Kicks, Tricks and Pink Drinks - Angelina & Satsuki

[Monsy]

This city-nook was hard-bitten, clean and plain grey. Her steps had an echo, heavy with her boots while dipping into this suffocating corridor. It bounced with the thumps of music, whispering into her ear, and buzzing with the general rowdiness of the crowd that seeped through any perceivable crack and gave this venue a feel like it could float. It sucked her deeper, and she found a pristine elevator and a door leading to a flight of stairs, half open. Her feet were numb from getting here, so she optioned for the elevator. The inside was spotless. Reflections smiled at her from all angles; the buttons were boxes of gold, velvet carpet and these pure silver lining that made it look like panels. She pressed the bottom level and started fixing up her hair, looking at her faint reflection, practising a smile, finger-gunning, blowing a kiss, then wiping out her palms and knees three times over to knock out rubble from an earlier fall. Then the elevator dinged, and she found herself in a pool of lights, music and people.

“Damn…” She took a few steps, itching the back of her nape. Dancing was rampant, the bass beat could juggle a quarter. A thumb pressed on her chin, and she scanned. Centre-dancefloor, a mix of purple and blue. The black carpets made it look like the twilight zone of an ocean. Dancers on platforms on the right and far side, illuminated by glistening white poles like mid-winter. She spotted a VIP section, whatever they called those fancy U-shaped tables guarded off by stanchion rope.

The left was far better. Bar, with a prissy guardrail up above it. Elitist bastards, most likely. Or maybe the soul of the night. What did she know? This was all foreign. And when met with something new, the best course was to dive in, and find your way up. So after spending a short spell studying the layout, the odd decoration plant and high ceilings, she took a left and weaved through people to arrive at a chair. There were a few passing stares, winks splashed on with a moment of mutual eye contact. Her horns, for one, was always a staple - but a pink dress, lined with fur on the edges, heart-shaped garter belt and necklace, the studded choker and purplish eyes, the red mane - it spelled foreigner, an exotic eccentric probably. Her apathy brightened into a smile, and her shoulders loosened up.

Spoiler

“What will you have?”
“Huh-OH. Sorry bou’ that. I’ll have whatever ya recommend. Tonight is my night, so somethin’ that’s once in a lifetime, like if mother Earth blew up tomorrow, I’ll have had died satisfied tasting it.” Of course, she didn’t know what she was saying. But it was less awkward than to think when she didn’t know much, “Also, I got a table over there…” She added, pointing her thumb over shoulder, “How do I get back to my booth?” And the bartender replied, “Oh, just approach the rope and the host will let you back in. Shall I put this drink on your tab?”

“Yep! Also, five gummy bear shots. I want to bring somethin’ cute back to my gals.” That got a nod, and Angelina lifted a finger. “I’ll be back, don't go no where.” She finger-slapped the bar before scooting off to join a crowd, wrapping around the right side to find the poles, watching servers weasel on by. She got close to one platform, leaned on it with crossed arms and peered up at the dancer who sashayed and graced their routine on the pole. “Hmm…” Her smile cracked, and she reached into her chest to pull out a small roll of bills and offered it between her index and middle. It caught her eye, and the two exchanged stares, smirks. She got low on her pole, squatting with her back to it. She almost had it, giving a glance to the VIP booth, then, “Hey, back away from the platform!” A security dude intervened. The dancer played it off as Angelina backed away, hands up, slighting the money into her wrist sleeve. “My bad. Won’t happen again.”

She turned away and skipped on through the crowd near the VIP section. The inside looked sprite, rather the only place to get off your feet unless you wanted to pop a squad. She saw the bottles. Sweet prize o’ prize. The shoulders of what was likely the sophisticated and privileged, at least for tonight. Weeding herself among them was something she craved like a candy someone said you couldn’t have. She’d take it all. So she stopped, spotted the likely host, then continued peering around for anything that could help. It wasn’t exactly an easy or clever entrance, but abundant people were around. Just needed a little something… Ah, a bottle boy. One was walking near the wall with a pail filled with ice and a couple bottles. Angelina curled her index over her bottom lip to think fast, switching between the VIP entrance and the approaching employee. A quick double-take and he disappeared behind a crowd that was right beside her. She made sure someone was in front, then front kicked a chick in her back, sending her careening and crashing into the bottle boy. The host saw the crash, and her friends were stunned. The looks on their faces were priceless. They looked her way, but she had already moved by that time, making this a total mission success for Tarrant. So far.

