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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
jackie foxbridge | oc | new char | new player
( welcome )
[Sullivan's seated at the table but his plate is empty; he's got a coffee cup to the side, with a mickey of whiskey he's been adding to it. His voice is mellow but neither too-quiet or too-loud, conversational enough not to seem bored but his attention isn't at full mast, not unlike a cat keeping track of everything (and everyone) around it.
He puts a pack of smokes on the table, and is uncapping his lighter - digits of every finger tattooed, sleeves on both arms obscured by rolled up sleeves to his elbows. Stare hard enough and the tattoos might not line up with what you remember them being, but they look somehow still unchanged.]
You don't mind if I light up, do you?
no subject
[ he totally didn't. or if he did, he doesn't remember, which... well, given that he doesn't even remember how he woke up here... yeah. regardless, jackie's not a good liar, and the way he immediately avoids sullivan's eyes when he answers makes it clear that he's just trying to save face and not look stupid. ]
But, I mean, housekeeping always has keys, [ he says, determined to keep complaining, as he answers sullivan's question by reaching out, stealing one of his cigarettes from the pack without asking, and holding it up for a light, too. ] and, like, she didn't even knock. Zero privacy, man. I could've been doing anything in there. Blood rituals. Jackin' it. Smearing shit on the walls. All three at once.
no subject
[Blood rituals and artistic expression probably aren't the strangest things rooms in this estate have seen, nevermind a little jacking off. Sully does not despair a missing cigarette, and even leans to light Jack up - though he uses his own cigarette to do it, flame burning bright enough to catch the tip of Jack's alight; though he does briefly reach to hold Jack still by the neck. Don't think too hard about it. Or do.]
But hey, you're here for breakfast. Better than sleeping in?
no subject
[ who the fuck prefers being up in the sunlight over sleeping in and marinating in your own sweaty blankets. jackie pulls a face, something between disgusted and offended as he takes his cig without so much as a grateful nod. he takes a drag, long and easy, and once he leans back in his chair and lets the smoke coil out of his lips in a soft, unbroken trail, he seems... much less grumpy. true addict, this one. ]
Thanks. [ he says, finally, gesturing with his hand holding the cigarette. ]
no subject
[Sully's eyes linger on Jackie, like he's learning a bit more about him with every passing second - what he likes, what he prefers, what he needs. He chuckles a bit to himself, before he's lighting up a second cigarette. That one's all yours, Jackie boy.]
I'm Sullivan.
welcome! +1 creepy demon vibes
Privacy isn't on the list of priorities here.
[he takes a bite of roasted potato, chews, swallows. his eyes finally land on Jackie.]
Or anyone else's.
no subject
Dude, careful. Clumsy ass.
[ he laughs, yes, but he feels, uh, guilty, because that was clearly his fault, so. he sits up straighter, adjusts his position to give august more room, then reaches out to help clean while he talks. he wipes up the wet napkin with a second, drier one, mumbling an apology so quietly and so casually he might as well not have even made it. ]
You been here a while, then? 'Cause I'm still figuring things out. I haven't really been here long enough to get the vibe of this whole...
[ a pause. his hand stills. ]
Wait, shit, was that about me? 'Cause I'm not giving you privacy to eat or whatever?
no subject
A few months. [he offers the bottle of champagne,] No, I don't come to breakfast for the privacy.
[sometimes it's so packed everyone is shoulder to shoulder, other times it's eerily barren. if he wants consistent quiet, he leaves the manor entirely.]
no subject
[ a few months seems like a pretty long stay at a hotel, but hey, he's starting to suspect that this isn't really a normal hotel. or a hotel at all, actually? jackie takes the champagne, bringing the bottle to his lips before second guessing himself. he opts to pour a glass like a civilized human being, instead. skips the oj, though. ]
S'Jackie, by the way. Or Jack, if you're one of those dicks who prefers to keep things as unfriendly as possible.
no subject
Jackie, got it. [with a mischievous glint in his eyes.] I'm August, and to answer your question - yeah, a stranger will end up in your room at some point. You get used to it.
no subject
[ not a euphemism, he adds as an aside, taking a couple of big swigs from the bottle. he's not all that bothered, really - he's not going to change how he lives just because this place is shit at managing their available occupancy or whatever. he sets the champagne back down, then slowly slumps over, arms folded on the table once he's done stretching like a cat in the sun. he rests his ear on his shoulder, looking up at august from down here. ]
Augs it is. Gus? [ ehh - he's not sure if he likes either of them. ] Gust. Gusty. Gusto. Guts. Ah, fuck, it'll come to me.
(no subject)
(no subject)
party
Okay, but like, you're so right, dead people usually aren't embarrassed. They feel shame, sometimes, but that's not the same thing! Which is good because people die in embarrassing ways all the time! Constantly! I bet I will.
But, yeah, okay, uh. That town? Is it-- oh!
