things and then, quite suddenly, had nothing left to want for.
but it's her eyes, maybe, or the soft patter of her breath across her own lips, or the way that her hair hangs around her face that gives him the sense of some kind of peace; her fingertips touch at him and he feels more want, than worry, feels more desire, than determination. she isn't afraid of him, surely, not anymore: he watches those feathers that whisper above her ears like they might tell him a secret.
but does she really want him? could someone really want him, a husk of a man, burdened by a life that he's so willing to give away?
her laugh makes him embarrassed, but not in a bad way, not in a way that gets in the way of anything else. because he wants to laugh, wants to shake his head, and instead just lets his chin duck, like she shouldn't be saying his name like that; she shouldn't be able to say it so warmly, pretty on her lips like it belongs there. abandoned, his fingers give up somewhere in the midst of tightened ribbons along the corsetted back of her clothing; she doesn't peel his slacks off, and he leaves them like that, for now.
wordless, he pulls his hands back, measures his weight, and sits neatly on the end of the bed, his knees spread: not to offer her some kind of lascivious offer, but more in case she would rather find purchase on his thighs, than the bed, than the floor, than anywhere else. )
If it's Robin, then it's Aki. ( he decides, with some low, quiet thread of amusement. ) Unless you like hearing something else.
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peacockstop2025-01-15 09:00 pm
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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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entertain guests. he shares her look, a glance that's almost surreptitiously displeased at the vibrator that's still between them, like some kind of sick joke. the smoke that passes from his lips gets directed past the bar, instead of into her face; he shakes his head a little, lifting up the hand cradling the cigarette to rub a thumb over his brow. agitated. )
A new strategy? ( maybe he's reading it wrong, but the glance he spares her, sidelong, before another drag, is dubious--and a little concerned, hidden somewhere in the depths of expressionless blue eyes. ) You don't have to offer yourself for my entertainment.
( because he'd never be like that. denji might get his rocks off taking pilfered titty magazines from dead hybrids, staring at pin-up girls like they'd ever stare at him back--he doesn't view women as a source of entertainment, no matter what the resort seems to want him to think.
his gaze lowers, then lifts again. ) ...If you wanted it, that would be different.
( and maybe it's with this look, that he notices--the little stray feathers, struggling to peek out past the silken strands of her wig; it's a curious thing, but now he knows better, now he's learned not to touch things he doesn't understand. still, his gaze settles there, turning over the sight with his thoughts: what sort of creature is she, what is it that she's hiding?
wordlessly, he lifts his hand, gesturing mildly in near his own temples with the cigarette--as though to give her indication that she's exposing herself, a bit. )
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Is it really so easy to understand what we want here, when it seems like it's under duress—
( but his gesture... but that's really just so embarrassing. it does — catch her clear off guard when he points out her wardrobe malfunction with some small, noticeable gesture that curls the smoke in the air like a question mark. one stark white wing flutters like a live thing trapped under the fall of her hair. she, comically, claps a hand right over it, unruly feathers poking out between her fingers as she hunches sideways on her stool to duck out from his line of sight. )
E—excuse me...
( though it's nothing she should hide, per se, which makes the warmth at the tips of her ears and the accompanying mortification make her want to cringe right out of her mortal body. she has no recognition on this side of whatever galaxy — right? no sense in thinking a scandal will get published on a tabloid... but there's always after the reveal to think about, if somehow word got out that the songstress robin had been kidnapped and made to play in a... sex casino.
maybe she's still thinking about pr damage, even as she's hunched over and fixing her hair and looking more rattled than put-together with the broken bird wings flapping sadly along the bare plane of her back.
moreso when she's offering a conversation in the exact same position, turned away from him, less because she's shy and more because she must be having some trouble with her wig and wings. shame her intention doesn't matter. it's how it looks that does. )
... Forgive me. What I meant by strategy might have been presumption of what I thought you wanted.
You just seem like you really don't want to use it...
( thank you miss obvious. but the next question comes out... with a hint of careful consideration from the other side of the bar stool. )
... but would that change with a willing participant?
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it's not her real hair, with the way the hairline starts to skew sidelong with her fussing--it's a wig, then, something to cover up those feathers, or whatever else might be underneath.
there's a sort of dry breath, almost amusement-- )
That depends. Is the willing participant in the room with us right now?