“Yo! Someone got hurt!” Angelina shouted, audible enough for anyone nearby to hear, with the music. And enough embarrassment for the host to scurry from his post. And with that final piece of her manoeuvre playing like a dream, she shuffled over to the VIP garland, vaulting over and disappearing into a booth.

[FreestylePoet]

Satsuki Hayano leaned back in her chair, swirling a glass of daiginjo. The perch allowed her to oversee the neon fiefdom below. Life thrummed to the pulse of the bass, thumping against an undercurrent of social buzzing. Multicolored mood lighting, low pendants, and intermittent strobes cast light upon the dancers and flirters from all angles. Momentary glances and meetings became wanton swaps of money, drinks, pills, spit, and phone numbers. It was a picture-perfect scene for the Queen of Clubs, who watched all this unfold as she had so many nights before.

Satsuki Hayano, the Queen of Clubs (sans sword)

Still, something was missing. The underbelly of Osaka was a thieves' den. Macau was where money, power, and skill came to blow off steam. Tokyo, though? Tokyo was filled with vacationers. Not the Americans and the Europeans and the Chinese who dragged themselves to Instagram hotspots, ate an overpriced bowl of ramen, and skipped home, mind you. No, these were locals of the opulent metropolis above... but mere visitors to what laid below. The tourists came to play out their wildest fantasies, but at the end of the day, they were just that. Tourists. High society playing at low society.

Another sip of the plum-noted sake, and Satsuki's eyes stopped rolling just enough to rove over the crowd once more. Her gaze landed on a smaller figure near the bar, as good as any to try her luck with. Peoplewatching was the point of this throne, wasn't it? Even if the night was filled with overpaid salarymen striking out with D-list models, perhaps a roll of the dice would grant her something interesting to watch.

After a quick point back to a table, the woman turned around. Satsuki hadn't seen her come in, but even this first half-second glimpse was enough to earn a raised brow -- far more than most goings-on beneath this self-important town.

From the first glance, it was apparent that this girl marched to the beat of her own drum. Her silken pink dress clashed with her unkempt mop of red -- and just about everything else that adorned her. The accoutrements were even odder. Belt, jewelry, choker, horns. She walked not like she owned the place, but like she was gonna fuck the place up. She explored the joint with her head on a swivel but her eyes on the prize, clearly on the prowl for something more than liquor or love.

Satsuki rose from her seat, stepping to lean on the nearest railing. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so boring after all. Many came in with this kind of confidence, but it was always worth seeing if it panned out.

The first antic was nothing Satsuki hadn't seen before from college students partying with daddy's credit card. Flirting with a stripper showed either panache or desperation, but Satsuki chose to believe in the former. Even so, it wasn't much. Then she scampered away, furtively glancing at a VIP table every so often -- the very same one that she'd pointed the bartender to. Her gaze lingered on the surrounding crowds and furniture. It was a look Satsuki recognized well: The redhead was casing the booth.

Ah, so that was it. Everything tasted better when it was on someone else's dime. Satsuki hummed into her drink before walking further along the railing for a better view. She had to commend the girl for her courage, and even from this distance, the sparks of a sharp mind at work were obvious. What all that confidence and guile would turn into, however, remained to be seen...

Just then, a flash of a kick. Untrained but practiced. A quick scamper through the panicked crowd, unseen by all except the Queen of Clubs. When the fracas finally cleared and the unfortunate bottle boy was sent off for towels, there she was. Sitting smugly on the unpaid-for leather seats.

Satsuki nodded in approval, waiting to see what the intruder would do next with her newfound crash pad. This woman was one to watch...

