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draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
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π πππ'π ππππππππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππ β£ SEPT TDM
SEPTEMBER 2024 TDM: LUGHNASADH
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember β dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using Β« NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
FRUITS OF LABOUR
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, gore, cannibalism.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
DIRECTORY
embry moore β new camelot trilogy (current player)
β for HAWK (closed)
he might be nothing to hawk, even if theyβre past their rough patch. he has no intention of putting a name on this, and he knows hawk agrees. but when embry slinks over from his hiding place among the manicured greenery of the maze, surrounded by deep green and thick petals and the dim glow of lamplight, something loosens in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and smoke above the cloying fragrance of honey hanging in the air. ]
Iβve been watching you for twenty minutes. [ twenty minutes waiting for danny to pop up to add to his middle-age stress lines. heβs had nothing to eat but heβs knocked back plenty of drinks tonight, and heβs pretty sure his stomach has started dissolving itself. ] Thereβs no one else around.
[ a burst of fireworks shimmer behind embryβs head from where he stands before hawkβs lounging figure, gazing down at the cigarette smoking between his fingers, his keen eyes glittering up at him like a pair of expensive sapphires. embry draws in a breath, want curling inside of him β not just a carnal need, but the desire to be close to someone heβs come to trust, someone he knows and someone who knows more than a few of his secrets, including his shattered fantasy of a life heβd sacrificed for the greater good of the american people.
he slides smoothly into hawkβs lap, straddling his hips without invitation. embryβs mouth tastes like sugared daiquiris when he presses a kiss to hawkβs lips, reaching up to grip the back of the lawn chair, his navy knit riding up, his skin a pleasant tan from his hours by the pool. ]
no subject
still, there's a certain measure of clarity he feels now when he spends time with the other man. they've wordlessly blown past the barrier of hawk never having company, and even doubly so past never fucking someone more than once. somehow all his unspoken policies have eroded when it comes to embry, and it doesn't feel like an itch under his skin that's going to strike inward and betray him. it feels pretty fucking comfortable, especially without the crushing weight of failure and disappointment at not being the kind of man tim laughlin deserves. together they can just - be.
if they weren't both tortured by their own demons, it might even be goddamn romantic.
doesn't mean he can't be endeared, lounging lazily in a pair of navy striped trunks and matching button down, splayed open and unbuttoned across abs that are a bit more carved than when he first started out here - spending more mornings in the gym as of late not least of all to ogle tim, but also to make sure he's in top shape in case...well. something happens. like jacked flesh and bone can't be torn through by canines. uh huh. but that doesn't matter right now, not when he's got a cigarette dangling loose in his fingers and he's been watching embry watching him for nearing on half an hour.]
Get over here. I'm feeling frisky enough not to give a shit.
[strange for that to come rumbling out with such ease, normally that's the sort of thing he'd shove down and pretend didn't exist. his thighs splay to let embry take his seat, tossing his cigarette aside to let one hand slide against his waist and the other to slip up into the thick waves of his hair and tug lightly. yeah, he tastes sweet - good enough to lick hot into his mouth and grind up against his hips without much thought even as the loud explosion of fireworks sends a wash of artificial color along embry's skin. red, first, then blinding white enough to make his eyes look as icy cool as the pool had glimmering under the dwindling summer sun this afternoon when they'd been pretending not to know each other.
he doesn't want to pretend now, thumb sliding soft along the back of his neck and kiss softening into something less ferocious than their usual games. tender, maybe. full of the kind of want that makes his chest tighten with a fondness that doesn't belong here.