( a tease, because it's hard to say. is she offering, or suggesting that he find someone else? maybe they're both circling the obvious elephant in the room with too wide a berth to meet each other unless he asks it a little more directly: which should be easy, for someone like him, but then again, he's never propositioned someone with a vibrator.
another sigh of breath, shaking his head a little before he takes another drag. )
If you want to use it with me, then I'll ask you to take off the wig.
( his gaze slides to her, though he doesn't twist to face her fully, doesn't crowd into her fussing--he's still trying to decide what might happen if he did. )
Not because I care what's under it, but because it's just going to get in the way. It's already in the way.
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it takes a moment, two, for the pause to translate in the slow untensing of her shoulders, or the way her nervy hands finally stop fidgeting, all of that fake hair in her face with no more real drive to fix it.
this time when she laughs, it's inelegant but genuine. apparently formality is a joke here that should be told to other people more interested in hearing it, because this man certainly isn't her target audience. breathe — but instead of relying on harmony, robin leans back on her imagination instead, imagining this boy's long fingers along his cigarette. strong hands. perhaps he might hold the smoke in his chest for a long time, letting it cool and coil in his lungs, grow heavy and steady her where she sits, and then she exhales and straightens up on the stool. )
How could anyone be anything but, with a charmer like you?
( as her hand tugs the wig free from where it last clings sadly to her head, black threads falling past her face like the descent of his next puff of smoke.
her hair is brighter underneath, and then brighter than that when the contrast is stark when it had been black before. it's the white wings that are, frankly, a little jarring, fluttering like a bird taking flight as soon as they're freed.
or like an angel, since aki has been trying so hard not to make the comparison on his side of the narrative. )
Allow me to start over, then. My name is Robin. It looked like you got saddled with a ride you weren't very eager to take.
( in very pretty lines, humored, courting neither controversy or even a real tease. the kind of lilting enunciation that must have been practiced once, or rehearsed for television in all its charismatic trappings for one (1) aki hayakama to find charming or incredibly off-putting. )
We could spend the next two hours discussing more convincing ways to get rid of it, if you prefer.
Or, if we're really both willing, we can use it together and save the chips and dignity that you — and I, having touched it — would otherwise lose.
no subject
all questions that swim--and drown, once he takes up his glass, carefully swallowing the last of the liquor in it. )
I'm boring, and lack all measure of charm. ( there's no vitriol in his voice, like these are words he's heard before that have hurt him; rather, he's almost amused, as though saying it out loud relieves him of the burden of expectation. ) And I have no dignity left. If that doesn't bother you, then...
( then there's just the matter of everything else. snubbing out his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, he palms his lighter, the box, sliding it down into one of the pockets of his suit jacket; he pushes his weight up onto his feet, hands sliding to snag the button at the front of the jacket into its hole. once that's done, he offers a palmed gesture towards her tray.
a quiet lift of the brow--and then reluctantly, grimly, he reaches to take the vibrator in hand as well. )
Can I take that back to the kitchen for you? ( or is it safe to leave it here? he doesn't want her to get into trouble on his behalf. ) We'll have to find a room, unless you want to do it back there.
( given the things he's seen in this place, having sex in the back of a kitchen would be the most tame. )
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still. it's a relatively novel experience to be watched like this, with his face kept so impassive, shockingly still even with the marked burst of smoke that might have meant that he had just held his breath. it blows a small amount of it in the direction of her face, all warm and bitter and acrid, and before she can debate if it's worth it to look below surface-level for some real emotion, he's already up and out of his seat.
hardly any reaction at all, and that could be boring. it could mean that he's so wrapped up in protocol, that even something like this is just another task to check off of some to-do list. it's business, it makes it easy, and so robin hums some lilting note that may not quite be assent. )
Alright then. I suppose this means we'll be perfectly boring together.
( as for her charm and dignity... well, the sad, dark, mottled heap that was once her disguise is all tangled up on the thin carpet where she unduly... steps onto it, as she gets off the stool. arguably she doesn't have much of either, either.
but he affords her some dignity of not commenting on it, at least, and commits to the very serious duty that is his burden to bear. the straight lines of his suit present so severe, he looks ridiculous with something bright pink in hand, holding it in no certain way, and yet it springs to mind some battle-ready stance, how someone might hold a weapon, a blade.
a stark contrast to the kindness he still thinks to offer, and robin blinks to look at the full tray on the countertop, considering— )
... /2
of course she jumps, startling, but it's only when a couple goes barreling onto the countertop, too keyed up with ripping their clothes off to really pay attention to people who are just minding their own business, that she gets shoved out of the way and into aki's direction where she's reaching out to regain her balance.
she has gloves. but it's still a lot of skin showing with her uniform: bare arms and collarbones and the stretch of her back underneath those beaten-up bird (angel) wings. and he has — what.
two years, was it? )
... I guess out here is also an option.