[Monsy]

Was it d Was it disappointing? Sitting here, from asphalt streets to leather seats. A mission to taste nightlife, an endeavour she went into this blind. Now she occupied one of its better seats. That sense of exclusivity, not having to stand, having eyes on the dance floor, the music, letting the lights flickered in her eyes as people danced and thrived by themselves, in pairs, trios and groups. She was alone here - more than fine, but there was a sense of longing. What now?

Guess was there just the wait. So she relaxed into the booth, leaning back, putting one leg over the other, stretching her arms across the top and surveying the atmosphere with a swivel. Was it weird to feel watched in this place? Something about catching eyes, wondering if they're on her or someone else. The same railing by the bar, too; what was that? Another exclusive area, huh? She stewed just what it looked-

"Ah- You're the horned lady the bartender mentioned."
Angelina's head snapped forward past the table. It was the host who stood steady, meeting her eyes. His look was almost judging, and she clammed up in the throat. "Y….Yeah." Crap, was this it already? The venture just began, and it felt so unfulfilling…

"The bottle boy for this table had an incident, and went to clean himself up. So, I brought you your drinks myself."
He showed his platter - something she didn't notice till now and began unloading gummy bear shots.

"Tonight has been brutal, but let's not have that stop the party, no?"

Angelina was quiet, staring up, seemingly lost, before leaning forward, elbows on her knees and hands bridged underneath her chin, "Hell yea. Why don't you take one for yourself?"

She pushed her index on one of the gummy bear shots. But, he raised his hand, then unloaded the final red cocktail on the rocks. "No thanks." The host said, "By the way…" He squinted, "Were you always there? I don't recall meeting you…"

Angelina bit her lower lip, "U-Uummm." She picked up a shot, leaned back into the seat, put one arm on the top, and then downed it. It made her choke, but she didn't let it show. "You didn't pick up drinks for a ghost, right? I was here all night! Just ask the bottle boy when he gets back." Her voice was raspy. They exchanged stares, then the host rubbed his eyes, ". I'm sorry, but I'll just have to check the book. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding, so please wait til I get back. It'll be five or ten minutes. And, of course, enjoy."

"Tch." Great, a timer.
The host left, and Angelina just shrugged. Once eyes left her, she leaned forward and hacked, "Gah… haaaho-he… Alcohol." She cupped her throat, coughing little bits until she eyed the shots again. "Too deep in it now…"

So she threw them back. One after another in a chain, putting it all in her chipmunk cheeks until the last, then swallowing. It ignited her throat but filled her head with sugar clouds and this warm feeling in her eyes, face and chest. Her head rolled back, lay on top of the seat, and swivelled back and forth, letting the ceiling spin. "I got your hey…oh… Listen what I say… Oh-oooh. I see… you."

So THERE'S the snooping. A pinkette whose high collar and baggy pants made her a glowstick amongst this sea of grey. A chick on the railing huh? What kinda stick floated up that ass? Money? A sense of status? Both? Weird that she didn't spot her before. She had an eye for desirable objects. But now that she locked on it. Angelina closed an eye, grinning with an index finger hooking her bottom lip. A meeting of the eye, and there was no denying it. This chick was looking at her. And really, she didn't want those eyes to leave.

"Heh." She looked forward, then stood abruptly, shooting back some mystery cocktail that tasted rather smooth, not too sweet, but with that same ethanol kick, she couldn't help but cough too. One foot stepped on the table, and she hopped up, taking a second swig, wincing, hopping down to the other side, and strutting between the booths. She veered into the next one over, occupied by a group of three, "Yoo." A quick snatch to the bottle in the pale, "Thanks."

