[ Sukuna says, and his hand, just for a moment, touches very deliberately to the small of Megumi's back; just at the dip of his spine in a casual, though emphatic press. The doors to the building slide open; a private entryway, naturally— it looks more like a hotel lobby than anything else, though there's a curious minimalism to the architecture that invokes some hint of a temple in its lofty silence, but the dim, warm lights are those expensive finishes of first class restaurants. Sukuna waves off his cronies, and they disappear back to the car, effectively dismissed, and he steers Megumi, a hand briefly guiding him by the point of his shoulder, towards a line of tall elevator doors. ]
You're like those kabukicho girls, the hostesses.
[ He glances at Megumi, sidelong, and smiles; a little crooked, his tattoos shifting as he does, exaggerating his expressions to the point that they're nearly comical. ]
You're that type. You know, I heard a story—
[ The doors ping, and open to them; the interior of the elevator is no different to the rest of the building; all honeyed lights and a vague hint of some overpriced architect's portfolio. Seeming to feel that he might lose Megumi to a wrong turn, Sukuna steers him here, too, and presses the number for the penthouse (gone seem to be the rules of engagement; the superior is supposed to take the back of the elevator, supposed to leave the pressing of the floor number to the younger or the inferior— Sukuna does not have time for those who act like shoguns in their own houses; instead he takes over, wants to do everything himself, by his own hand). ]
A girl in that forty-something club— you know the one, the women all have the same surgery. Anyway, [ He— seems to like to talk; stories come naturally to Sukuna; his voice belongs to a different time, like an aural relic that does not belong in this modern elevator. ] —a girl gave a client her business card as he left the club, but it was the one that she'd written her customer schedule on the back of, for herself. All of the men had vulgar nicknames, and she'd made sarcastic notes of their conversations, right on the back of her meishi. The guy posted it on the internet because she'd called him baldy.
[ He hisses a soft sound of bemusement, and his hand finds Megumi's lower back again as the floors ping past. ]
Correct me if I'm wrong, but if you were a woman, you'd have top spot at those clubs, by virtue of just how much you keep to yourself.
[ Sukuna seems to find this idea rather entertaining, and he eyes Megumi then with an arch look, mood still very agreeable for the moment; hand a warm, companionable slant against his back, thumb drawing back and forth against the fine fabric of the boy's jacket. ]
no subject
[ Sukuna says, and his hand, just for a moment, touches very deliberately to the small of Megumi's back; just at the dip of his spine in a casual, though emphatic press. The doors to the building slide open; a private entryway, naturally— it looks more like a hotel lobby than anything else, though there's a curious minimalism to the architecture that invokes some hint of a temple in its lofty silence, but the dim, warm lights are those expensive finishes of first class restaurants. Sukuna waves off his cronies, and they disappear back to the car, effectively dismissed, and he steers Megumi, a hand briefly guiding him by the point of his shoulder, towards a line of tall elevator doors. ]
You're like those kabukicho girls, the hostesses.
[ He glances at Megumi, sidelong, and smiles; a little crooked, his tattoos shifting as he does, exaggerating his expressions to the point that they're nearly comical. ]
You're that type. You know, I heard a story—
[ The doors ping, and open to them; the interior of the elevator is no different to the rest of the building; all honeyed lights and a vague hint of some overpriced architect's portfolio. Seeming to feel that he might lose Megumi to a wrong turn, Sukuna steers him here, too, and presses the number for the penthouse (gone seem to be the rules of engagement; the superior is supposed to take the back of the elevator, supposed to leave the pressing of the floor number to the younger or the inferior— Sukuna does not have time for those who act like shoguns in their own houses; instead he takes over, wants to do everything himself, by his own hand). ]
A girl in that forty-something club— you know the one, the women all have the same surgery. Anyway, [ He— seems to like to talk; stories come naturally to Sukuna; his voice belongs to a different time, like an aural relic that does not belong in this modern elevator. ] —a girl gave a client her business card as he left the club, but it was the one that she'd written her customer schedule on the back of, for herself. All of the men had vulgar nicknames, and she'd made sarcastic notes of their conversations, right on the back of her meishi. The guy posted it on the internet because she'd called him baldy.
[ He hisses a soft sound of bemusement, and his hand finds Megumi's lower back again as the floors ping past. ]
Correct me if I'm wrong, but if you were a woman, you'd have top spot at those clubs, by virtue of just how much you keep to yourself.
[ Sukuna seems to find this idea rather entertaining, and he eyes Megumi then with an arch look, mood still very agreeable for the moment; hand a warm, companionable slant against his back, thumb drawing back and forth against the fine fabric of the boy's jacket. ]
I wonder if anyone in the world knows you at all.