( wryly. )
no subject
aghast, he shakes his head a little, taking a step back: and that's when she feels for him, a hand that brushes against his sleeve for balance.
he holds it, tightening up his arm for her, but his gaze is falling, racking down her arm, down to her dainty wrist, to the gloves she's wearing, and back up again. if nothing else, there's plenty of material between them--plenty of material that, perhaps, will no longer be between them later, but he'll have to answer his own assumptions before he can get anywhere with that. )
...You're not a Devil.
( a ridiculous thing to be asking, with the cacophony of the casino behind them, whoops and cheers from winning tables, the sound of a fight breaking out at another; loud music, glasses and dishes clinking, distant conversations, and the sound of the couple on the bar groping and pushing fabric out of their way, and yet what he asks seems to be the stupidest of them all.
too bad it's a chilled look that he's directly down at her, even though he's still holding still to be her balance--and her shield, if the couple ends up coming off the bar, already prepared to pull her behind him if he has to. )
You're not a Devil. ( saying it again makes him feel a little better, like he needs his own reassurance all the same. ) Am I correct?
no subject
something that transpires a bit too acutely when she catches his stare, when her pulse starts going like some bird in an ivory cage, all beating wings and restrained panic that puts her ill at ease.
she's been too out of it for days in this place to withhold all reaction, to keep an instinct buried instead of flowing out in a slivered pulse of technicolor, just to read an imminent threat for what it is. steady, and of course he is, still standing with his arm held carefully at his side and keeping her supported with her grip still dragging into his sleeve.
it's just the rest of what she feels at once — fear, duress, resolve — that sharpens to a razor-bladed loathing that fixes down to a single point.
it feels like she's on the other side of it with his stare. the small, sharp breath she takes, and the full step back must come a little jerky, a little awkward when she's suddenly less mindful of the couple on the countertop and the broken glass at her feet than she is of giving him a wide enough breadth for the feeling in his unspoken request.
because she could swear in that moment of feeling: he didn't want to be touched. )
I—
... I'm a Halovian. ( simple enough, with her paler face and her eyes kept on his dangerous expression. maybe even a devil would think to run.
but her wings curl inward, closer to her throat, and the look of it's made smaller because of it. her halo winks unseen above her head, like the punchline of a joke. ) I know that most of us aren't from the same world, with the same meanings...
What would a Devil be — what would it look like to you?
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because robin's wings curl, like she's afraid of him. like he's going to go for her throat, slash and cut it open, stand over her body like a victory. he doesn't miss the little flicker above her head, either--and how ridiculous is this? that he should be faced with someone who would raise his guard up, only to be proven wrong, in the end? it's a necessary dig, maybe, for an ego that has hardened over the years, too focused on doing what he knows to do.
with a slow breath, he shakes his head. halovian. never heard of it. )
We aren't from the same world. ( he confirms it with a soft breath--and rather than close the space between them again, and spook her further, he takes a step back, almost inviting. like she can follow him, or she can escape out the other side of the bar--whatever makes her comfortable. )
I'm a Devil hunter. I know someone that looks...like you. A Devil.
( but one that cooperates with their squad, so he wouldn't have killed her anyway. he doesn't think explaining that now would do any good; he's already let himself into a complicated situation, and the best route is an easy defusal. )
It wasn't my intention to insult you, or your...appendages.