Then she continued walking. The group stood to watch her go, gesturing, "Hey, idiot! That's ours.!"
Her first encounter was with another employee pushing a portable bar, bumping into the front of it to which a small dribble of her drink spilled. "Gh-" And the group's shouting fell on his ears, sighting her - and even worse. "You're not supposed to be here." His eyes fell to the bottle of tequila in her hand, then lunged an arm for it. She drew back, then jumped onto the bar, using it as a secondary launchpad to vault over the man, slamming a foot between his shoulder blades to send him careening into the bar. The crash of glasses, drink and man were the things that could only go unnoticed in a place like this. Anyone who peered just saw an accident. A harmless trip. And she landed smooth, continuing to walk hurriedly out of the VIP section and vaulting the garland with a hop.

Security was now on her scent, with a guy having sighted the incident. "Ma'am." The voice crept.

She heard, turning around to face the guard. It didn't take a second's thought. Just an action. She baseball-pitched her glass, "HAAGH!" The guard ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind him. The yell and whip of glass made him flinch, and by the time he peered back, she had already vanished, putting people between her and any witnesses. She merged on the outskirts of the dancefloor, soon weaving between groups with the bottle still in hand, grooving her shoulders loosely and adding little spins to move fluidly through. She bumped into a golden-haired girl in a black dress, chest-to-chest, hand to purse, leaning into and spilling their drink. "A-Ach! S-Sorry…" They met eyes. Angelina's cheeks burned from many things, the sincerity was written on her face and a bit of booze in her breath. "It's ok-."

They separated, "No, really, I'm sorry." Angelina said. The girl looked down at her spilled alcohol, and Angelina put one arm behind her back, undid the cap to her bottle with her teeth, then poured in some hard tequila that got her eyes growing. "Wow… Really, it's ok."

"Ya sure?" Angelina's head tilted, and the girl raised her glass, "Yeaah, I'm sure." Then Angelina continued to the other side, "Stay blonde, gal." She grinned dumbly, then brought around her hidden arm, using her index and middle to part the leather wallet flaps, sighting the cash. "Scoooore."

[FreestylePoet]

It wasn't uncommon for one person to start a commotion all on their own down here. Self-important socialites tended to attract a handful of eyes, so long as they were willing to pay for a round or five. What was impressive about this newcomer was that she'd managed to raise a stir fully about herself -- with precious few in the crowd even knowing what their ado was for.

Even though she'd managed to evade both the party's popularity and security's scrutiny, however, she couldn't escape a watchful eye that hawked for nothing but weird. Just like she couldn't hide how her shoulders plucked at the crook of her neck, pulling it taut with every sip. At least she was actually drinking the stuff. That alone put her above most who hoped to save face down here.

When the girl hung her red-crowned head over an armrest, it wasn't long until their gazes met. Even from here, Satsuki noticed her unfocused eyes practically zooming in on her. It was as if the intruder was sobered by the very thought of a tet-a-tet imminently afoot. Which she could definitely relate to. Satsuki raised her chin until she was looking down her nose at the interloper. A nonverbal challenge: What would this new girl do next?

Satsuki walked across the loft, sliding her hands along the railing as she received her answer. First the newcomer swiped a bottle of Pueblo Viejo from a guy who was gonna strike out with his dates anyway. Next was an escape that would have been clever, had it not been at the hands of a half-witted Yakuza errand boy wearing a Hawaiian shirt. That willingness to throw a drink she'd just stolen was a good sign, though. It meant she knew how to cut her losses. Then came an unfortunate bump at the edge of the dance floor, and... Ah, damn. Was that leather in the redhead's hands? Satsuki almost pinched her nose in poorly-hidden schadenfreude. That was going to be something to clean up.

She waved over a well-made man in an even more well-made suit. "Red hair, pink dress, weird horns," she started. Before the Yakuza blowhard could assuage her nonexistent fears, Satsuki held up a hand. "No. Don't touch her. Not unless she gets really out of hand." Then she perched back on the railing with an amused smile, trusting that the wire in the man's jacket would soon relay the message. "I wanna see where this goes."