(does it?)]
no subject
and lately β he has. he sighs into hawk's mouth, meeting the grind of his hips, his eyes fluttering open at the stroke of his fingers down the line of his neck. he could playfully, sordidly jack hawk off right here in the privacy of the maze, but for a long moment he just admires the way the fractal light shimmers in hawk's eyes, a reflection of the sky above.
it's different from ash. but it's different from a casual fling, too, and embry would know, considering he's fucked his way through multiple towns before, and that knowledge sits squarely in his chest, both uncomfortable and somehow reassuring at once. ash is everything to him, every cell in his body, every drop of blood, every tear he sheds and every pained, grating breath. embry lives with the primal fear of knowing that he can't exist without him, and that he fucks that up every day.
hawk is none of those things. there's something about him as fleeting as smoke, and yet embry feels content in the moment with him, the constant weight of expectation temporarily misplaced elsewhere. ]
I actually β [ his words come out in a breathy rush, light and almost teasing, though flavored with a truth that he doesn't know the source of. he hadn't planned on saying much of anything at all. ] Kinda missed you.
[ another thunderous burst overhead, and he leans in to steal another kiss with it, pressing close. his lashes flutter as he breathes out a heavy sigh. ]
Last time I saw fireworks like this, it was New Year's. [ it's bad form to talk about another man with another man, but his tongue feels abnormally loose. ] I was at a club β not that different from the Otherworld, really β and, well, I was late. I was rushing like fuck to get there so I could kiss someone right at midnight.
[ someone. hawk has to know who he's referring to, after that horrible mind trip they'd shared. ]
no subject
maybe that's why he's got no gripes about being wide out in the open, lookout duty abandoned or not as embry slides easy and familiar into his lap. carefully he tips his head back, enough to deepen the kiss and let his tongue slip in for a quick taste even though he knows it's better than even the most expensive vintage the balfours have buried in their wine cellar. there's no rush to any of it, not the slow shift of their hips or the exploratory lick against his tongue. it's slower than their usual m.o., less of the acerbic commentary and hawk dragging him by the same hair he's lightly weaving between his fingers now, tugging him down onto his knees or into the bed to feed him his cock and shut him the hell up.
it feels like a waste not to have taken his time up until now - to see the elegant slant of moonlight along his high cheekbones and reflected in the expressive glimmer of his eyes. he's impossibly pretty, even if regardless of the emotion he's uncharacteristically feeling, even that wouldn't get him to feed embry's ego by saying so. instead he leans back, hands resting at his hips to tip him forward against the obvious bulge and grin lazily up at the gorgeous creature in his lap.]
Yeah?
[it's low, lacking the usual smug, self-satisfaction he'd inject to make embry more annoyed at admitting it.]
Well. Maybe I missed you too. More than I ought to admit.
[but he is, letting his palms slide under the expensive fabric and against embry's abdomen for the warmth of ski to skin contact. there's no offense taken at such a faux pas - they already know what they comfortably exist as to each other. just like embry could never replace tim, hawk knows he couldn't come close to what maxen colchester means even when he's kept at arms length.
just the way you are.]
Mm, an underground DC sex club? Times really do change.
[he rucks up the knit from the hem, lifting it up and over his head, suddenly wanting to see nothing more than the way every inch of his skin looks under the mood lighting. and if anyone is watching? he doesn't give a shit right now, too busy feeling a hungry pang and a sudden need to have him.]
Did you make it to him in time? Maybe I ought to start calling you Cinderella.
β for GREER (closed)
heβs a selfish asshole β yes, true. he would have married her in a heartbeat after their single night together β yes, also true.
but he canβt say those words to her now, their wrists still linked after a fruitless attempt to break free. theyβve migrated to one of the balconies of the house, watching the nightly festivities from their perch, sharing a bottle of wine between them and a plate of rhubarb crumble in his lap, embryβs fingers sticky with fruit. theyβre forced to sit close together, greerβs warmth radiating at his side, like theyβre a real couple, a real husband and wife enjoying a fall night, and it tangles him up in both excruciating joy and misery. ]
I donβt know why this didnβt happen to you and Ash. [ heβs surly as hell about that, though maybe not for the reasons she thinks. ] Iβm never getting married.
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What doesn't succeed in warming her may very well be satisfied by the wine; she's already drunk enough to feel a little light-headed, precisely the amount of tipsy that so often leads her into making terrible decisions. She can't say that terrible applies to this, though β standing next to Embry while they look out over the moonlit grounds, the distant glow of a bonfire. They've already made efforts to tear the ribbon off, but to no avail, and Greer has finally reached a point of resignation about it, even if she's yet to broach the subject of whether they'll have to fall asleep in the same bed tonight if they can't find a way to break apart. ]
Don't say that.