( his jaw rolls, like he can't decide if that's the right way to put it: but he takes another step, encouraging, as though he would rather continue the conversation in pursuit of an empty room. )
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a chain of command. someone's marching orders. flickers of memoria that his feelings carry like a film reel that she doesn't have nearly enough time to watch or decipher. it just helps her somewhat. there is no real malice to his fiercely guarded looks. just a sharpened focus trained on the possibility of survival and —
what... kindness, maybe. when he doesn't push the subject any more than robin doesn't invade his thoughts. there's no longer the halo effect of light refracting through jagged glass; just the dimmed lights of the bar, the gilded sheen of a grand casino yonder, and the space still left between them. )
Oh. No, you didn't, I —
( oh.
and the couple that is definitely still fucking on top of the bar. which is somehow not nearly as funny as the bright pink prop comedy that aki is still cradling in one hand like a blade as he steps away.
she should be more acutely aware of how strange it is, or how he's giving her an easy out, to take the space and run, but alas. )
... I see. ( she follows at his heels, taking an easy step with his stride, no longer afraid for all that the color is only just returning to her face now, her wings curling out like a bird about to take flight. ) I've never been called a Devil before.
( simply, with lilting honesty. possibly to lighten the mood: )
Am I very frightening?
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there's a slow, shallow shake of his head. )
You're incredibly frightening.
( the bland, almost playfully distant tone likely clocks that immediately as a lie. )
I have no idea who you are, or why you want to help me, or if i'm going to touch your face and your little--your ear--your... ( his free hand lifts between them to give a little gesture with a slender finger, like he's drawing her wing there onto his own head with invisible ink. ) ...If it's going to slap me away.
( it's a joke. well, he hopes it reads as a joke, anyway, dry at his own expense; when they start to move through a denser crowd, he does at least lift up that arm between them again so that he can press his palm to her back, lightly, closer to her hips than to her shoulders. he doesn't want her to get yanked around or pulled out of his sight.
it's easy to make the next assumption, then-- )
Have you been called an angel? ( probably by literally everyone else in the resort, he's guessing. )
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funny, really. when she laughs, light, airy, it isn't so much for his joke, for the fact that he's playing around and trying to dissolve the strange tension still lingering after one misunderstanding. she thinks, she'd have an easier time of it if she were frightening — maybe they could skip over all of the awkward parts and treat it indelicately the way that everyone else seems to do so naturally, in the way that a monster might, more animal than the niceties of what she thinks should be done. )
Well, let me see if I can help with some of that.
( a tutting sound, still sweet, still a melody, clear even as he cradles some spot low along her back, over the corset piece of her dress and not quite skin-to-skin. he guides her along in the crowd, and she has to lean into him to be heard, and it must be her hair or a feather that brushes his cheek long before her voice drifts warm after it, grazing the curve of his ear like a second thought. )
My name is Robin... I want to help you because I want to, and really... if you're frightened, you don't actually have to touch me at all.
( ...? maybe that requires some clarification. later. somewhere where it wouldn't be so hard to hear her, and even then, the smile in her tone's obvious even in the lush sound of the casino crowd. )
... is that too cold of an impression to be an angel?
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the casino is loud around them, the sound of various card and dice tables lush with the noise of not only the patrons but the staff; he reigns her in a little closer, his arm tightening, and considers that offer. would that make things better, or worse? her spread out on the sheets, her hands between her legs, and this atrociously bright thing--
his shoulders tighten a little, a small, resolute shake of his head. )
You're not cold. ( he can tell, even when it's just the curl of his palm against her back, through the corset of her dress. ) Don't pretend to be just for my sake.
( by the time they've cleared most of the casino riffraff, it's a quieter hallway that meets them--and the promise of private rooms, lines of doors down with no indication of what might be inside. with a glance to her, he lets his arm slip down, moving forward so that he can reach the first door on the left, twisting the knob to bob his head in--and immediately out, shutting the door firmly.
there's a minute shake of his head, a muttered 'occupied', before he goes for the first door on the right, creaking it open with less determination--and then he stands there for a moment, with a sigh, before he cocks his head in invitation. )
Empty. Let's use this one.
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walking down the hallways, having just met some hapless stranger at a bar, all robin really has is his impression — a good posture; vices that go along the lines of smoking and drinking; how fiercely he can look in a single, heart-rendering instant when he perceives an imminent threat. his expression doesn't shift much at all even after opening the door to an otherwise occupied room, but discomfort seems to tic his brow, just a little, whenever it happens. she gets the sense that he wears the suit easily out of habit, jacket brushed into worn submission, but his rough-edged authenticity would make him a poor businessman.
her smile winks at the edges of each eye as she thinks about it, as he heaves some world-weary breath and tips his head in a reluctant invitation for her to join him in the room. he'd already told her what he was, after all. there's no illusion. )
You could be colder, Mister Devil Hunter.