[Monsy]

A pinch of bills was looted from the wallet.
It was the crowning moment for her minute-gambit. The amount didn’t matter; for everything she wanted always felt like a plan, distraction, and finesse away. Places like this could be her bitch; she just needed to own it. Her feet dragged. She looked at the bottle and sniffed its beckoning poison; the ethanol rang up her nose. This was gross. Oh, but - what the hell. Her head arched up, and she took the bottle to her lips, filling up her maw. The wallet was dropped behind her and kicked away into the black sea of moving feet and dark lighting. The drink’s hellish bite scraped up her mouth, and she clamped her lips, a small trickle going down her chin, cheeks like a chipmunk. She felt like dying right then and there. The mint. This angry mint. What did she do to deserve such a mean drink?

Both eyes closed and grew wet, leaning forward until she managed the swallow and groaned. Then the burn just trailed down her chest and into her gut. Hunger set in. She wiped away the extra, coughing into her forearm. Everything felt loose, warm, that she could storm into any castle and toe bash the King and Queen in their posh cunts.

“Hahhh… Fuckin… How does anyone drink this shit for its taste? Buncha psychodorks.”
Her head shook as she shuffled off the dancefloor.
Then something broke her trance of complaining, “Heeeyy, Akuma lady!” A man’s voice called out. He was amongst a pool of friends that each had a drink in hand, dressed up party-goers, some more steady than others.
“Oy vey.” Her eyes rolled, and she looked, “See, look! Horns and pink dress.” The man pointed, then mocked horns with his fingers, spilling some drink on himself and sending the friend group into chuckles at his expense. Angelina walked over to them, “Sup, buddy. Ya good? How we all doin?”

They all replied with a nod, smile, or tip of the drink they held. Most eyes fell to the lumbering, half-there, half-dizzied friend.

“Ooohh, good now that the Akuma girl is with me…You want to dance?”
“Nah. I like my toes, thank ya.”
“Well… I like your toes, t-”

He was snatched on his shoulder to stop mid-sentence as the group stared. One of the girls spoke, “He’s been watching you since you came in. Big fan of the look.”

“He has exotic tastes.” Another guy added.

“Ahhhh…” Angelina’s mind stirred, “Aha, what’s not to love? Ain’t I… the fuckin’ QUEEN of this light show?” She lifted her tequila bottle and began filling a cup held in their hands. “And… The QUEEN says that ya gotta drink.”

“For… free?” One asked.
“Four THREE!” Angelina shouted with a sharp nod.
“Aye-hey! Free drinks from Akuma girl!”

Together they surrounded her as Angelina went pouring in drink, even to the flirty fellow. Then with all cups satisfied, a bit still at the bottom for herself, one said as he raised his glass,

“To the proclaimed Queen of the light show.”
“To Akuma lady!”
“Queen Akuma!”

The glasses clanged together, and they cheered, breaking into chuckles and shooting back their drink with a sense of vigour. Angelina arched back to gulp the last of her bottle, then licked the edges and coughed once it was over. She slipped out of the group, letting the bottle slip from her fingers, dancing on the floor, and being someone else’s slipping hazard. Now her eyes set elsewhere. People started blurring into obscurity. All she saw was what she wanted. This gleaming beacon on the DJ’s stage. That lovely paradise land, commanding the music, controlling the tempo and rhythm like holding everyone as a puppet hostage. Nothing would be the same without a sick beat to trash this place too. Love kindled in her heart. That same love carried her through the dance floor again, this time shoving people with her shoulder and dishing kicks to the back of unsuspecting knees. It wasn’t even a sense of need. Her feet just grew a mind of its own self-satisfaction. She hopped and threw her upper half over the lip of the DJ stage, pushing up with her hands until she could plant her boot and stand tall.

“Queeeeeen of this shit, hello!” Angelina nodded, proud, as she looked out to the dancing blob of folks. Her eyes looked over them, and towards that VIP section, she had sought before. “Prissy, missy, bitchy. Where are ya?”

But she diverted towards the DJ, and overcome with this sense of love at first sight, she hugged the man who lifted his arms over to continue his mixing. “You good?” The DJ said.

“Yessss. I am wonderful. I just love ya moooozic!” Angelina shook her head, “Wow.” Then pulled back, standing beside the DJ, looking to the dancefloor, to him, the mixing station. “Ey. Turn that shit up.” Her hand swiped up, as if to get a rise out of the crowd. A small concession was made, but Angelina nudged him with her hip.

