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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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πππ πππ ππ ππππππ πππ πππ β£ MARCH TDM
MARCH 2025 TDM: RENEWAL
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 (THE REMIX)
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
CUPID'S ARROW STRUCK ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: possible sex, violence, a/b/o themes (pheromones, mating, heat/rut), breeding, body transformation/body horror, aphrodisiacs.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw (exhibitionism, ritual sex, orgy), dubious consent via magical compulsion.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
DIRECTORY
john constantine β dc. new player, new character.
content warnings: drugs, depictions of hell/death
π¬ WELCOME. (REMIX) v.2
content warnings: mentions of drugs, alcohol, blood
π¬ ETC.
( few notes: john comes with a few heavy triggers and warnings that can be found here that include suicide, alcoholism, addiction, terminal illness, religion/religious beliefs, to name a few. if said themes come up, they'll be marked for but just putting a blanket warning out there. he's also a psychic with the ability to perceive the true form of angels and demons on the human plane where he's from. here, this can extend to seeing through whatever magic or glamour someone might have on them. i can play around with this in the sense of him being able to either see through that magic/glamour, or even feel and get a sense of something being different or non-human about someone. always open to discuss how that might go but unless there's discussion prior and/or i have an idea of what to work with, he won't ever assume anything about anyone. π feel free to pm the journal for any wildcards or discussions! )
v1
No.
[that's it, at least for a second too long while he stares at john, scrutinizing even in his tired state. he's used to this - new faces waking up in bed, frustrated with their lack of amenities. of course it would be this particular bed that the manor decided to plop a stranger into; he can forget about sleeping in.]
I know someone who does.
[a quirked brow: does that work?]
( august's info is here!. tldr: he's a witch heavily connected to demonic magic/energy and has bad juju aura. you're free to do whatever you want with that/have john pick up on anything that piques your interest :> )
no subject
( He's dragging fingers through the mess that's his own hair, dark strands catching between them as they twist tight and tug a bit in some vain attempt to try and get his head to stop pounding. Doesn't work, of course. He's not even sure painkillers would do the trick with the way it feels like a sledgehammer is going to town across his temples.
But a smoke? Yeah. That'll do it. Or at least give his hands something to do aside from try and rip his hair out.
Lazy glance over to his bedmate here, he cocks a brow right back. )
Going to let me in on who?
( Not like he'd know whoever the Hell he's talking about, but hey. Look at them getting the ball rolling with this conversation. )
no subject
[he's not going to send john on a 'find the perfect stranger' mission, he'll take him there himself. he's sure sully won't mind if he steals a singular cigarette from his room, he'll just pay him back for it later. prying away from the warm comfort of the bed and regretting the choice to sleep in his clothes, he slips on his shoes with a yawn.]
I'm August. [ugh, hot. the kind of hot that happens after taking too long of a nap and his body is dysregulated. his sweater gets pulled off and, belatedly, he seems to notice that john is shirtless.] Want this? There's clothes in one of these dressers if you don't.
no subject
It takes him a couple more seconds to even come close to being some form of alert before he's heaving a sigh and dropping his hand out of his hair. Guess if he wants that cigarette, he's going to need to haul himself out of this bed. At least he can do that much because he sure as Hell can't stop this headache.
Heel of his palm pressing into the mattress, he pushes off and gets himself up, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he gives himself a moment to make sure the room isn't spinning on him. A glance around his fingers, he eyes the sweater and the guy β August β holding it out to him. There's... something about him. Something he can't quite make sense of right now but it's pinging his sight... or maybe it's the headache making everything all fuzzy on him. Hell if he knows.
Regardless, he reaches for the sweater and tips his head back, eyeing him a little more. )
Thanks.
( To which he begins to pull it on over him. )
You usually end up in bed with strangers?
( Not like he can talk but you know. )
no subject
he leads them out into the hall. the walk back to his own room isn't very long, and august isn't much of a conversationalist in the mornings. john doesn't seem to be, either, which is somewhat of a relief. he'd been bracing for the barrage of questions, but now he has some time to wake up and make an easy timeline if he needs to. some easy few seconds of silence pass before he breaks it again, peering up at the man beside him.]
What's your name?
[he never said.]
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v.2
Spike thought he'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed, but he's got nothing on the guy who rounds the corner just as he's lighting a cigarette; at least Spike got fully dressed, down to boots and his leather duster. Lots of weirdos in this place, which almost makes it feel like home. ]
Hey. You're not gonna croak on me, are you? [ The scent of blood makes his nostrils flare, hungry, but the coughing puts him off: sick people don't make good food.
Spike puffs on the cigarette, rethinking his question and mumbling around it, ] Not that I care.
no subject
Wouldn't be the first time.
( That he's died or someone hasn't cared? Who's to say.
Breath on his lips, he twists β presses his back against the wall there and coughs into his fist again. Not as bad as the fit that'd attacked him a few moments ago, easy enough to shrug off, which he does, head tipping back after.
That's when his gaze wanders over to the cigarette the guy has there for himself β watches the way the smoke leaves his lips and drifts into the air before he's turning some towards him, shoulder pressing against the wall now. )
Wouldn't happen to have another one of those on you, would you?
no subject
Maybe. What's it worth to you?
