【 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.
[Genya. Also unusual, but hailing from a place where so many cultures intermix, Sunday doesn't question its origin.
He's more concerned with that answer. It's vague, but in a way that reveals a seeming ambivalence toward the subject matter of time. Given what little he's begun to learn about those long-term guests and their own ghostly nature, fully surrendered to the hedonism of the resort, it is no wonder. If someone were to wake up in this place against their will day after day, would such an apathy compound? Isn't it inevitable?
That thought nags at him, reminiscent of the Dreamscape in ways that are uncomfortable to consider.
The interaction with the staff calls him to pause — he's grateful for his own discipline, schooling features into cool neutrality at the discussion of sex toys (or lack thereof requested). Just a comb. And then they're alone inside the room, door soundly shut in the man's face.
He's grateful, but he doesn't know quite how to express that, so he simply... obeys. Coming forward, sinking to his knees on the carpet, facing partially away from Genya — not without a glance at scarred hands. He looks so young. What exactly is it that he's endured in his life already? The thought aches.]
... Would you mind, ah... [The request is hard to ask. No one has been this close to him since he was a child.] My ear wings are sensitive. If you could avoid touching them, that would be preferred.
[The wings in question flicker, a little, and tuck in closer to his cheeks to keep out of the way.]
[ Ear wings. Everyone at the party is so dressed up that he had assumed that those were accessories, like earrings or some sort of hair pin. But there’s no questioning it when they seemingly flicker on their own. Genya’s expression remains stoic despite his surprise—between demons and this cummy sex resort, it isn’t absurdly shocking—nodding once in confirmation. Immediately, his tactic changes from treating Sunday like one of his siblings to caring for a small, trembling animal. ]
Tell me if I do something you don’t like.
[ His voice lowers, gentler and kinder, like when he’s coaxing the giant rabbits in the conservatory.
Despite the roughness of those hands, they are exceedingly gentle. Scratched up knuckles nudge a portion of silky hair aside and slide along the man’s nape. Fingers curl, leading a lock upward and through their seams; pale hair flows as smoothly as water. ]
Close your eyes, [ he murmurs as he adjusts the comb in his free hand, ] and trust me.
[ If there’s anything he’s learned while being in this resort, it’s that dominance and submission do not necessarily have to be rough or even sexual at all. Care is a means of asserting dominance. To have someone give up a part of themselves. Vulnerability. Difficult when they’re strangers, but like this, he thinks, maybe it will work.
The comb glides through that lock of hair. Its teeth lightly scrape over Sunday’s scalp before cording through his hair, gently working out any stray snags or knots. Genya is patient and serious, steady hands tickling at the back Sunday’s head whenever he raises the comb or smooths down an errant strand.
His knee presses against Sunday’s shoulder when he leans forward and guides the man’s head to tilt back. Just as gently, he fingers through those thick bangs to smooth them away from the man’s pale forehead. Man… he’s so pretty. A delicate beauty, like a spider’s web dampened by dew and caught in morning sunlight. ]
[... He has been touched like this before, although it has been a very long time, years of his life spun away like so much thread underfoot, transformed into an unrecognizable experience. He was a child back then, but instead it was his sister's hands in his hair gently combing away snarls, chattering in his ear about the day's events.
By comparison, Genya is so quiet. Close your eyes. That much is easy to follow, but isn't trust another matter? He is new to this place, and there's so much he still does not understand about its inner workings, it feels as though it might take an age to truly become comfortable enough on his own. Not the mere handful of time since his arrival. Yet, by the treatment of this young man, it seems he's found his way into an encounter that isn't so — obscene. Isn't primed to put him into an unsavory situation.
The path of the comb is soft, practiced, carefully done. He finds his head inclining slightly forward, bangs feathering over his eyes in the almost meditative state of that feeling. Only the question draws him out of it — a stirring of attention, unaware of the quiet little sound in his throat until he emits it as those fingers brush back his bangs.
Embarrassing.]
It's... yes, it feels fine. [Even his voice sounds almost drowsy.] I admit, it isn't what I — expected, but... you are good at this.
[His posture has even slightly relaxed, shoulders rounded forward.]