“Aye, betta - but not good enough.” Both her hands swiped into the air, “Give it some bass! Punch that beat!” The vigour and excitement worked like a contagion, and finally, the music kicked up to selfish levels. Angelina hugged him one last time, then skipped around, jumping off the stage head over heels before stomping onto her feet. She began jumping around on the dancefloor, throwing up her hands, hips and going in circles. Smiles and laughter; her heart synchronized with the song. One body attuned with the sound and the people she crossed eyes with, never longer than a few moments as she made her way to the edges and towards the poles.

The one she met before. All things led back to her, and she leaned on the edges of the platform, with no security to challenge her like last time. That was very much noted. Finally, this world was now hers. The dancer crouched down, legs open. Angelina held out her pinch of bills from earlier, and the dancer took it with one hand, then offered out her other, and they kissed palms. One knee went over the lip, and Angelina kneeled on the platform, eye-level.

“Whats’ya name?” Angelina asked, gripping the pole above their head.
“Does it matter?” The cash-hand was thrown up to hold the pole as well, the other around Angelina's neck.
“Nah.” Angelina put a hand to the back of their head, and they kissed.

Their bodies greeted the other with a press, a gentle brush as their chest locked, hips enticed and stomachs pressing the other flat. A moan sweetened their deal, a splash of sugar as they wrestled with tongues, eyes closed. Angelina gripped a mound and softly squeezed, and together they danced back to their feet, with Angelina’s thigh in-between their high, both hands cupping their chest, sliding higher onto the neck for a short and gentle squeeze, then down across their sides, moving hips and eventually into their skimpy lower dress. Her fingers dabbled onto their womanhood with a slow beckoning stroke, middle and index curled over their folds as Angelina put her head to their collar and doted on their neck with wet affection. They each shared a blush and a moan. The action was hardly hidden. Anyone who looked for more than a second would find their show of the evening, and it wasn’t the DJ.

[FreestylePoet]

The show must go on. Bacchanalia waited for no man, woman, or devil.

With each passing second, the pulse of the party grew higher and higher, as if the capacity crowd had doubled in frenzy and fun. Fire codes, had they applied to underground debauchery, were a thing of the past. Nobody found reason to care, so long as lines and liquor flowed one way and free-spending good vibes flowed the other.

But she still stood out. Two horns, a shock of red hair, and a level of bluster beyond even the frattiest of bros. All were true, but none were what made this demon the apple of Satsuki's eye. No, the diminutive girl stood out among this human crush because of gumption. Zero fucks given. Not to stealing, not to running. Even in a crime den -- who did that?

Sadly, the thrill of toeing the line seemed to have been lost on her. After a rather expensive toast with a guy who had less than zero chance, she'd scampered off. Shoves and kicks and even knees, those were bound to pop off this powder keg. Then she sidled up to the DJ -- how did she even get up to the platform? And without anyone noticing, at least not until the music was already bumped to eardrum-throbbing levels. The final strike was the sex show. Perhaps an ironic thing to observe, coming from a professional fuckfighter, but touching the talent in a place like this was beyond a no-go. Hooking up with one live on stage was a different, though entirely more entertaining beast.

She looked around. Sunglasses and gaudy jackets were quickly converging on the woman's position. A rock and a hard place: Finally this whirling dervish had crossed the line, but did the fun have to end there?

Yooo. Satsuki's grin grew back, the formula clicking once more in her head. It didn't.

"Stop." If most commotion went unnoticed or forgotten down here, then this was a clear exception. Satsuki's voice carried through the underground chamber, a siren's song in reverse. Neon beams gave way to dim pendants, a sight usually reserved for cleaning staff. VIPs groaned, partygoers covered their eyes, and the dance floor lurched as one. Gazes flickered to the source of the voice, then all followed Satsuki's to collapse on the devil girl like Archimedes' heat ray. They pulled out. Even the enraptured stripper stumbled away, leaving a semicircle of glowing tiles for her paramour to center.

