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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
DANIEL MOLLOY (existing character / player! ota!)
cw: blood-drinking/vampirism, addiction, resculpt.
The Balfours throw a long table black tie dinner every evening, and every evening Daniel hauls up out of his coffin, puts on a penguin suit, and goes for the free blood breakfast and to catch up with some of his people before they turn in for bed. They bring it to him in martini glasses, fresh like a wound, though none of the vampires have ever been able to find the volunteers.
A week into January, though, and the ReSculpt has worked its magic, and Daniel no longer looks like he's old enough to drink. It's crazy, to look in the mirror and see youth eternal, the way he wanted it when he first met Louis in San Francisco.
It had started out realizing the lotion was easing a few age spots, wrinkles around the eyes and jowls that vampirism hadn't removed. But the days after New Years Eve have been exactly the kind to encourage his addictive tendencies. Alicent's mouth tearing open his wrist, fingers still dirty from her own grave; Armand clinging to him as he was carried from the wreckage of their room; combo that with the lingering malaise of the holiday season as a divorcee with estranged kids, and is it any surprise that Daniel kinda wants to make some real changes in the new year?
He uses the stuff enough you might mistake him for a new guest, sitting at the breakfast table with his ankle crossed over one knee, chatting genially with Jonty about the model ship he got for Christmas as he sips his gory drink, or walking through the rose gardens picking a dozen blooms. It might be even more startling to find this new Daniel somewhere you might expect the old, such as sitting at the desk in his study or drinking barley tea and typing on his laptop in his favourite bar.
REHAB
cw: addiction, illness, blood sweat, blood emeto.
This isn't his first rodeo.
Shamefully, it's probably not even his tenth rodeo. Daniel's had a lifetime of giving in and getting clean, giving in and getting clean. Sometimes it's voluntary, sometimes it's not — right now, the fact is there's just no more ReSculpt, so no matter how he feels about it, it's time to go cold turkey.
He's had a few months since he was turned into a vampire, so it's shocking to feel sick again. He tries to hide the way he's feverish, hot and cold, rugged up in his study trying to pretend nothing's wrong. Sweating pink into the knitted blanket. The people he cares about have enough on his plate without worrying about him, right? His body aches from the stress of re-aging rapidly, and his personality is mercurial, unpredictable. After a severe bout of vomiting blood, he even shows up at the clinic, aware there's probably nothing they can do for him but miserable enough to try.
babyface!
Instead, he wakes up the next morning more hungover than he's been since his brothel years, in the same plush bed with last night's eyeliner smeared all over his pillow. And again, the next.
A week in, and Dorian thinks of how Emmrich said he's been here two months, and wonders how time is passing back home - if it's only been seconds, or years. He doesn't have access to any of the volumes of research he completed with Alexius, and though he makes a habit of stopping by the library each afternoon to see if it's finally open again, he's in no such luck.
Until he makes his way there a little later in the day, after dinner, this time, and spots a nearby room he hadn't paid attention to before. Dorian's learning that some of these rooms have pleasant surprises and some are decidedly not, but this one, as he raps his knuckles politely on the door, appears to host a handsome young thing in a well-appointed - if cluttered - office.
"You look like just the man I need," Dorian announces, leaning casually in the doorframe. "Do you have any idea when the library will be open again?"
no subject
After a moment, he hops up, out of the chair, and gestures loosely for Dorian to come in. He does have a lot of shit in here, but way less books than he would like: one big bookshelf stands mostly bare, what titles he has stacked along a shelf. "I've been collecting some people's returns, and what I could pick up from the markets over Christmas, so if you're looking for reading material there might be something."
Specific research, however, can get fucked. There's at least a small pile of Koby's welcome pamphlets, though they might not say anything Dorian doesn't already know...
no subject
He slides a finger down a couple of spines, then notices the pamphlets. Dorian picks one up, prepared to skim it, then glances up at Daniel again.
"You don't work here, do you?" Dorian's brow knits, and he waves a hand. "You lack the sort of...aura of dread that I'm used to from the staff."
no subject
"Wish I had more to offer you - I don't think anyone expected to be cut off from the library," Daniel admits with a loose shrug, eying his meagre collection with a stranger's eyes and finding it wanting. "Kinda worrying, actually, since whatever's up in those tubes doling out book recs is definitely sentient."
no subject
It feels like a cosmic joke, though Dorian questions their host's sense of humor.