[Snagging one of the circulating servants with a tray.]
Thankssomuch that's for us, yeah. Me and my friend--
[He leans over and snorts another line, then winces and tips his head back, rubbing briskly but somehow delicately at his nose.]
Sorry, what was your name again, sweetie? Centralia?
no subject
Jackie! Jackie. Centralia's the...
[ vwhoom, he says, making a motion with his hands that can only mean 'big big fire'. he runs his hands back through his hair again, faster, this time, making it a little messier. ]
You think the dead feel shame? I dunno, man, I always just thought they felt like - worms or rot or whatever. Dirt? Silk, if they've got one of those fancy ass coffins, I guess.
no subject
Oh, I know they do! Not the bodies, though. Those don't feel anything.
[Sniff. Quick swipe of the nose. Practically vibrating in place.]
The souls, you know, some people get really hung up on shit. That's how you get ghosts.
no subject
You believe in ghosts?
[ shit, his dad was the same. his dad was weird, though. jackie's too buzzed to think twice about bringing up the fuckin' active serial killer shit he's got going on back home. where's that server gone? ]
My dad's biiiig into fucking around with the dead. Killin' dudes, messin' with their corpses, the whole shebang. Is that, like - I mean, is that relevant? Kinda felt like it when I started talking, but.
no subject
[Iggy's eyes widen and he looks properly horrified.]
Oh my gosh, that's awful! I could never-- oh, gosh, he didn't make you help, did he? That's so traumatic. We really need a therapist here.
no subject
[ another vhwoom, but this time he's miming his mind exploding. he's mid-finger dazzle when Iggy starts worrying about him, and, slightly panicked, he waves off the concern with as much excessive hand flapping as the coke will provide. ]
No! No. It's good! It's fine. Therapy's sick, though. Dude, if my dad had therapy, he would've been, like, way less of a problem. I guess that's true of most dads, though.
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18!
Cellar shrugs, hair bouncing lightly with the motion. Yeah, might as well. Stepping over, she shakes Jackie's hand β the same one used for the classy motion β with a facetious introduction. ]
Happy new year. I'm Cellar. What'd you get?
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[ he meets Cellar's handshake with an equally facetious bow, being as classy and as elegant as one can be with their dick swinging in the breeze. he stands, shifts his weight to his other leg, folds his arms, and openly, unabashedly checks cellar out, head to toe. again: classy. elegant. his cock stirs, just a little. at least he isn't hiding his interest. ]
Jackie. "Go down on someone". Kinda rusty, but, like, enthusiasm's half the battle, right?
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I've gotta have a public orgasm.
[ One cocked eyebrow asks the question for her: 'you game?' ]
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[ one cocky set of fingerguns later, Jackie steps a little closer, combing his fingers back across his scalp and shaking out a few strands. if cellar's hearing is good enough to pierce through the trashy eurobeats, awkward conversations, and flesh-on-flesh slaps really starting to pick up around them, she might be able to hear him say something like just, haha, please don't cum in my hair, uh with the energy of someone who is feeling a joke fall flat as soon as it leaves their mouth.
rather than dwell on that, though, Jackie sinks to his knees, palms flat against the smooth skin of Cellar's upper thighs. his hands move upwards in a slow, exploratory, careful arc, his thumbs grazing parallel lines gently over her hip bones. for all his awkward confidence and is-he-playful-or-is-he-just-stupid energy, now that he's down here, looking up at her, it's clear that this isn't just something transactional for him. he's good at hiding his nerves, his excitement, but there's an awe in his eyes, a nervous little lump in his throat. someone beautiful picked me, holy shit.
and then - he looks behind her, holding onto her waist for support as he peeks his head behind her legs. he looks around the room a little, and then asks: ]
Uh, here's... fine, right? Feels like a real gentleman would find you a seat or some shit.
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Here β
[ Closer to a wall she can lean back on, kissing Jackie on the lips for good luck or her own nerves. Old habits die hard; her hand is now between his legs, massaging his dick for a few seconds. One last peck, practically beaming, ]
I'll suck you off after.
[ Now he can come back down and be a not-so-real-gentleman. ]
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Nah, don't worry about it.
[ another quick peck, and then he's down on his knees again, almost intentionally out of reach. another kiss to her thigh, more wandering hands, and as he looks up at her, glides his fingers between her legs, curls his hand into a fist around her, he speaks, slow and steady, parallel with each long, languid stroke. ]
This is gonna be all about you. If you really wanna pay me back, you'll have to track me down sometime. Make it a second date.
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8 ball party
Dom inches up his shoulders, makes a face like he's being cornered by the popular girls from school. Could be that he's rolling his eyes or looking for an escape route, who knows; he's not pissed off enough to yell or shove, he's not willing to give up this spot if that means yap-ety sax is going to follow him around regardless. Instead, Dom turns enough to clasp a hand over Jackie's mouth. ]