No. [ long eyelashes lower as he combs his fingers through the man’s bangs before allowing them to fall back into place, ] Taking care of someone… is a way of possessing them, isn’t it? Brushing their hair, styling it how you like, and having them under your touch … [ he curls a lock around his finger, ] … it’s intimate. I guess most people would choose to be to rough in this game. But like this…
[ The lock unfurls; Genya allows it to slip away. He smiles faintly. ]
… I’m leaving my mark on you.
[ He smooths Sunday’s hair before taking a few sections to make a braid. His sister had always liked this; it’s a shame he doesn’t have a hairpin to tuck into it once he’s finished. It would be suitable on someone so pretty. ]
They say that if you take care of someone’s hair for them, you’ll have a fated affinity in the next life. I don’t know if that’s true—but it’s a nice thought.
[ He pats a hand on Sunday’s shoulder, satisfied that his hair is neatly combed and that the braid that now falls over his shoulder is tight enough to hold. ]
Such simple words, and even still the boy's hands are gentle in his hair, doing nothing to imply he means more than what he says. Perhaps a part of Sunday had still anticipated something else — an excuse for hands to wander, lines crossed and boundaries ignored for the sake of the game they're all meant to play. But that does not happen. He looks down at his own lap, eyes blinking open to see gloved fingers curled into loose fists. He is surprised they aren't shaking.]
You are... a very kind person, Genya.
[More than necessary, more than he deserves. Fated affinity in the next life? He has barely survived this one, which is a gift on its own that he does not yet know what to do with.
Gently, his own hand lifts to find the braid where it lies twisted over his shoulder, catching the tip.]
If only we had something to tie it with — I'm afraid, if I move, it'll come unraveled. It would be a waste of your work. How did you learn?
It’s okay. They’re not meant to last forever anyway.
[ With this, they must have satisfied the requirements of the game, right? Genya removes his hands from Sunday and then plops down onto the floor next to the other man, enjoying the quiet of the room before they’re thrust back out into the frenzy of the party. ]
I had sisters when I was younger. They’re gone now, but I still remember how to braid from them—they used to bully me into it every once in a while.
[ A good memory in a sea of bad ones. Sunday isn’t a young girl threatening to tell mother if he doesn’t comply, but the warmth that cottons in his chest isn’t very different. It doesn’t hurt that Sunday’s hair is just as downy as Sanemi’s. Light and soft to the touch. ]
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peacockstop2025-01-15 09:00 pm
no subject
He's more concerned with that answer. It's vague, but in a way that reveals a seeming ambivalence toward the subject matter of time. Given what little he's begun to learn about those long-term guests and their own ghostly nature, fully surrendered to the hedonism of the resort, it is no wonder. If someone were to wake up in this place against their will day after day, would such an apathy compound? Isn't it inevitable?
That thought nags at him, reminiscent of the Dreamscape in ways that are uncomfortable to consider.
The interaction with the staff calls him to pause — he's grateful for his own discipline, schooling features into cool neutrality at the discussion of sex toys (or lack thereof requested). Just a comb. And then they're alone inside the room, door soundly shut in the man's face.
He's grateful, but he doesn't know quite how to express that, so he simply... obeys. Coming forward, sinking to his knees on the carpet, facing partially away from Genya — not without a glance at scarred hands. He looks so young. What exactly is it that he's endured in his life already? The thought aches.]
... Would you mind, ah... [The request is hard to ask. No one has been this close to him since he was a child.] My ear wings are sensitive. If you could avoid touching them, that would be preferred.
[The wings in question flicker, a little, and tuck in closer to his cheeks to keep out of the way.]
no subject
[ Ear wings. Everyone at the party is so dressed up that he had assumed that those were accessories, like earrings or some sort of hair pin. But there’s no questioning it when they seemingly flicker on their own. Genya’s expression remains stoic despite his surprise—between demons and this cummy sex resort, it isn’t absurdly shocking—nodding once in confirmation. Immediately, his tactic changes from treating Sunday like one of his siblings to caring for a small, trembling animal. ]
Tell me if I do something you don’t like.
[ His voice lowers, gentler and kinder, like when he’s coaxing the giant rabbits in the conservatory.
