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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
Corrigan Molloy | OC | new character, current player
i. 8-ball
iii. wildcard
baby, you can have whatever you like
Your Grace-- [She stumbles for a moment, but then as much as her brother in law may have been known as a rake, surely even he would not be disregarding, especially to her. He suggests going off, and she knows what is likely to occur, especially giving her own number, but she clears her throat. Surely she could never. Daphne would never forgive her.]
Ei-eighteen. ['Go down on someone'. Surely she cannot say such things to the Duke of Hastings. She prays he does not make her say it.]
no subject
I've been called a lot of things in my time, but Your Grace... [A soft sigh, tugging one loose curl, then moving his hand to a mostly-modest place between her shoulderblades.] A man could get used to that.
[A gentle nudge, then he's guiding her out of the main throng of chattering, alarmed, naked people, shielding her from view with his broad, tall frame, unafraid to shoot a few sharp glances at anyone staring too long.] Eighteen, hm? Favorite number of mine, excellent year, had a lot of fun at eighteen. A lucky number, I'd even argue. I got three -- less good year, can't remember it at all.
no subject
Your Grace? [Would he not be called that the moment his father died? Of course Francesca doesn't know about the personal trauma all of that might be, though she's lost her own father at a young age. She just knows how titles work. But then he talks different, a little more clipped and faster, and she smiles at his quips, but she's not sure what she's supposed to make of this.] Did you know Anthony and Benedict are here? My sister is not.
[Will that make this easier? That she would not know? Something churns in her stomach, and she thinks back to the number three as they get away to one of the little cut outs between massive pillars in the ballroom. She looks back for a moment, guilt starting to eat at her a little more. But she knows how this manor works. If they do as they're asked, they will likely let them go.]
no subject
And then he smiles, suddenly understanding, as they reach the little cloistered area, conveniently outfitted with a small sofa, plush and comfortable as Corrigan settles, sitting and looking upwards at the doe-eyed girl.] I must look like someone you know. I have one of those faces, Iβm told. [A grin, broad and toothy, hands slipping around slowly, fingertips lingering, before taking her own delicate hands and squeezing lightly.] But Iβm afraid I donβt know who your sister is β though if sheβs as pretty as you, thatβs truly unfortunate. Nor your Anthony or Benedict.
My nameβs Corrigan. Weβve never met before. [Another light squeeze.] Does that reassure you at all, sweetheart? That weβve never met, and Iβm no grace of anyones?
no subject
Oh. [Oh God. He takes her hand though, dealing with her like a tender bird.] My apologies then.
[Francesca dips her head, still in a slight curtsy as if that is all she has known. Of course many in the house do not have titles or airs, but for her it is like breathing.]
Francesca. I-- I am sorry for the confusion. You look like my sister's husband. If you were him-- [That would certainly make this encounter more awkward. She would never wish to betray Daphne like that, but she also would want to help anyone she may know, knowing what the city might get them into. Slowly her eyes lift to give him a slight smile.]
Perhaps it is better that you are not. [But the title, any title, would certainly suit him well. That much is sure when she meets his eyes, and truly gives herself the moment to look him over, hands dropping down in his, so he may do the same.]
no subject
If it gives me an excuse to talk to a pretty little thing like you, it's definitely nothing to apologize for, you hear me? [Corrigan tugs her a little closer, lets her take a closer look at his own bare body -- broad, muscled, a touch leaner than her faraway brother-in-law's, hairier and freckled with scars and the occasional tattoo -- a bird, a cross, a heart with a name inside. He seems wholly unashamed by his nudity, letting Francesca see the thick shape of his cock between his legs, impressive even soft. Corrigan strokes his thumb slowly over the soft jut of her hip, tilting his head to one side.]
And, hopefully, the excuse to do a bit more than talk, yeah? Seems to be the only way out of this predicament. [ One hand slips up, slowly, over Francesca's stomach, to where her hair covers her chest, pausing just before he brushes it away, reveals where his number's directed his mouth go.] What do you say? Wanna have a seat and stay a little? Lap's nice and open, just for you, sweet girl...
no subject
Already she has a feeling they may not just limit themselves to the numbers theyβve been assigned, and as itβs her turn to eye him up, any timidity is slowly slipping even as she gets to view his sizable cock as he just sits back so casually. There is nearly no thought of Simon now, unable to keep jaw from slipping down a little. She is such a petite girl after all, but thereβs a heat that pulses through her. And every time he calls her baby it surges between her legs, getting her so wet for him already.]
I suppose I am lucky for drawing your attention then. [Clearly she doesnβt do well in big crowds, but one on one encounters like this she thrives on. She wastes no time hurrying into his lap, body on body now. Sheβs sure to face him though, each knee at his hip to keep her legs a little more spread. Each one of his little touches making her flush, cheeks even a little rosier now despite the fact theyβve been bared now for several minutes, but against him like this, she can feel the heat more easily emanating off of him.]