"Six months... Where did you come from, if you don't mind my asking? When is maybe a pertinent question, too, I suppose."
Babyface
He's only seen that face look that young in dreams, moving through Daniel's mind while his dream realm reflected snippets of decades past. In reality, Gideon may only know Daniel in passing, but he's pretty sure he normally looks older.
So now Gideon is perplexed and vaguely disoriented, trying to figure out if this is real or not. He remembers his roommate waking him to go to breakfast. He was sure that was real.
Did he fall asleep in his eggs? Hopefully not. That would be embarrassing. Parisa would never let him hear the end of it.
If and when Daniel happens to acknowledge his staring he will blink a few times and smile a little, sleepy but apologetic.
"Forgive me," he says mildly. His speech is slightly accented and difficult to place, though it may seem vaguely French, "you're looking particularly youthful this morning."
no subject
A small smirk when he's addressed, because he can't help taking that observation as a compliment, even as it finalizes that this kid must've known him before. "Yeah, it's great, right? I always thought anti-age cream was wellness cult bullshit, but the ReSculpt stuff really works." A grin that's definitely the same old Daniel.
no subject
It's just that reality is being a little weird, which probably shouldn't be surprising, considering the nature of this house.
He puts his coffee down, his brows drawing together in a thoughtful squint. "Honestly, I think they usually are," he says slowly. Most anti-aging stuff is all marketing and buzz words, as far as Gideon knows. Though it wouldn't surprise him if the uber rich had access to something more effective and potentially magical, "Do you feel younger, too?"
no subject
baby! face! (aka, "i've been workin the whole day long, gettin older while you stay young")
And, you know, he's also doing his usual manor stuff. Going to breakfast, sketching out spell designs. Stealing herbs and flowers from the greenhouse. That's where he's coming from when he cuts through the rose garden, his prizes bundled into the green scarf Alicent gave him for Christmas. A warm glow of magic surrounds the little bouquet, so the more delicate blooms don't suffer any ill effects between here and his room.
There's another guy here, picking roses. Nobody Matt recognizes, though his posture is naggingly familiar. ]
Hey, [ he says with a smile. ] Find anything good?
no subject
My haul's a little less practical.
[ After all, these aren't for any purpose but classic romance. ]
Did you know they grow back way faster than they should? Especially in winter.
[ One glass-nailed finger bops a flower affectionately. Of all the places in Saltburn, this particular section of the garden means a lot to him (also for romance reasons). ]
You got any spells that use roses?
[ Casual, familiar. He's kind of forgotten that Matt might not recognize him, the same way sometimes a haircut is a surprise in the mirror. ]
honestly my first thought was "they're so brave to just yolo to prose"
He mmhmms, rueful, for the roses' speedy growth, and is about to second the stranger's assessment when he startles him with that single word. Spells. Matt feels a moment's chilly vulnerability, as if he were back under the 8-ball with not a stitch of clothing on. Only this time, what his interlocutor can see goes far beneath the skin. ]
I ... have a lot of spells that use roses, [ he admits, with a faint and slightly puzzled smile. ] Rose is good for almost anything. Especially developing inner capabilities, like--love, obviously. But also friendship, faith, psychic intuition.
[ Matt considers the other guy. In the time before Pierce killed him, before learning he had compatriots here, before Matt gained feathers and lost his mind, he might have let this go. But now ... it seems like it would be a strategic blunder.
His smile quirks. ]
Is there something witchy about my face, or what?
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[ Daniel pauses from absently flirting as he snips one more rose, a perfect dozen, and then realizes Matt's actually confused and looks over at him. Startled a moment, and then wickedly gleeful, big smile that turns into a laugh. ]
Man, am I really that different?
[ More delighted than he should be at his own impossible youth. A sarcastic little nose wrinkle, attention all on Matt now. He throws out a broad-palmed hand to shake, playful. ]
Hey. I'm Daniel Molloy. Pleasure.
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The guy laughs. Extends his hand. His introduction, his name, lands in Mattβs belly like a millstone. ]
Daniel.
[ Daniel is smiling. Now that Mattβs looking, he can see that the shape of the smile is just the same as itβs always been. These features, too, are Danielβs features. Not knowing what else to do, he takes Danielβs smooth hand in his own. ]
You used the lotion?