"Oh, sorry, that wasn't for you. That was for…" A finger-tipped circle in the air framed the matter. "Aaallll the Yakuza that just watched you steal from one of their guests. And are now watching you finger-fuck… probably one of their girlfriends." In the midst of the commotion, a select few stood shocked-still for just a second too long to be swept in the crowd. With their popped collars, hideous patterns, and unsubtle bulges in their chest pockets, their last-ditch efforts to blend back in were conspicuous. Far too many partiers realized then that they'd been trapezing throughout a Yakuza den.

"I'm not sure which one made them all want to disobey a direct order, but rest assured. There's a pretty damn good chance I just saved your life." Satsuki shook her head, giggling away the pretense. "Something tells me you don't care about that, though. I like it. What's your name?"

[Monsy]

Bury her brain three feet deep on the stripped podium.
It’s hard to drum up the memories of just five minutes ago. So many fuckin’ lights, so many people. There’s a conversation slipped in there somewhere, and next, she was just listening to someone breathe heavily into her ear. Dozing away to this would’ve been serene. Some wild fuckin’ time stitched together by vague sensation, flashes and the music in her ear. That spoil of victory from the VIP section, the image of looking at the dancing lot from the stage. You owned this shit, and you didn’t even remember where it was.

Then it stopped. Angelina was slow to uptake. People shuffled together that they looked like just one unit. Their rambling became the new track. It could be the walls making her trip out. It could be a million things from here until she studied it, and she wasn’t ready to. Not yet. Then her prize wandered off. Angelina had leaned into the pole, with her cheek pressing into the cold. Her stature slumped, with the space between shoulder and breast being where the pole dug into. Both feet knit together, then called over to the voice and that fuckin’ super-fuck of a landing. Her smile grew, like being called on a lie, and wholly awful at holding it in. Pink-chick. There ya are.

Now she sunk it in. The little arena floor around them, which gave her old pictures of asphalt and hoodies. Except they were dressed preppy, loose and sexy, and didn’t bark or dared to interrupt. They looked.. Startled. Angelina shifted her head to catch them. Just look at their faces. Who looks like they got authority. Then, who looks at who. Any similarities? A few. Dot-to-dot-to-dot, an A-B-C finding of these scary fucks. Really, she was only suspicious of a small number, and that was counting the pink. Her fingers curled to suck in the fright, and she dulled her sense from the booze.

I’am royally fucked. “Angelina Tarrant. A.T if ya fancy.” She put up her hands lazily and put her back against the pole. looking tired and ten seconds from dozing off. “Look. Whomevah’s boyfriend I just upset, rest assured it was just one-off sex. I got a whole wallet full of pity.. From.. someone in this crowd. It’s yours.” Her hand went to her chest, then bowed. “I sincerely apologise to the cuckold at large. Or… Small…” She said with a little shrug.

It’s at this point her heart began to pound. You’re, again, fucked. But still, every word coming out was being hip-fired and there’s a small inkling noting that she’s burying her chances of squirming out. Saved your life was somewhere in there. Buried deep. She straightens up. “And I apologise to the pink commandah in chief, who I don’t know the name of, but wish I could…” And just when it looked like she was about to drunk-march off the podium, she jumps, with one twist and a flip, landing on the dance floor with hands inside her pockets. Strangely, she didn’t look so tired anymore. “May I be so blessed?”

[FreestylePoet]

Drunken ramblings were one thing. Really, they were many things and nothing at the same time. Entertaining for a minute but apt to quickly overstay their welcome. Worth a good pop to a club's crowd but all too common to its regulars. A huge fracas but ultimately just rabble. Far too many secretly hoped to catch someone who'd had one too many Sapporos. They'd fight or scam or dance with them, and it'd be a great memory for those sober enough to remember. Fine, but a yawn. That was one thing.

