inbox for golden peacock

[cartographie]

@nami

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[skinstitch]

( there's a soft scoff, tilting his glass a little as though to eye the amount of liquor left in it; he's tempted to already go to pour in some more. )

Damn, picky bitch. ( it's said with less vitriol than he expects it to be, more filled with mirth than anything. ) In that case...

( a soft click, from her side--his gaze slides up to the partition between them, wondering, but it doesn't take long to locate the culprit, at least as far as he knows. maybe there's another button somewhere else, a 'get out of jail free' button that will have him carried out by the staff, disliked by his companion. but even as he waits a moment, glass pursed up to his lips, nothing happens.

he swallows down what's left, a hiss of breath beyond it, before he's clinking bottles, unscrewing a cap to pour in another shot. )

We'll keep the ribbons, keep the collar, but that's all you get. If you want a safe word, you better be asking now.

( because with another swallow, he's lifting up his free hand to press his closed fist against the button, a gentle depression of it; there's a trill between the rooms, and with a soft whirring, the partition between them starts to fall--along with it comes the murmur of his voice, playful: )

Ten, nine, eight...

[cartographie]

Bitch is definitely gonna be a no.

[ Nami, too, sounds amused, although there's a little more oomph put on the pointed tone of her voice that strongly suggests she would really rather not.

The rest, however–

Well, she's left intrigued and pleased when she hears the machinery in the wall come to life, lowering the divider that's kept their pods separate. Dabi's countdown serves to ensure the wry smirk on her face is set once she can see him from where she's seated, perched on the edge of the couch, with her elbow balanced on the arm rest. Her drink hovers in front of her lips, masking the pleased expression, save for the knowing way her eyes crease at the corners. ]

Kind of misleading, isn't it? [ Nami puts in once the count hits six, while she rises to her feet and circles behind the couch to start idly rifling through the chest of toys and other various accoutrements left by the House. ]

Something tells me this countdown is the last I'll be seeing of those good manners for a while.

[ Nami holds up a neatly tied length of velvety-looking ribbon from the chest, silently raising her eyebrows at him in question as a subtle, unexpected pang of excitement quietly zings through her over picking out something for him to tie her up with. ]

[skinstitch]

( he does at least continue--lets the countdown trail off softly, from 'three' to 'two' and finally, 'one'; by that point, he's already stepped himself close to the fully lowered partition, stepping one boot over the edge like he's climbing in through a window in the middle of the night. glass in hand, he downs what's left of it: hisses, a little, as it hits his throat, and pools down into his stomach.

there's a neat little table with some pretty vase and flowers, next to the open partition, where he sets that empty glass down, as though marking his territory. )

Not like I had that many to begin with.

( manners, that is. he knows them, anyway: doesn't mean that he employs them. endeavor might have beaten certain sensibilities into him, but sometimes it's like spitting right back into his face to leave them to the wayside.

he waits, letting her rustle around for something suitable: his gaze isn't on her, but rather, looking around the room, up at the ceiling, noting the lamps, the lighting, the picture frames here and there. it's obvious he's after something, but when his gaze slides back to her, it's with a half of a smile: a little wicked, on a face like his, as he clears the distance between them to reach for an end of the ribbon.

he drags it, pulling it slowly from her grasp into his; bundling it up between his palms, he wraps it a few times, gives it a firm yank, and nods. )

Good. Now you take everything from the waist down off.

( he assumes he isn't going to be met with resistance--but he does lift a brow, as he starts to turn away, as though waiting just in case she'd like to argue. )

[cartographie]

[ As fun as arguing could end up being, Nami's too curious about where Dabi's going to lead this to do more than let her lips curve in a wry smile as he rounds out that slow turn, her next breath huffed out in a muted chuckle. She stays still for a moment and takes in the shape of him against the backdrop of the pod, studying him from the back, before she turns to look down at herself instead.

From the waist down– she feels heat sweep up her spine and leave her skin flushed, enjoying the way it rises and moves through her as she unzips her skirt and lets it slide down her legs before stepping out of it. ]

What do you want me to do next?

[ Nami's voice is low, as relaxed as her movements when she bends slightly at the waist and hooks her thumbs in her panties, lazily easing the sheer green lace over the swell of her hips and down her thighs, guiding them off rather than letting them fall like she did her skirt.

Languid and inviting, it's not until she's bent just enough that she's sure her ass looks fantastic when she arches her back and shifts, ridding herself of her panties before she straightens up again. She turns slow on her heel to face him while her hands card through her hair, exposed from the waist down, but more aroused and intrigued by it than flustered. This is one of the first times she's let a guy take the lead with a dynamic like this one, and that knowledge feeds into the slow, distant simmer of heat that's only just begun to play over her awareness. ]

Do I call you by your name, or sir, or–? [ Her chin tips up as her eyes fall half-closed, patiently waiting to meet his gaze. ]

[skinstitch]

( the skirt she's wearing starts to peel down, and rather than stand there, staring at her like some kind of perverted lecher, he purposefully looks away. it's not that he's not there for the show, or rather, doesn't enjoy the way the material clearly falls into a nice little pile at her feet; one spared glance over his shoulder tells him she's still got her panties on, so he has a little time. rather, he's assessing the room again, easing towards the opposite wall so that he can lift up a hand and take a picture frame by the corner; it takes a good yank, a hard jerk from the wall, but it comes off into his hand--he lets it clatter down to the floor, some stupid painting of a blooming tulip garden. left behind on the wall is a sturdy looking hook: at least, he thinks so, as he stands up onto his toes, bending firm fingers around it as though to test its endurance.

good enough for the purpose, anyway. when he turns around again, she's making her way out of her panties slowly, purposefully, putting on a show that he watches with a little lick of his tongue over the corner of his mouth, like he's fighting a smile. she might be all sass when she opens her mouth, but she's got all the right curves in all the right places; his gaze flicks down to the part between her legs, and then back up again. )

