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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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ππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JAN TDM
JANUARY 2025 TDM: IMMORTALITY
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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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."
8-BALL
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, nsfw.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
NEW YEAR, NEW ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: homophobia, misogyny, implied grooming, cultural insensitivity.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
DIRECTORY
jyn erso | star wars | new player/character
[the first thing that jyn does is make a break for it.
it's not as if anyone tries to stop her. as far as she can see, there are no troopers, security droids, or idiot guards with blasters larger than their brains. instead, everywhere she turns, there's only what would make even the most ridiculous apartment in coruscant pale in comparison. (she thinks, anyway; she hadn't been more than four when her family had left and gone into hiding, and her memories of the entire planet are scattered at best.) she's able to move freely, from one ugly hall to another, until she's out the door and on the grounds.
once there, she briefly glances over her shoulder to confirm that she's alone (which she is) before she begins to run as fast as she can. there's a heaviness in her chest that feels foreboding, and a tightness in her throat that goes along with it, but she pushes past that, setting her sights for the front gates until her toes are colliding with metal.
when she wakes up, she's back in the same fucking room. and she could waste time trying to figure out the hows or the whys, or she could work on actually managing to escape this time; the latter is what she chooses, so she makes her way out the door, toward the front gates. again.
then again. then again.
eventually, she has to accept the truth: there's no leaving. this is a prison, with rules beyond her.
so what is there to do except go for the breakfast that's being offered?
without speaking to β or looking at β anyone else who happens to be there, jyn sinks into a seat at the far end of the table, gathering as many plates to her as possible, and unceremoniously cramming food into her mouth.]
8-ball.
[after a few (more than a few) failed attempts at getting far past the front gates, jyn comes to the conclusion that if they want you to do something, they're just going to force you to do it, somehow. maybe it isn't control as she's understood it, or the way she's seen it play out over the course of her life, but it's control all the same. so, for now, she decides, it seems she'll have to play along.
to start, she accepts the invitation from giles while keeping her free hand dangling by her side with no intent at all whatsoever to form a fist. then, she puts on some stupid outfit she can find that they call appropriately black tie β and endures it, even if it makes her want to crawl out of her own fucking skin. at the party itself, she sticks close to the food, eating whatever she can get her hands on, until she's dragged off to be paired up with somebody.
she'd ask if they could've at least waited until she hadn't been mid-spring roll, but there'd be no point in it.
whatever, though, she'll keep playing along.
at midnight, she grabs whoever they've paired her off with and kisses them without preamble, because it's just kissing, and if that's what they want from her, then fine. but β that isn't the end. she rolls her eyes and huffs an irritated breath when all the doors are shut and barred, and she repeats that when the stupid ball turns over.
it has, apparently, an instruction for her after the roll: make someone cry.
easy enough, right? she turns to the nearest person, and says, flatly,]
Your face looks like a rancor took a giant shit on it.
[there. is she done now?]
wildcard.
[got another scenario in mind? hit me up! i'm available via pm or at
welcome.
[ she's got that look β one he'd worn himself, not long ago.
it's that look of desperation, of the all-consuming hunger for something beyond what you're given. and here, in this place, what was given came with no short of excess. an unnerving thought, one that threatened to lull the willing into a false sense of security. ( but after all those times, throwing herself at the gates β she knows better, doesn't she? he'd seen it ... she's a survivor. )
long fingers turn over a fork, peering at the prongs from its rear side. he glances one way, then the other, and, free of any prying eyes, slips it into the lining of the jean jacket the house had provided him. he'd arrived some time after she'd taken her seat, noiseless and sinking down without any commotion. it's qimir that watches, the unassuming drifter that could pass easily through the halls of the manor, wearing an amused grin now. ]
The, uh. The food.
[ he gestures, then, tittering his fingers in the air towards the collection of plates she seems to be accumulating. his head cants, curious, collecting little pieces of information for himself β knowledge to be tucked away, piled and sifted through when it mattered most. a grape is plucked from the centerpiece, plopped between his teeth. ]
Good, right?
no subject
but after six months in wobani, and years before that of never knowing where, exactly, her next meal would come from, she's let herself get distracted by the spread, here. she's consumed nearly a plate and a half of food before she even registers a voice speaking to her.
when she does, she freezes, with a muffin still halfway to her mouth. her back straightens in her chair, muscles visibly tensing as she regards this stranger; her eyes are hard, assessing.
she barely blinks, and she doesn't smile back; instead, her jaw remains set in a hard line.]