( she says, with no real heat in it at all, as she walks up with more confidence than she might be feeling. she's given him her name, but he hadn't given her his, and it's with that knowledge and clinical surety that she helps coax the door open and walks in right after him.
... where they might stand, for a moment, in the middle of that enclosed space with that awkward stretched silence. the room's not built for much besides that it contains the accoutrements of what might be necessary for a careless fling: dim lighting, and a minibar with a sink attached, and drawers that contain who-knows-what, and a bed that seems attached to the wall in a luxurious circle, pillows and sheets almost flooding over in maroon and gold that still shines in the shadow.
the door, despite one so easily opening a few doors down, does lock from the inside. this, she finds out, by clicking it counter-clockwise herself. )
... May I ask for a favor?
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with a hazy glance, he perceives the room around them. it's dim, and quiet, surprisingly distant from all the loud ruckus outside--the bed looks comfortable, rich sheets and a plush mattress, and though he's tempted to pour them both a drink, as though out of apology, he decides not to. instead, he carefully sets his cigarettes and his lighter down on the counter, instead, next to the sink.
the vibrator--he looks at it with a small purse of his lips in dismay, and moves to carry it to the bed. )
A favor? ( he repeats it slowly, thoughtfully. ) I think I owe you at least three or four, at this point.
( his attempt at a joke, wry and bemused: he's already shrugging out of his suit jacket, showing off the slim lines of his back, his hips, bared to her as he faces the bed out of embarrassment. with nowhere else to put it, he gives it a light toss onto the floor; then his fingers start to work at the knot of his tie, gently loosening it, tugging, as he turns back to face her.
he could do much worse. she looks like she belongs in a room like this, pretty as she is--that she's the type of girl who looks pretty no matter what filth she's surrounded by. )
What would you like?
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silly (slutty) costume; a doll-like face. it's just the way that robin dawdles, maybe, or how she's looking anywhere else except directly at the places that actually count for anything, that probably gives her away.
even now. he isn't giving her a show, but it feels like it holds weight in their privacy as he shrugs off the suit jacket — glimpses of lean muscle pulling under his dress shirt; the same long fingers with tendons stretching taut around a whiskey glass, undoing the knot of his tie. it's as respectful as she can get when she's still admiring the view he makes, when she's politely regarding him with her eyes trained on his face the moment that he turns back around.
give her a moment. because maybe there's also an answering wry note of laughter in her voice as she considers her reply. )
To be completely honest... I haven't the experience to promise you much of one...
( softly. perhaps a little (a lot) shy. a favor? that sounds so awful in this context, as if he has to be saddled with the burden of being her first.
but, )
... but that thing. Vibrates — right? It technically... needn't go inside.
( they just need the snarling catharsis of it, really. from what she's found out from others, the house doesn't seem to care about the particulars beyond a certain point. maybe aki doesn't either. is that cold? she could be colder. but her fluting voice still offers, so angelic as to seem like it's a joke, )
Can I use it on you?
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but his fingers work the knot of the tie loose, shrugging it out from his collar with a practiced hand, letting the unraveled material shrivel to the floor at his feet; he's torn between continuing his monotonous, practiced stripping, or crossing the space between them, and his weight pivots there for a moment, lips pursed. )
You can. ( it's easy enough to answer that question, but his gaze rolls across the mattress again, looking at the stupid thing--and then he's abandoning it, moving to cross the room so that he can stand in front of her, instead of at a distance.
he might regret this: or his ego might regret this, but it just doesn't sit right with him, something that feels colder than he wants either of them to be. )
But I want to do something, to you. ( it sounds wrong; his eyes close for an extended moment, annoyed with himself, before opening again. ) For you.
( it's not transactional, when his hands reach for her hips; they steady there like he's not sure he should have put them there at all, but his grip is light, fingers that spread out and hold her like she's something precious, not like she's something delicate. )
Does that bother you?