I'm not really much of a 'sir'. ( wryly, almost bemused--when he closes the distance between them, he gives a gentle sweep of his heel to kick her skirt and her panties aside, winding the ribbon loosely around his own hands. rather than wait for her, he takes one of her arms, and then the next, laying them out for him to start.

it isn't some kind of expert knot, isn't some practiced fisher's lure or the ease of someone with sexual restraint expertise; this is the movement of someone who is more used to tying up victims, the knots tight, the ribbons binding her hands together at the wrist. testing, he pulls at either of her hands: the ribbon stretches, a little, but there's minimal space there, and with the rest of the length, he starts to tie another knot at the end, like he's making a leash to walk her with. )

So call me whatever you want. Doesn't matter to me, and it's not gonna persuade me to go any easier.

( once the ribbon is looped at the end, he gives her a jerk forward, forcing her to follow him; he pushes her with his knees, bumps her in until her back hits the wall, and it's there that he stands up on his toes again so that he can hook an open knot around the picture frame hook on the wall, pulling until it's tight there. it leaves her hanging, arms up above her head; at least her feet still touch the ground, but she's decidedly taut, stretched upward like a body hanging at the butcher. )

[cartographie]

[ After he pulls the painting down from the wall and gives the hook it was previously suspended from a firm tug, Nami can piece together an answer to her own question. At that dawning realization, something like uncertainty yet not quite sits on her chest; but the word doesn't suit the knot of interest and budding want that plays over her thoughts over the idea of exploring this. It's that fascination that keeps her acquiescent when he guides first one arm, and then the other to stretch out in front of her body, before the feel of velvet being wound and knotted around them draws her gaze down.

A strange heat runs up her spine as every twist and tie limits her movement, her chest rising and falling with the deepening force of her breath. Almost experimentally, she tenses against the ribbon, as he works the remaining length into something resembling a leash, her eyes following his movements until Dabi’s done with his handiwork.

He tugs her forward, drawing a breathy chuckle out of her as Nami moves as she’s guided, the look in her eyes growing darker as a rush of heat sweeps up her back, leaving the back of her neck flushed, and her nipples pebbling against the lace of her still concealed bra while she’s herded back towards the wall. Pointedly not letting herself be rushed, she fights back another low, stunned laugh when her shoulders press back against the wall below the hook. ]

Yeah. Sir really doesn’t work for you.

[ One corner of her mouth twitches in what would have become a smirk had he not made her breath catch with the swift, decisive way he guides her arms up and ensnares the ribbon on the hook above her head, sending a searing jolt of want straight to her core that leaves her clit throbbing. Drawn up onto the balls of her feet, that cool amusement that’s been settled so confidently on her face since the wall between them lowered is finally beat out by exhilaration. Nami remembers to breathe a bit too long for the lapse to be overlooked that easily, and because of it, the same flush that’s been clinging to her shoulder blades spills across the apples of her cheeks as well. ]

Never said anything about wanting you to go easy. [ Again, that slight smirk returns, as she shifts her weight enough to lean towards him, experimenting with the range of motion she’s got while bound like this, while her eyes narrow, lust-dark as she studies his face and tries to remember to breathe in spite of the anticipation threatening to blot out all else. ]

[skinstitch]

( there's always a certain point--a breaking point, maybe, where even the most practiced, even the most measured, even the calmest individuals realize that they've lost control; it's happened plenty of times back home, where b-grade villains and wannabe deserters recognize that their lofty answers don't mean anything in the face of real danger. his short fuse for bullshit is a reputation he carries proudly, in those circumstances: if someone isn't good enough for the league, then he's not going to let them go on blabbering about it to other people, the train ends there. and maybe he should have been more discerning, in those moments, not to kill people for getting on his bad side: but then he wouldn't have been able to boast a high number in his bemoaning diatribe to the public about the things heroes made him do.

he sees it there, a little, in her eyes, in the pass of her breath, in the way her chest moves, the way he can imagine her breasts taut in the cups of her bra, the way the fabric budges a little with the pert pressure of her nipples. the way that she tests her weight when she's caught on the hook, like a fish that's been hung up to be gutted from chin to crotch: he doesn't intend to do anything like that, really, not to someone pretty like her. she has the right attitude about her, it's just going to end up hard to maintain that facade when she's quite literally at his mercy.

rather than approach her immediately, despite her leaning, he does pass a hot hand over her hip, squeezing as though in silent reassurance, before he puts distance between them again. this time, though, it's a leisurely wander through the furniture in the room, poking into drawers, checking under a side table--when he comes back, it's with a rather plain-looking vibrator, the lacquer done up in yellow, the finish glittery over the length of it. as he approaches her again, it's only so that he can settle down, carefully, onto his knees, measuring his weight between them like he intends to be there for awhile. )

Guess I won't, then. ( he uses the cool end of the vibrator to push between her thighs, tapping at one, then the other, playfully encouraging her legs to split wider--then he drags the toy back, runs it past his lips, sucks his tongue over it and into his mouth before pulling it out again. given the way she's shifting, she's probably wet enough, but a little cursory slickness, to start, might make it easier to get there. )

You can put your legs over my shoulders, if you get tired.

( --is the only kindness he offers before he wedges himself in further between her legs, on his knees, so that he chin tip his chin up and lick his tongue along the part of her pussy, spreading her lips there so that he can run the flat of his tongue up against her clit. his hands feel for the slickness of the vibrator in his grip; he gives the end knob a test, turning it on, briefly, before turning it off again, as he keeps his attention focused on teasing around her clit, tasting, measuring the slickness there, eyes closed briefly for focus. )