[ Given the state of this place and how many rooms he had to loot to find a full pack, he won't be sharing from the generosity of his unbeating heart. ]
no subject
Promise not to puke all over you if the feeling comes.
no subject
Yeah, you're gonna have to bid a lot higher than that.
Got any cash?
[ Doesn't look like this guy has much of anything on him, given the lack of shirt and socks, but you never know. Might have some bills stuffed away where the sun don't shine. ]
v2
a man takes a seat beside her (well, more like collapses beside her) and sam jolts a little before breathing out the nicotine she'd been inhaling before he sat down. he mentions that beggars can't be choosers and she huffs her agreement, though maybe not for the same reason. ]
You'd think a place this big would be able to scrounge up some fucking Advil.
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Fingers gently ghost their way along the nape of his neck, head ducked some, eyes closing. But the lure of nicotine pulls him from whatever moment of quiet he'd managed to have right then and there and he lazily looks over to her and the way the paper slowly burns away with every puff from her lips. )
You got another one of those?
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[ she reaches into her pocket, digging the pack out and tossing it in his direction. it's about two-thirds full, her sister's been trying to get her to quit. ]
Don't know if they're helping, but they're not making things worse. [ at least when it comes to the headache that still feels like a spike running from the back of her skull through just above her eye socket. ]
cw: mention of cancer
Fingers take care in the way he handles the pack β slowly stripping a smoke from it and gently placing it between his lips. )
Been there, done that.
( Making things worse for himself. Mumbled around his cigarette as he looks around for a light. )
cw: mention of drug addiction
Yeah, so have I. [ it's why she's avoiding the coke and only taking occasional sips from the champagne. noticing that he's looking for a light, she rises to her knees and digs the one she'd found earlier out of the picnic basket closest to him. this, she hands to him instead of tossing. ]
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WELCOME. (REMIX) v.2
which is why, when he's jostled by a newcomer who reaches for the champagnes (and wines, and steve is pretty sure a half-empty bottle of whisky had made its way into one of breakfast baskets), his irritation flares first before he remembers, ah, right. not a little pipsqueak anymore. ]
You sleep in those clothes, or do you just like wearing cigarette perfume?
[ asthma cigarettes; steve still remembers those little tins, with their modern paper labels glued to the casing. ]
Eating something solid might be good for you if you're planning on draining the rest of the bottle.
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Brow raised, he wears a somewhat lazy grin. )
Fitness instructor or first year med student?
( If he's going strictly on looks and commentary here. )
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I thought the showers were working again, [ he finishes with, before going back to his own so-called sandwich β lobster salad, with the dried out tomatoes and the clumpy parmesan, and the stray bits of chicken steve is sure came from some other dish. ]
They're not done with your side of your building, or did you just get here?
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Fingers wrapped around the neck of the champagne bottle, he throws his gaze around the picnic shindig going on around them β stares to the wicker baskets laid out along with the various foods that seem to be scattered about. For the moment, he'll stick to the champagne. )
Just got here. Wherever here is.
( A glance around, he brings the bottle back up to his lips, pausing for a second. )
Thinkin' about leaving a one star review.
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v1
Wah-shaa... cigarettes.
[ Her voice changes when she says the word. It seems to come out with a different feel, almost a texture. As if the sound itself is folding the space it travels through.
And then she's holding a pack of Marlboros Red. ]
There you go. This one's on the house.
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Placing the stick between his lips, he lifts his other hand and... no lighter. Right. That would have been in his coat pocket. Looking to her again, he mumbles around the unlit smoke. )
Got a light to go with it?
( Because he sure as hell doesn't. )
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When he asks for a light, she smiles. ]
What are you talking about? It's already lit.
[ Same as before, it feels bit weird for a moment, and then...the cigarette is lit. It was always lit, wasn't it? Probably. ]
Actually, that's kind of a hassle, you're going to be looking for matches later on. Um, lighter.
[ The single most average red plastic Bic lighter materializes in her hand. Ella clears her throat, then tosses it over to him. ]
Okay, enough showing off. Man, wish I hadn't stopped smoking, now I'm craving one.
v1
Huhwhuyeah.
[He rolls so he can lean over the edge of the bed, hooking his pants with his fingers and drawing them up enough that he can get into his pocket.
Iggy rolls back, bleary eyed, and holds up a pack of cigarettes.]
Here you go, handsome. Lighter's in there, too.
You're new, aren't you? ...did we make out? Not gonna lie to you, I was pretty fucked up last night.
now that bucky's all death consequenced up...
John.
He's moving before he realizes it, the urge to shift being stamped down solely because he doesn't want to bring any attention to them. Doesn't want to risk a distraction in the face of John's appearance here. All that matters right now is getting to speak to the other man again, without anyone around to get in the way.
When he finally makes to the edge of John's blanket though, Bucky finds himself frozen in place, staring down at the man in disbelief. Whether he remembers Duplicity or not, the very fact that John is even here is all that matters. He owes it to the friend he had to do all he can to help the man who's here.
Though, of course-]
John? Don't suppose you recognize me?
[-it'd be a whole lot easier if he didn't need to explain the whole being kidnapped by a sex-fuelled city first.]