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but it could be worse. it could've gone differently, too, if he'd said no and she would've stayed anyway, let the pieces fall in the appropriate slots where they may otherwise. part of it isn't kindness, because part of her is still disbelieving. if they do this, then what do they really get from it? and what price do they really pay? songstress embroiled in a sex scandal, the headlines would say in the taglines of that pornographic paraphernalia. she thinks she'll pay the price eventually, somewhere down the line. most people do.
and it's still not worth someone else's punishment.
he walks up to her with that honed, respectable veneer of calm, and she offers him the gentle politeness of her full attention, her eyes kept respectfully on his face. he said he was boring, uncharming, and without dignity — and maybe it had been unfair to ask him when she's more than capable of putting that all together, when the chances of his refusal are next to none, with a personality like that. but then, his low, level voice, his hands seeping warmth into the slanting curve of her waist, his own flubbing tongue around a slip that sounds, frankly, subconscious are all interesting. charming. dignified enough.
she smiles at that, her face lighting up with a dust of pink to match how embarrassment slips into both of their mannerisms. mister devil hunter could be colder. mister devil hunter is too kind, and much kinder still, to not tell her his name or maybe even no. )
... Not quite.
( it's a quiet non-answer. her gaze finally drops, regarding him somewhere at collar-level as her hands lift up, popping open the first button of his dress shirt with very little flourish, almost domestic in the gesture as she sets about his previous bland attempt to take his clothes off.
she's going down the row of buttons, anyway, not quickly or slowly but evenly enough that the way she steps forward, how she's just as meticulous about it, might make him feel less like he's being herded back and more like it's just part of the process.
just like a dance, she thinks, with the proper steps to go about it. )
You're just very kind... It makes me feel like I'm taking advantage of it.
( and isn't that mutual? )
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the step backwards, and the next, feels like they're tethered together; his fingers flex, squeezing at her waist, and if she's guiding him back towards the bed, he doesn't mind it. doesn't feel like he's on the offensive, but rather, more at her mercy. )
Would it help... ( he starts, then thinks against it---rather than leave his touch at her waist, both of his hands lift, a calloused shadow over the back of her hands; his fingers run over hers, sliding down her knuckles, gripping in at her wrists if only so that he can use the guidance to start encouraging her to pull his shirt tails out of the waist of his slacks. ) ...to tell you that you're pretty?
( no, that sounds juvenile. another embarrassed breath goes through his nose, irritated at himself. )
You're not unattractive. ( that's even worse. he continues. ) You're very attractive. I'm sure you've heard this before.
( his grip loosens; his hands slide, a brief touch along her upper arms before he drops away, leaving the rest of his shirt at her mercy. )
So it isn't 'taking advantage'. ( it feels--a little stupid, saying all this, but it's not going to change anything; it's not like it's some kind of weakness to admit it, or maybe it is, but he's willing to take the loss if it comes to it. ) I'm interested.
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somehow. anyhow. even when, yes, it is a little silly. even when, yes, there are his long fingers caging each of her bird-boned wrists, and somehow she can sense his calluses through the fabric of her gloves as he maneuvers — not ungracefully — to get her to ruck up the fabric of his shirt.
it helps because he's still steady, his heartbeat even, even when hers is somewhere up in her throat. and it especially helps because he keeps running through his words until he trips up, and it tells her that he isn't as impassive as his expression makes him out to be, his cards and consent laid out on the table for her to do with what she will. )
... thank you. Though I'd hoped you were, at least a little.
( that depends, he'd tried teasing once. is the willing participant in the room with us right now?
she must be one in this narrowing space, in the end. her lashes flick down as she trails over the lean muscle of his body, considering the bare sight with soft, sudden attention. her hands drift then, less hesitation and more curiosity as she marks the lighter outline of an old scar, some splotchy keloid where the flesh and blood must have stitched over something terrible, making a path over his bare skin without much warning, without permission, without fanfare. but at least her gloved fingers are soft over the indentations between each of his ribs. there's just no way for her to know if that does anything for him.
well. except the one. )
Otherwise I don't think we'd be in this room together...
( later, if aki were to ask what was done to him, then robin would tell him the truth. that she's no devil, but that she can read his mind, that resonance sometimes feels like the sudden passing of a headache — clearing, clear-mindedness, and a multi-colored sensation like you're light-headed and standing up too quickly.
maybe that only sharpens the sensation of everything else: how she presses her thumbs against the crests of his hipbones until he might try to squirm away, or thinks about it, or literally anything until she digs her fingertips into the junction of his hips instead, guiding him back until his legs finally hit the edge of the bed. )
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neither does she. is it a kindness to spare her those details? to not bother with a name, in case she thinks of it later and regrets it? is it easier for her to forget about him if he just leaves her with all the grimy, filthy details--that he fights devil, that he'd thought her a devil, that he's unkind and lacking charm and tact?
it's somewhere near where her hands connect down near his hips, where her thumbs push in near the crests of his hipbones and his knees jerk, like they might just buckle at the contact; no one's ever touched him there, and the ticklish feeling, spiraling up into the pit of his stomach, is foreign and uncomfortable. his legs hit the end of the bed, but his weight teeters, well-balanced between his heels, before he stops himself from toppling backward.
a strange, warm feeling: like his head is swimming. )
It's Aki. ( maybe this is the part where he's decide he wants to leave a mark on her after all. ) My name. Hayakawa Aki.