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"And then once I realized it worked... well, can ya blame me? I mean, look at me." A little up down of his shoulders as he grins, stepping back, the arm that isn't holding the roses flinging wide to show off the fact that he's all over twenties, smooth-skinned and muscular and hairy.
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Reluctantly, he lets go of Daniel's hand to allow him to step back. Not that Matt could hold him if he wanted to. His eyes follow the strong lines of Daniel's outflung arm, the unwrinkled skin of his fingers.
"You look great," he agrees. His lips lift in a small smile, wistful--almost sad. "But I've always thought you looked great."
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"C'mon," he says, drawing it out all skeptical. "That's nice and all, but it's not realistic. I mean, if you could spend eternity looking 70, or spend it looking 21, which would you pick?" He taps a light knuckle on Matt's chest. "Most people here treat me like their grandpa. Meanwhile Louis and Armand and Lestat, all older than I am, are way more of a hot commodity." So he's gotten a little insecure. It's fine.
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"I wouldn't pick either," Matt protests. "I mean, I'd want to ... be everything. Kid, young, middle age, older--and then back to energy. Wherever I'd end up next. Dirt, rain."
He's being sincere, but he's hotly aware (or perhaps, knowing Daniel to be as penetratingly insightful as he does, he's projecting) that it all sounds twee. Hollow-boned. Matt's voice dips towards a mumble as he adds, "And I get that it's not the same as being ... conventionally attractive, unspeakably beautiful, whatever ... but I liked you before I liked any of them."
rehab
He's watched Daniel's progress back through the years with a removed amusement that occasionally wanders into fond nostalgia, a pleasant diversion from his own problems whenever he catches sight of him in his leather jacket and his earring. He tries not to think about whether Louis has seen him yet, or how he will react to come face-to-face with that young man again. He also tries not to miss the old man too loudly, enjoying the chance, on a couple of occasions, to relearn a body he knows all too well.
On this occasion, though, it's clear that their mutual indulgence has come at a price. Armand climbs out of their new coffin, picks up a silk robe from a nearby chair, and wanders into the bathroom to find exactly what he suspected. ]
I thought we were beyond these days, Daniel.
[ Maybe a touch unsympathetic, given the context. He loved Daniel young, but he'd loved him just as much old and trembling and dying, the wrinkles and the soft belly and sagging places, so maybe he's a little resentful that Daniel's ego doesn't agree. It's been a tough few weeks; maybe Armand can be forgiven for being a little mercurial, himself.
Still, despite his tone he walks over to where his fledgling is curled on the cold tile floor and crouches down, and his hand is gentle as he rubs soothingly over Daniel's back, where blood sweat has turned his t-shirt pink, and touches his forehead, frowning at the heat of his skin. ]
Here. Drink. [ He offers his wrist into Daniel's eyeline. ] You need it. Your maker's blood will be easier to stomach. You're too young to let yourself go without for too long.
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Despite the dark thoughts, he cats into Armand's touch, sickly seeking comfort. Not all that different from the young boy who had been kept trapped and injured, letting Armand take care of him, needing it and fearing it in equal measure. ]
Why waste it. I'll just throw it up again.
[ Voice cracked a little on the complaint. ]
babyface;
The clacking of fingers on a small keyboard draw his notice before he becomes aware of the mind currently engrossed in the writing process β a mind he most certainly recognizes, even if the body attached to it looks distinctly unfamiliar. Or is it? The slump of shoulders over the laptop, tight curls of hair that have yet to become adorned by gray, the defined bridge of a nose. It is Daniel Molloy, no question, but with about fifty years or so shaved off.
Naturally, Lestat doesn't hesitate before sliding up to him at the bar, perching on the closest stool before chancing a look at the laptop screen.
"I'm tempted to ask if you're working on anything interesting, but aren't writers convinced everything they're working on is interesting?"
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"Forget that," he says dismissively, "I could use a break. Lemme buy you a drink." Always very funny to him to offer, in this manor where his black AmEx is infinite if they remember to charge him at all.
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"I assume your recent tastes have not changed?" he replies, mirrored gaze more blatantly sweeping over the younger man's β yes, still younger, regardless of outward appearances at the moment β features, looking for the more obvious evidence of the gift. "Though, in lieu of anything palatable, a glass of red wine will suffice. The drier the better."