Despite the roughness of those hands, they are exceedingly gentle. Scratched up knuckles nudge a portion of silky hair aside and slide along the man’s nape. Fingers curl, leading a lock upward and through their seams; pale hair flows as smoothly as water. ]
Close your eyes, [ he murmurs as he adjusts the comb in his free hand, ] and trust me.
[ If there’s anything he’s learned while being in this resort, it’s that dominance and submission do not necessarily have to be rough or even sexual at all. Care is a means of asserting dominance. To have someone give up a part of themselves. Vulnerability. Difficult when they’re strangers, but like this, he thinks, maybe it will work.
The comb glides through that lock of hair. Its teeth lightly scrape over Sunday’s scalp before cording through his hair, gently working out any stray snags or knots. Genya is patient and serious, steady hands tickling at the back Sunday’s head whenever he raises the comb or smooths down an errant strand.
His knee presses against Sunday’s shoulder when he leans forward and guides the man’s head to tilt back. Just as gently, he fingers through those thick bangs to smooth them away from the man’s pale forehead. Man… he’s so pretty. A delicate beauty, like a spider’s web dampened by dew and caught in morning sunlight. ]
Is this okay?
no subject
By comparison, Genya is so quiet. Close your eyes. That much is easy to follow, but isn't trust another matter? He is new to this place, and there's so much he still does not understand about its inner workings, it feels as though it might take an age to truly become comfortable enough on his own. Not the mere handful of time since his arrival. Yet, by the treatment of this young man, it seems he's found his way into an encounter that isn't so — obscene. Isn't primed to put him into an unsavory situation.
The path of the comb is soft, practiced, carefully done. He finds his head inclining slightly forward, bangs feathering over his eyes in the almost meditative state of that feeling. Only the question draws him out of it — a stirring of attention, unaware of the quiet little sound in his throat until he emits it as those fingers brush back his bangs.
Embarrassing.]
It's... yes, it feels fine. [Even his voice sounds almost drowsy.] I admit, it isn't what I — expected, but... you are good at this.
[His posture has even slightly relaxed, shoulders rounded forward.]
Should I return the favor?
no subject
[ The lock unfurls; Genya allows it to slip away. He smiles faintly. ]
… I’m leaving my mark on you.
[ He smooths Sunday’s hair before taking a few sections to make a braid. His sister had always liked this; it’s a shame he doesn’t have a hairpin to tuck into it once he’s finished. It would be suitable on someone so pretty. ]
They say that if you take care of someone’s hair for them, you’ll have a fated affinity in the next life. I don’t know if that’s true—but it’s a nice thought.
[ He pats a hand on Sunday’s shoulder, satisfied that his hair is neatly combed and that the braid that now falls over his shoulder is tight enough to hold. ]
There.
no subject
Such simple words, and even still the boy's hands are gentle in his hair, doing nothing to imply he means more than what he says. Perhaps a part of Sunday had still anticipated something else — an excuse for hands to wander, lines crossed and boundaries ignored for the sake of the game they're all meant to play. But that does not happen. He looks down at his own lap, eyes blinking open to see gloved fingers curled into loose fists. He is surprised they aren't shaking.]
You are... a very kind person, Genya.
[More than necessary, more than he deserves. Fated affinity in the next life? He has barely survived this one, which is a gift on its own that he does not yet know what to do with.
Gently, his own hand lifts to find the braid where it lies twisted over his shoulder, catching the tip.]
If only we had something to tie it with — I'm afraid, if I move, it'll come unraveled. It would be a waste of your work. How did you learn?
no subject
[ With this, they must have satisfied the requirements of the game, right? Genya removes his hands from Sunday and then plops down onto the floor next to the other man, enjoying the quiet of the room before they’re thrust back out into the frenzy of the party. ]
I had sisters when I was younger. They’re gone now, but I still remember how to braid from them—they used to bully me into it every once in a while.
[ A good memory in a sea of bad ones. Sunday isn’t a young girl threatening to tell mother if he doesn’t comply, but the warmth that cottons in his chest isn’t very different. It doesn’t hurt that Sunday’s hair is just as downy as Sanemi’s. Light and soft to the touch. ]