( she might want to do it herself; he stands his ground, practiced hands moving to his belt to start working it open, a crackle of metal and leather as it gets tugged and pulled apart, dropped near the end of the bed.
he doesn't know if expectation means he should reach for her, too: or how to even maneuver her out of her skirt with all the fancy trails and enticing fishnets; but he does at least make an attempt, reaching forward so that he can feel for her waistband, trying to circle it with long fingertips to find some zipper or latch. )
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robin shouldn't try to read any of it and spare him his privacy. the scars don't seem pleasant — obviously. what she could glean from touching them aren't likely to be pleasant either.
she touches him anyway. she reads his reactions. even now, harmony flows out of her in a slow, subtle tuning, some musicality to be found in the way her fingers map his body, a distant, emotional crescendo that must skew each heartbeat to feel as if it's from something else. and then suddenly it's calming, coaxing. he still feels like he's uncomfortable, and she can't blame him when she can see flashes of blood and vast, hungry mouths to go with every scar, how it's difficult to filter what must've once caused his injuries from how he might feel, now, with her hands on his marked skin.
there's knotting tension that feels almost formative as she's leafing through the corners of his mind. she must be trying to work it out of his psyche the way her thumb is working the knot of some muscle in his side, how she's... carefully... hooking into the waistband of his slacks with a little hitch of breathing for his hand landing somewhere on her hip in turn. )
... Mister Aki.
( a little laugh accompanies it, because she realizes it's uncanny, mister like there's any distance left between her and his half-naked body. )
Mister Hayakawa? ( but she tries it again, a little breathy this time, and thinks it has to be a kindness. otherwise helping him now, to save him from some curse and some poverty, isn't a kindness at all but an excuse. ) Or... do I call you Aki?
( she doesn't help him with her clothes. granted she doesn't bat his hand away either, and only turns a faint shade of red as he has to struggle; after all, it took more than that for her to figure out the corset, and she had been just as alone.
it isn't her focus. it's harder to think of what comes next when there's no sense of urgency, and there's only his blue eyes and his kindness and the feeling that he would do this for her, would do more for her, if she only asked. he's taken scars for less. she bites her lip. )
Aki... could you please take a seat on the bed?
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he doesn't feel like they're scars that can be healed, or it could be that he's never taken inventory of the ones left deep below the skin, severed across a heart that beats only for revenge, for retribution, and nothing more. he hasn't had dreams since he'd been seven years old, ten years old, when he'd wanted for things and then, quite suddenly, had nothing left to want for.
but it's her eyes, maybe, or the soft patter of her breath across her own lips, or the way that her hair hangs around her face that gives him the sense of some kind of peace; her fingertips touch at him and he feels more want, than worry, feels more desire, than determination. she isn't afraid of him, surely, not anymore: he watches those feathers that whisper above her ears like they might tell him a secret.
but does she really want him? could someone really want him, a husk of a man, burdened by a life that he's so willing to give away?
her laugh makes him embarrassed, but not in a bad way, not in a way that gets in the way of anything else. because he wants to laugh, wants to shake his head, and instead just lets his chin duck, like she shouldn't be saying his name like that; she shouldn't be able to say it so warmly, pretty on her lips like it belongs there. abandoned, his fingers give up somewhere in the midst of tightened ribbons along the corsetted back of her clothing; she doesn't peel his slacks off, and he leaves them like that, for now.
wordless, he pulls his hands back, measures his weight, and sits neatly on the end of the bed, his knees spread: not to offer her some kind of lascivious offer, but more in case she would rather find purchase on his thighs, than the bed, than the floor, than anywhere else. )
If it's Robin, then it's Aki. ( he decides, with some low, quiet thread of amusement. ) Unless you like hearing something else.
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