'Course I do. I'd never dream of coming down here and embarrassing you like that.
[ There we go, now he's getting it. There's just a slight tip to the accent, not slums-rough but not plate-proper, either. Somewhere right down the middle and faintly foreign, like maybe he came here a long, long time ago from one of the western peninsulas past Rocket Town and never quite lost the propensity for lilting vowel sounds. That'll be easy to maintain. That, along with the affectation—essentially still just himself as usual, but sweeter, less god-damn devious. Reno smiles into their besotted little kiss, his hands sliding up the lapels of Tseng's suit jacket. The heels give him quite a few inches of height, almost enough to make him taller, but not quite. Actually, he's not a fan of that part. Kinda likes going up on tiptoe to get cute.
If not for the situation, this might have all the makings to be the most fun mission he's ever been on. As it stands, though, he kind of fucking hates it already. Being dressed up and playing pretend with Tseng is just about the only saving grace, really, because this place... this fucking place feels like being in a waking nightmare. It reminds him so starkly of Wall Market, of being twelve years old and stuck, sweltering in some back room, dazed by all the secondhand smoke. It reminds him of being deployed to trap some highroller that's been filching funds from Shinra coffers to have too good a time and not having the skills or training just yet to navigate the more organized setting of dens and whorehouses in Midgar rather than Junon. If he died in a place like this, wound up in chains and shipped off on a boat to some faraway place, no one would have cared to come after him. He was an expendable tool that no one took care of or looked out for. He had some really close calls. Really close calls.
The smell of this place, the faux-elegance, makes him sick. And knowing that, hopefully in due time, one of the key figures that made Junon miserable for him, too, will be here? Fuck. It's the worst of both worlds colliding. He wants nothing more than to ruin everything about this whole establishment and everyone in it.
But that's later. For now, he hums, low and satisfied and smug at the eyes on them as he nuzzles himself close. Appreciates the sound of his own stilettos clicking on the polished marble floor, measuring out each swaying step so that he doesn't roll his fucking ankle in these killer shoes (god, it's been years) and yet making it look sultry, not precarious. The table at which they'll be seated for their game has every pair of eyes already sitting around it look up and right at him. It's second nature, passing through sliding doors and bowing, murmuring greetings with soft lips and shrewd eyes, something he couldn't forget how to do no matter how many years it's been. It's just lucky that the image they've crafted for themselves tonight includes not having to let go of Tseng's arm most of the time. Until he gets into the swing of things, he really needs something to ground him. ]
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[ There we go, now he's getting it. There's just a slight tip to the accent, not slums-rough but not plate-proper, either. Somewhere right down the middle and faintly foreign, like maybe he came here a long, long time ago from one of the western peninsulas past Rocket Town and never quite lost the propensity for lilting vowel sounds. That'll be easy to maintain. That, along with the affectation—essentially still just himself as usual, but sweeter, less god-damn devious. Reno smiles into their besotted little kiss, his hands sliding up the lapels of Tseng's suit jacket. The heels give him quite a few inches of height, almost enough to make him taller, but not quite. Actually, he's not a fan of that part. Kinda likes going up on tiptoe to get cute.
If not for the situation, this might have all the makings to be the most fun mission he's ever been on. As it stands, though, he kind of fucking hates it already. Being dressed up and playing pretend with Tseng is just about the only saving grace, really, because this place... this fucking place feels like being in a waking nightmare. It reminds him so starkly of Wall Market, of being twelve years old and stuck, sweltering in some back room, dazed by all the secondhand smoke. It reminds him of being deployed to trap some highroller that's been filching funds from Shinra coffers to have too good a time and not having the skills or training just yet to navigate the more organized setting of dens and whorehouses in Midgar rather than Junon. If he died in a place like this, wound up in chains and shipped off on a boat to some faraway place, no one would have cared to come after him. He was an expendable tool that no one took care of or looked out for. He had some really close calls. Really close calls.
The smell of this place, the faux-elegance, makes him sick. And knowing that, hopefully in due time, one of the key figures that made Junon miserable for him, too, will be here? Fuck. It's the worst of both worlds colliding. He wants nothing more than to ruin everything about this whole establishment and everyone in it.
But that's later. For now, he hums, low and satisfied and smug at the eyes on them as he nuzzles himself close. Appreciates the sound of his own stilettos clicking on the polished marble floor, measuring out each swaying step so that he doesn't roll his fucking ankle in these killer shoes (god, it's been years) and yet making it look sultry, not precarious. The table at which they'll be seated for their game has every pair of eyes already sitting around it look up and right at him. It's second nature, passing through sliding doors and bowing, murmuring greetings with soft lips and shrewd eyes, something he couldn't forget how to do no matter how many years it's been. It's just lucky that the image they've crafted for themselves tonight includes not having to let go of Tseng's arm most of the time. Until he gets into the swing of things, he really needs something to ground him. ]