Dressing Room

[dresden_kink_mods]

Ack! Close the door; people are changing in here!

This post is for RPG shenanigans. The rules stand. A short refresher: don't be an asshole.

This post-specifics: multiple characters are okay. Characters specific to alternate verses are okay. OCs are okay. Your journal coming in to hang too is okay. There isn't a formal scenario here; it's an open sandbox where all characters and community-watchers can come and play. If your thread is going adult-only, put up a notice in the subject line. If it's going into trigger territory, don't be an asshole: no noncon-noncon'ing anyone, watchers included. Don't start OOC shit.

And have a blast!

(Don't have a dreamwidth account for your character(s)? Go check out dw_codesharing. If there's nothing on the first page, dig deep. Lots get missed, especially when new codes go out. Also, check out the code sharing post.)

Comments

[thirteen_pillars]

Mac moves smoothly; between flipping the browning steak slices and grabbing the roll to toast, he reaches for the hot water spigot-- not getting much use, this side of April-- and fills a glass bar mug. His hand hovers over a dusty bottle of brandy, hidden under the counter, on the back corner of a low shelf-- but he thinks better of it, and grabs some orange zinger instead, plopping the tea-bag into un-adulterated water.

Once the roll is toasting and he's flipped out a tongful of onions to grill with the steak, he covers it all with a pot lid, gives it a little water, and heads over to set the tea in front of Mac. He has better tea, herbal stuff from local suppliers, black leaf that will stand your hair on end (if you have any to stand). But the little box tea, with its cloying tang, is almost desperately mortal. Mass produced. He hopes Morgan appreciates the thought.

"Bartender's choice," he says simply, and places a hand over the top of the mug, spinning it to point the handle at Mac. Then he's back to the grill, finishing up the sandwich.

[fanatic_os]

Morgan reaches for the cup, wraps his hands around it, mines the fogged up glass for heat with a sigh he can't quite keep in. He leans over it a little, breathes in the steam like he has a cold, lets it heat up his face, making his cheeks flush under the hard lines and stains.

It smells. Well. Deceptively like the flat his sister lived in, with the hard sofa and wooden chairs, their grandmother's clock on the wall, her knitting forever folded neatly in a basket under an endtable. Familiar. Human. A hundred other things. A hundred years ago.

He pulls at the string--bobs the bag once, twice, watches the dark concentrate diffuse out-- his fingers dry and catching on the string, and lets it sit. Mac always knows what you need. It's a skill Morgan's been thankful (envious, admiring) of for years.

He takes a careful sip-- pulls back sharply when it burns his mouth. Can't help the dry little huff of a laugh because it's stupid and foolish and such a dumb thing to do, and he went and did it anyway, just like everyone else. "Sugar?" he asks. Why not; he's come to indulge, after all. His sense, his whims, his restlessness.

[thirteen_pillars]

Mac nods, passing over a little basket of sweeteners and sugar. Then the sandwich is done-- he corrals the meat with a spatula, the grilled onions, sliding them easily into the toasted roll, going deeper into the kitchen to check the progress of the latest batch of fries-- they're done, and he drains them and spreads a generous portion along Morgan's plate.

"Welcome," he grunts when he sets them on the bar near Morgan-- and if he didn't wait for a 'thank you' it wasn't because he doesn't think one was coming.