There's plenty of it. [her voice is much the same.] If you want another portion, you don't have to steal it from me.
[no one would announce that as their intention, of course, not if they're not a complete idiot, but it's better to make things clear.]
no subject
[ palms splay for a moment, flashing the knitted center of fingerless gloves. the two front legs of his chair seem to set back to the floor again with a gentle clunk. ( he remembers a time of multiple hands vying for simple portions of food, one after the other, head behind head. patience, the jedi way. ) hand waves to the display before them, a reminder of what there is, what there could be. plenty to go around. ]
This time...
[ he mutters, shrugging into his coat. feigning cautiousness, though, he leans forward, grabbing prongs and shoveling several sausages onto the plate that had been set at this particular place. he touches back to his seat fully, tossing two eggs on top of his platter to satisfy his hunger, and casts a brief glance toward the stranger. ]
Are you always this friendly, or am I just lucky?
no subject
the only response she has to it is a single raised eyebrow.
he returns to the food, though, and she takes that as her cue to do the same, piling three more sausages and four more muffins onto her plate. given what she's eaten already, it's debatable that she has room for all of this, too, but she's taking what she can β and keeping it in her own hands.
by the time he glances toward her again, she's ready, with her plates dragged much closer to her as she meets him with the counter, a shade mocking:]
Are you always this nosy, or am I just lucky?
no subject
[ the fool comes as second nature β it's an easy enough role to play, when you'd spent so much time around the unassuming, the weak-minded, but just as she'd assessed him, he could do the same of her. she's smart, on edge, and after the display he'd seen before, more than eager to find that escape.
there's something familiar about her, even if it's evident they'd not crossed paths before. she possesses the will of a survivor: the same he'd found in mae; she possesses the boldness of a rebel: the same he'd known in osha. qimir's brows tent against his forehead. ]
It wouldn't happen to be a crime to make conversation where you come from, would it?
[ he punctuates his question with a bite of the sausage in his hand. ]
no subject
he's not going to get his pick of the spread.]
It would, actually.
[gaze still meeting his, she arches a brow.]
You'd be arrested on the spot. Life sentence. No one would ever see you again.
[it's then, and only then, that she looks away, leaning over the table, as far as she's capable, at her height. for a moment, the crystal from the chain she wears around her neck dangles visibly, and she tucks it away, under her shirt, before reaching to scoop for eggs.]
no subject
Explains where you got your shining people skills.
[ qimir mutters loudly enough for her to hear. he finishes up the sausage link and attempts to go now for another from his plate. what words come next, though, are temporarily waylaid, put to rest by the sight of the kyber crystal. he makes quick work of glancing away as soon as he's looked, stumbling back into his facade on the way there. ( and yet, maybe it had been fate, after all, that they might have found their way to one another. )
he goes for the mug of coffee instead, peering into it, smelling its contents. with a frown, qimir brings it closer, letting the warmth linger by his face. ]
You might wanna slow down, y'know.
[ there's a slower movement to the flicker of his gaze, dark eyes finding the sight of her again. ( who are you? ) so many questions, and so far, he's in no real position to ask them. ]
You only just got here. I'm sure these ... Balfours would hate to cart you off as soon as you've walked through the door.
welcome
the woman who situates herself beside her doesn't appear to have the same qualms she does, so after a few minutes of letting her eat: ]
You don't feel off after easting any of that. Right?
[ she hopes not. in spite of herself, she's starting to get really hungry. ]
no subject
so the question that comes to her, mid-bite of sausage, doesn't really give her a reason to change her mind.
still, she can appreciate the place where it's come from, so she does, actually, swallow her bite whole before turning to the stranger that's sat nearby.]
They've no reason to poison us, if that's what you're asking.
no subject
[ that said, thereβs no chance of getting out of here if she starves to death, so she does end up tearing off a piece of the cinnamon roll, sniffing it before putting the bite in her mouth. it doesnβt taste off in any way, so she ends up pulling off another couple of bites before taking a similarly tentative drink from the coffee, then reaching for the platter of bacon. ]
Guess weβll find out.
no subject
So soon after doing that to get us here?