[ Does it matter which part of it she's referring to β even if a part of her can't stand the thought of him standing at the end of the aisle as some faceless woman in a veil prepares to meet him there? She presses her lips together, considers whether taking another swig of wine would be wise or run the risk of making her sloppy, and reaches up with her free hand to brush a few strands of hair back from her face as an evening breeze ghosts over the balcony. ]
Haven't you ever thought about it? Marriage?
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Once or twice.
[ he shrugs. a million times with ash. another million times with her. and yet he'll get neither, at least not in the way that normal people get normal love. he'll chase after scraps for his whole life while ash and greer inevitably find real love, probably with each other.
he turns his smile toward greer, leaning back on one hand while the other sits flush to hers, their fingers brushing comfortably. ]
One of those times was with you, the night we met. [ it's a truth that sounds so outlandish, his tone so frivolous that there's no way anyone would peg those words as real. ] I thought, fuck, I'd spend the rest of my life with this girl. Fuck that guy she's crying over.
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He seems so cavalier about it β her question β and yet she has a feeling that the rakish smile of his, the one that seems to come so easily and emerge over his features so smoothly, is masking something else, something he's trying to sidestep in his answer. Call it growing up around people who make a living out of selling bullshit, call it a more intimate knowledge of him behind closed doors, but sometimes, she wishes she could grab hold of his shoulders and shake him until the truth comes spilling out, no matter how harsh it would be in the telling.
But the second part of that answer is what catches her off-guard when she's distracted with thoughts of him β he's still being nonchalant about it, but is that because he's trying to mask his honesty, the part of him that would've put a ring on her finger and made her his in every way recognized under God and man?
Greer glances down the curve of her shoulder at him, eyes narrowing in exaggerated skepticism. ]
You're just saying that to make me feel better. [ About the mess she'd been that night, about being the girl he'd had to put back together, about everything she'd left in that room with him, all the nakedness that hadn't just been skin-deep. She bats her hand against his, where they're tied together, and decides to reach for the wine with her free one anyway. What's one more swig at this point? Her lips make a soft sound of suction against the opening of the bottle as she pulls off, the words that follow almost softer. ] I might have thought about it with you, too.
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[ that entire night in chicago had been just that, because he couldn't stand to see her cry, because she'd hooked him straight through his cherry stem heart the moment he'd laid eyes on her silvery gaze. it'd been just his luck that ash had already staked his claim on her years ago. everything in his life always leads back to the same place, the inevitability of ash colchester. if he took his entire collection of sports cars out for a fatalistic joy ride, one by one, he'd still crash them all into him.
a hopeless thrill travels along his nerve endings at her words. he spent five long years thinking that she hated him, and for good reason, and to have her back at his side, even in the smallest capacity, is like having the pearly gates creak open once again for his wretched soul. they haven't ever talked about what happened. not really. they haven't brought up what he did β or more accurately, what he didn't do. it's a well of quiet confusion, silent hurt, that they're masterfully dancing around. they were both raised by expert politicos, after all. ]
Was it that good? [ a little softer, the press of guilt on his tongue. ] To make you forget about who you really wanted in your bed that night?
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It had been easy, in the immediate aftermath, to hate him for leaving, but she hadn't expected to feel anything resembling a flutter when he'd been sitting in her office, trying to encourage her to meet with Ash. She'd wanted something from him then, too β some kind of acknowledgment that the memory of Chicago isn't just that, but a cracked door that can never be truly closed. She's aching for him now, sitting this close to him, but the words that follow cut her to the quick. ]
Didn't we both forget, for a little while? [ Who they really were, who they may have really wanted β and the moment when it had all come crashing down to earth ultimately driving him from her bed. Her eyes are glassy, but she can blame it on the wine, even if her voice has a tremor in it. ]
I never imagined it could be that good, with β [ With anyone else, she doesn't say, but the words hover on the air between them. ]
β OPEN
β POOL PARTY.