Is this good for you? [She means this position, but she also hopes to be pleasing for him now, knowing at some point her mouth will be on his thick member.]
stacks on deck
The man offering him a drink is very tall, and very handsome, but not so much of either to overcome calling him babe, as if they know each other. No, what keeps him from throwing it right back in Corrigan's face is what he says next, something that reminds him of those early days with Hawk at the Cozy Corner. 'You don't gulp scotch, you sip it.'
Tim trades the empty glass for the full one and looks up at him, big brown eyes looking warily. ]
How would you know I've been chugging? Have you been watching me?
[ With the barest hint of a smile. It's a holiday, it's a party. He can give it a chance, as long as he's back by midnight. ]
no subject
The question gets a serious nod, Corrigan reaching to pluck another flute of champagne from a passing tray.] As a matter of fact, yes. You see, I'm conducting a study on beglassed men who chug their drinks at parties, and I've been desperately trying to work up the nerve to approach you all night.
[He maintains a completely straight face, sips the drink, then sighs wearily.] As you can imagine, finding funding for that sort of thing is very difficult. I'm in danger of closing down the Department of Beglassed Research altogether, actually. [Another sigh, and a headshake, the slightest smile playing across his mouth now.] It's too devastating to consider. You wouldn't leave me to disappoint the educational public, would you?
no subject
Oh, not the whole department. Can't let hardworking people lose their jobs because you lay it on thick. Tell me more about your incredibly real study.
no subject
Ah, it's peer-reviewed...academically sound...literate...all things an incredibly real study ought to be. I'll send you an advanced copy, if you'd like. But you'd need to give me your honest, brutal opinion on whether it's enough to save my poor failing department.
no subject
[ Smile creeping ever wider, sparkle from the shining silver decorations reflecting from his glasses. This very silly, very forward stranger has a handsome smile, and Tim suspects that he knows it. His finger taps against the champagne flute, and he leans in a little. More of a mild tilt. ]
Tell me everything you've learned.
no subject
If I start from the beginning of everything Iβve learned, ever, weβll be here all night. Iβm very well-educated. School of hard knocks, major in street smarts, minor in women and gender studies. [A solemn nod, another sip.] That oneβs a big hit at parties, you know.
[Then he shifts backwards, resting his back against the wall, opening up the space between them so the beglassed stranger has room to move β forward or away, invitation or release. The next step of the dance.] Unless you mean on the topic of spectacled men and beverages, specifically. But here I am without my flow charts and spreadsheets. [A heavy sigh, free hand patting his chest, his pockets, drawing attention to his broad-shouldered, muscled frame, subtle, subtle.] Yes, damn, I left them in my other suit. How disappointing.
no subject
Youβre awfully unprepared, then. [ With a challenging little smirk. ] The bespectacled community doesnβt have a lot of time to waste, you know. Weβve got dates for midnight. High demand.
welcome (adjacent)
Well, hello! I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I was told someone was in here looking a little lonely.
I'm Ignatius Melville. I suppose I'm serving as the welcome wagon today. [Koby being indisposed.]
I've brought up a lovely Darjeeling. Would you like some?
no subject
And now there's a ginger twink trilling at him about tea. Fantastic. Corry has one hand over his face, but he lowers it enough to take in the perfect suit, the coiffed hair, the bland smile, before he settles it back in place.]
I don't care for tea. Come back with something stronger.
no subject
Corry couldn't be blamed for thinking that Iggy's pulled a fade, but no. He returns a few minutes later, the same tray now holding a bottle of good Irish whiskey, rocks glasses, and a small bucket of ice.
He sashays over (not all the etiquette classes in the world are going to butch this one up) and stands by the armchair.]
Will this suffice, darling?
no subject
...are you my government-assigned Stepford wife?
no subject
Oh my goodness, no! I'd never dream of demanding such a commitment.
[He sets the tray down on the table by the armchair and looks at Corry, expression just a little bit saucy.]
Ice? Straight up? ...not too straight, I hope?
no subject
You could pretend, if youβd like. Limited-time engagement. Stepford wife for the evening.
[Then:] Ice. Not too much. And donβt go anywhere, Iβll need a refill shortly.
no subject
[Iggy drops some cubes in the glass with a small set of silver tongs, then pours the whiskey. He hands it over with a little nod, still smiling.
He crosses his hands demurely. Stepford wife, eh?]
How was your day, darling? You look as though you've earned a few drinks and a good physical workout.
no subject
I certainly have. C'mere, have a seat. [Nodding towards his lap, meaningfully:] I'll tell you all about it and you can tell me how patient and brave I am and keep this glass filled for a bit.
no subject
My poor darling! The world is so tedious, isn't it? But I'm here now, and I promise I'll make it all better.
[A finger trails from Corry's head down his neck to tug at his shirt collar lightly.]
oh baby (unclothed!)
In more than a casual capacity, that is.
But this place has a way of circumventing standard societal norms, and Benedict finds himself standing there with the man he thinks is the Duke of Hastings, his elder brothers best friend and his sisters husband, clothing gone, a flush in his cheeks. ]
Ah, apologies, Your Grace. [ Is he really sorry? Hard to say. ] It's, ah - ten. The number, that is.