[jyn considers (she can do that and chew at the same time; she's a multitasker). the possibility is real, sure, considering how many times she'd woken up in the same room post-failed escape attempt, aching and sluggish.
before long, the other half of the muffin is devoured, and she's reaching for the bacon herself.]
It'd be a bit repetitive, wouldn't it?
[and speaking, again, with her mouth full.]
no subject
Maybe. [ she reaches for her coffee, downing the rest of it. ] It bothers me that theyβre not making it clear what they want.
[ itβs not as if sheβs ever stayed in prison for a very long time, but she has dealt with people who have played the long con; tricking her into trusting them only to reveal it had all been a set up. sheβs getting a little sick of it. she huffs out a breath, tearing off another piece of the pastry. ]
I mean, if youβre right, they brought us here for a reason.
no subject
because she's nice, though, jyn just shrugs.]
Don't know why else they would've.
[even if it's something so simple as just torturing them and laughing at their misery, that's still a reason.]
no subject
itβs a lot scarier when there is no motive.
the thought in billyβs voice causes her to start, knocking over her empty espresso cup. she breathed out, eyes closed and fists clenched, before standing. ]
Iβm gonna go see if thereβs more coffee. You want any?
8-ball
Like, he's not unaccustomed to it? Some people are into degrading, and he finds older men of a certain type are disproportionately likely to neg before sex. But there's a velocity here that doesn't really seem like it's leading to an erotic place. More information needed.
Matt turns to face his interlocutor. Naked, he's the kind of slender people call "willowy" if they're feeling poetic, "twiggy" if not. He has a trio of tattoos, most prominently an emerald lotus on his heart, and though he's gently sliding his arm down to try and cover up, it's not his groin he's most worried about. Instead, he's strategically placing arm and hand over a serpentine scar that winds from his left hipbone to just below his navel. Something absolutely deadly happened to him in the not-too-distant past, it seems. ]
A rancor is like ... an extradimensional being of some kind? I've heard of some that look like nightmare toads.
no subject
willowy. thin. she could easily take him in a fight, if needed. something about that scar is vulnerable, too, with the way he's trying to cover it.
but, in what's most important to the effort to try to leave this fucking room, there's no sign of a tear anywhere on his face.
that, more than anything else, has her looking back at him with a mixture of irritation and confusion, with some parts curiosity. she crosses her arms over her chest, covering her now-exposed breasts.]
If the nightmare toad is at least five meters tall. And ugly.
[just to throw that provocation out there one more time.
she knows, though, that if the bait hadn't been taken the first time, it probably won't be taken at all. so, in the end, she simply asks:]
You didn't find that insulting?
god im sorry
Matt frowns at Jyn, trying to remember what meters convert to in feet. ]
Oh no, no, [ he says hastily. Something in her question makes Matt wonder if she is trying to degrade him, after all, and he's coming across as shutting down a scene before it has a chance to get going. He does give off vibes that lead some people to dom him by way of introduction. ] It's super insulting. Definitely the "took a shit on" part is like, evocative.
[ He lifts the hand not hiding his scar to his face, brushing absently over his cheek as if to check for nightmare lizard skin. ]
I get "slut" more often, but it's good to try new things.
LMAO i'm so glad
what the fuck? 'it's good to try new things'?
her brows knit in genuine confusion.
maybe it's another minute, or maybe it's less, but then, finally:]
I'm supposed to make someone cry. That's what the ball thing said. [the way she gestures, vaguely, with a hand is just as helpful as what she's said. but, anyway, point is:] You're not crying.
[not even trying to swing a fist at her, what gives]
no subject
At the explanation, a look of enlightenment breaks over Matt's face. ]
Ohhhhhhh. [ Before all the jello shots, that reaction would have had at least four fewer o's in it. ] I don't know. I mean, men are socialized not to cry where I come from, so that could be part of it ...
I'm sorry. I didn't know you were trying to make me cry specifically. [ Matt starts blinking, hoping to summon up a little moisture. ] When I looked at the ball it said "confess to your crush," and like ... I don't even know where to start with that.
welcome
with her plate modestly filled with sweetbreads and salted meats, she takes smaller bites in sharp contrast to the woman. curiosity gets to her, and rather quickly. she has to speak up. ]
Perhaps you'd like something to drink and wash down your meal, my lady?