( cw: sylvia plathβs poem about suicide )
β FIREWORKS.
β TEXT | UN: LITTLEPRINCE
β or wildcard him!
fireworks
At the voice he blinks and looks round and oh, hello, that's an extremely handsome man. Who is apparently unmarried.
Iggy leans forward slightly, genuine curiosity filling his wide eyes.]
So why'd you say no?
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Would you willingly want to tie yourself down when there are so many wares still available to be sampled? [ so crude. ] Marriage isn't on brand for me.
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[Said very matter of factly. He grew up in a very liberal environment.]
But branding I understand! You have to keep that paycheque coming in. Are you an actor or something?
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There's really nothing in the world that stops anyone from fucking other people, except death. And there are different kinds of death.
Or something. I'm in politics. Which is basically the same thing as an actor.
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Ohhh. [He nods sagely, like he has any idea at all what it's like.]
Worse than an actor, really. Way more repression.
fireworks.
the sight of her, fluted sleeve brushing his arm, teal skirts pulled to her thighs as her legs shift in the water, would incite her ruin in westeros and bring a shame on her storied house that would last centuries. recently, however, she has decided to savour that they are far from the court and its vermin. the tanned skin of her bared collar and shoulders prove it, warmed by sunny afternoons spent with embry and her daily swim in the lake. ]
[ in a mild tone, ] Two more than I.
[ despite being married. viserys had never proposed, in so many words, sunk down on a creaking knee. he had sat before her, hands clasping hers. iβve been inundated with proposals and propositions from friends and family, allies and rivals, all seeking to take his dearest wifeβs place, but iβve decided itβs you, lady alicent. of all the ladies in the keep and noblewomen across the realm, it would be the hightower girl whose father had walked her to the kingβs chambers and instructed comfort. how she would laugh to see it now, such a blatant play for power from her father and the southron alliance. her fool husband, her ailing king. in his place, sheβd flay any upstart girl-child that slithered into her sonsβ chambers.
back then, sheβd only cried. ]
Your Ash? [ she wagers, quietly daring. this boldness breaks the rules of their engagement, in which he pushes and she demurs, playing the rake and the lady. to soften the blow, she hooks her arm around his and leans closer. ]
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the question would have startled him if it'd come from anyone else, but there's only a resigned glance in her direction, a touch surly at being perceived. all his efforts at hiding, not for himself but for ash's sake, and too many of his truths have already come to light in his short time here. hawk, though there's little regret there. danny, with serious fucking distrust. now alicent, though there's a kinship between the clouds of his numbness. he's held these secrets for so long, pretended and pretended and pretended until it felt like a part of his own mind was slipping away.
it feels pathetically good to have alicent's arm in his, because suddenly all he can remember is how many times he's distanced himself from ash's lingering touch in case someone was watching. ]
Weird, right? [ he smiles, moving to kick his feet under hers, water splashing as he shifts her legs into his lap. his pants are damp in seconds. ] To want someone and tell them to fuck off in the same breath.
[ a confirmation. ]
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no need to invoke such things, seeing as she can listen and wait for embry to come back around, tension working through his hard jaw. when he scoops up her legs, she follows the momentum, skirt riding high on her thighs, droplets traversing her pale skin. half a laugh in her mouth, she quirks a smile in turn. ]
Iβm familiar with the feeling. [ haunted as she is by her own lost love, rejecting all of rhaenyraβs overtures for decades. proposals not for her hand but for her daughterβs, so that she and rhaenyra might have finally united her fatherβs house again. denial after denial, until it was too late.
with a gentle hand, she lifts his arm to guide it around her shoulders, curling into him β as if that will protect either of them from further pain. ]
[ tipping the bottle back to his lips, ] You protect him from himself. [ an echo of the words embry shared with her weeks prior. hadnβt she done the same, denying rhaenyraβs girlish proposals that they fly far from court and keep or take their vows beneath the heart-tree. ] So his match might better serve his aims and your realm.