A stumble, hop, leap, and flip? That was everything. Satsuki at once appreciated the fake-out, or at least the girl's ability to sober up when something worthwhile caught her eye. For a moment, she'd actually bought that the woman was White Girl Wasted. Just when the Queen of Clubs had resigned herself to another boring night, Angelina Tarrant roped her right back in.

"Satsuki Hayano. Believe me, the blessing's mine." She smiled, then returned to her spot at the edge of the railing. An elbow propped her up on the cool metal, hand on her chin, and the other arm swung loose down below. The room itself seemed to suck in a breath as Satsuki mulled her next words.

It wasn't long before the grin flashed wicked and her eyes narrowed. Now was the time to peer into this Angelina Tarrant and see what the night would hold. "I take it you're not ready for the night to end." Despite the rapt crowd and deadened beats, her voice still seemed to echo across the room. "Be as honest as you think I would: If I told you to leave right now, would you?"

[Monsy]

Blessings mine, huh. She winked in reflex to hearing that.
What a way to make an ant feel like it has wings. If not… For everything around them. This place felt like Satsuki’s schoolyard. A voice that carried loud, and pulled ears to listen. Goons. Yazuka -- all around. Then just being stared at, picked apart in people’s heads then probably mocked for the whole fuss. Her head swivelled and drummed up these thoughts. And if not for alcohol, this little bravado might not have lasted so long. Even still, she had no control over her sweaty nape and hairline, along with rubbing her palms inside the small pockets. Steady as she goes, yee pink-heart Cap’n.

“Would I leave?” Angelina placed a finger underneath her bottom lip. She stalled. Really, the answer already clicked in her head. Yes, I prefer not dying. Yes, I can always find another spot. And yes, if I could REALLY do all this before getting kicked out, then hoo-shit, this is already a steal. Now having this party stalled, it would probably be awkward as all hell trying to stay. Everyone sees you, and wants to hit you… You’re a problem that they’d like to be gone, so the drinks can continue to be poured and dance moves to be botched.

“Heh…” She shrugged with pursed lips and raised arms, then letting them flop. Honestly, all those things sounded fuckin’ amazing. To finally draw cutlass, claim the gold that now started sparkling, and left her thieving heart yearning. More and more. To sit in Satsuki's spot, sip her drinks and step on a pile of thugs, just to show she can. A picture on her wall come morning. “No.” She said with a smile and punching heartrate. “But I’ll tell ya what it would take.” Angelina rotated her waist and started glancing people in the eyes. At first, it was her suspects, pointing at them. “You. You….” Then she turned more, and started pointing at randoms. “You. You. You. You...” Eventually, the almighty index came down to Satsuki herself. “And you..”

[FreestylePoet]

She could see the gears turning in the devil lady's head. Weighing odds. Assessing threats. Playing risk and reward off one another. Then Angelina spoke, calling out her men and her guests and, finally, Satsuki herself. When that finger fell on the Queen of Clubs, the room's collective breath was let out into a unified ooooh. If she was the tops of this playground, it only made sense to have the titters pointed at her at the first sign of a real challenge. Half the crowd had met this rambunctious demon chick as some point tonight, she supposed, and the rest could see the interest Satsuki paid Angelina plain as day. The smile on her face from that pointed threat most of all.

"Good answer," she said. "Except for one thing." Her jacket flew, flung wide with a single swipe of Satsuki's arm to leave her in just a sarashi and baggy pants. Then, she leapt! Not one to let a dressy drunk outdo her, Satsuki vaulted the railing into a frontflip. She curled up as if traversing the urban heights, extending once more to land dead center in the crowd's clearing. They all gasped at the ante'd up dare, and when Satsuki rose not ten feet from the guest of honor, the murmured gossip began.

"They're not getting anywhere near you," said Satsuki, as phones started to light up with camera feeds. Even the DJ got in on it, slowly amping to the upcoming action. "It'd be a bad look if I let some thugs do the dirty work for me. Almost as bad as letting a half-drunk devil in Prada ruin a party on my turf." She slid a foot out and swayed to the beat despite her fighting stance. A wild grin played off the not-quite-a-half-bite of her words. "Appearances to keep up. You understand."