[ even though embry himself has confessed to wanting marriage and romance, a domestic instinct at odds with his rakish pretending. is love not sacrifice? ]
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He doesn't know. [ once he's swallowed β ] He wouldn't see it the way I do anyway. He owes me a big fucking thank you, but I'll never get it. Ash never wanted to be president in the first place β he wanted to get married and raise cows and pick up horse shit in the country.
[ he knows ash too well, even if in his fantasies their conversation goes very differently. but ash isn't the type of man to thank embry for doing a bunch of shit he never asked for, although he hopes he'd feel some kind of righteous anger toward merlin for twisting embry's heart and head toward martyrdom to begin with.
then β alicent is so close, closer than when he was on his knees with her ankle in hand, his arm hooked around her and his hand sneaking beneath the fabric of her dress to rest at the height of her thigh, warming her skin. he can't imagine now how he ever saw abilene in her, the flush of life thrumming through every part of her where abilene was utterly fucking dead, no remorse for how she'd fucked him over because she couldn't get to ash. he pushes all thoughts of her from his mind and instead admires the shape of alicent's collarbones, trying to maneuver his hand presently caught in her mane to be a little closer to skin. ]
Are you? [ familiar with the feeling. his brow quirks in sordid curiosity, a sign that she won't get off easy without a direct answer or something of equal value. ] Who did you want, first of all, and then tell to fuck off?
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in the context of embry and ash, alicent is less sure of what to make of this revelation. ash knows not why embry rejects him, only that he does, yet he still tries to sway him back. their devotion shared but not mirrored, changed and refracted in different lights. ]
I am. [ a firm counter, lashes low. she would not lie about this, not to embry. she takes another swig of the wine and savours the burn. ] Before the king took me to wife, his daughter and I were inseparable. [ the words flow from her mouth like rainwater. for want of stopping herself, she curls into embry, nosing into his cheek. ] Once, we even kissed in her chambers. [ if only her mother hadnβt seen them and warned her against such dalliances, for how they would threaten her position at court.]
She has made overtures since then, but β ours is a divide that cannot be crossed again. [ her voice aches. ] I know it, even if she does not.
[ she and embry share a keen political understanding. they might have made a fine match, in another life.
thatβs why she knows it will be her children or rhaenyra, the crown or death. She has known this since she was a girl and her defence of her former friend cost her father his position. they must choose, and abide the consequences. an eye for an eye, a son for son. ]
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fireworks
She hadnβt expected anyone lingering around the waterline to talk. Everyone still out after dark is various states of drunk β hell, the entire damn house is in various states of drunk, and she canβt fucking blame them, because look at this place. Itβs a goddamn horror movie with Prada sunglasses on. But the guy perched on a bright rock speaks, and she turns, taking in the curls, the red stain of his mouth in the darkness. Too much wine, too much thinking. Saxsice knows that feeling.
So, sloshing back through the water, she sits on a nearby pink-paint-splattered rock, wincing at the cool feel against her bare legs.] Different people? Or the same one, who didnβt know when to quit? [She reaches out, grabbing for the wine bottle. If itβs sharing feelings time, itβs also sharing booze time.]
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speaking of ash. what a nice way to put it, because he really didn't know when to quit, and has he ever considered that making embry moore say no twice was cruel and unusual punishment? did anyone ever think about how it felt like putting a hole in his head? twice? ]
The same one. [ he doesn't have to say anything more, doesn't have to confirm gender or tell anyone it was the president of the united states and he's probably several hundred yards away in the maze of the grounds. who knows. ] Pretty pathetic, huh? Couldn't be me.
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Still, there's a bitterness in his voice, in the way he swigs the wine, that suggests whoever this is, there's a fuckton of feelings surrounding them. Propping her chin in one hand, Saxsice watches the man drink.]
I dunno. Once is impulse, twice is almost flatterin'? In a fucked up kinda way. "No" wasn't enough the first time. [A pause, then:] Unless you said "yes"?