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applesaucedream2014-08-30 04:33 pm
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Entry tags:
- character: daine sarrasri,
- character: eliot waugh,
- character: johnny truant,
- character: peeta mellark,
- character: rashad durant,
- character: spike,
- character: sunshine,
- dropped: aglet bottlerack,
- dropped: aiden,
- dropped: andrew noble,
- dropped: charley pollard,
- dropped: jennifer strange,
- dropped: jodie holmes,
- dropped: lucy saxon,
- dropped: seth,
- party post,
- retired: aziraphale,
- retired: bee,
- retired: crowley,
- retired: peter vincent
Enchantment Under the Sea
Tonight, the dreamers of Manhattan will find themselves transported to what is unmistakably a high school gymnasium. Granted, it's lavishly decorated in blues, greens, and violets. There are jellyfish made of tissue paper and streamers, painted cardboard fish are dangling from ceiling, and an abundance of transparent balloons serve as substitute bubbles. Tables and chairs are clustered around the periphery for those who'd like to sit, but the majority of the floor is open for dancing. Along one wall, folding tables hold snacks and bowls of punch. There's no DJ to be seen, but a sound system is playing a steady stream of classic dance songs.
It's impressive work for a nonexistent prom committee, all things considered.
But the setting is not the only thing that hearkens back to one's teenage years. The dreamers will find, regardless of age or species, that they're now saddled with the hormones of an average sixteen-year-old human being⦠and with the delightful mood fluctuations and bouts of irrationality that come with the package. (Dreamers who are already teenagers might be said to be getting a reprieve⦠but dealing with adults in such a state will be trying enough on its own. Someone has to chaperone, right?)
The good news for dreamers who aren't into dances is that there's an entire high school to explore, though the hallways will only be half-lit and many of the classrooms will be locked up. Even the parking lot and athletic fields are accessible, but dreamers may find themselves getting mysteriously turned around if they try to actually leave school property.
[ooc: you all know the drill. Any and all characters are welcome, regardless of whether or not they're in the game. Dreamers may remember or forget the events of the party at the player's discretion.]
It's impressive work for a nonexistent prom committee, all things considered.
But the setting is not the only thing that hearkens back to one's teenage years. The dreamers will find, regardless of age or species, that they're now saddled with the hormones of an average sixteen-year-old human being⦠and with the delightful mood fluctuations and bouts of irrationality that come with the package. (Dreamers who are already teenagers might be said to be getting a reprieve⦠but dealing with adults in such a state will be trying enough on its own. Someone has to chaperone, right?)
The good news for dreamers who aren't into dances is that there's an entire high school to explore, though the hallways will only be half-lit and many of the classrooms will be locked up. Even the parking lot and athletic fields are accessible, but dreamers may find themselves getting mysteriously turned around if they try to actually leave school property.
[ooc: you all know the drill. Any and all characters are welcome, regardless of whether or not they're in the game. Dreamers may remember or forget the events of the party at the player's discretion.]
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She's never been to a school dance, though there was a time when she would have just about killed for the opportunity. But the closest thing she ever managed was that fucking disastrous birthday party. There was no question of her attending any large social functions after that, not with the way Aiden had behaved. She feels a twinge of resentment, then brushes it aside. It's not as if she'd wanted to go to any more big parties, either, so it's probably just as well that no one ever asked.
Aiden isn't overly thrilled to be here, either - it's only a matter of time before someone starts vying for Jodie's attention - but at least there's more ready entertainment for him. A ripple seems to run through a cluster of balloons on the floor, and he bats one of them into the air.
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"HEY GIRL," he yells, like a total douchebag (great, so that came along with it too), and directs a gratuitous pair of fingerguns to the swirly haze that is Aiden. "Please, please, please tell me you feel like you're gonna vomit emotions any minute, I do not want to be the only asshole here the rift decided to bequeath with a gift basket of hormones. Hey," (god, he's barely had anything to drink yet and he's already this far out, looks like low drinking tolerance came with the package) - he leans in and shouts over the pounding music, "You wanna go get high??"
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Spotting the snack table across the room, he decides to wander in that direction.
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She doesn't much want to bellow over the music, so she lays a hand on his arm to get his attention before leaning in to offer a cheerful, "Hullo!"
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Speaking of familiar twinges of self-awareness... wow, god, what is going on with him? He feels like he's on drugs. Everything is overstimulating - the pulse of music and the brush of people, either randos the dream created or strangers he doesn't know - it doesn't matter.
Everyone is hot.
Okay... no they aren't. A lot of them, the ones that don't seem real, aren't really there when you look at them - just a manufactured, vague crowd - are obviously teenagers. Those ones aren't hot. Because they're unattainable. And not in a sexy way.
No one is hot, actually. Johnny's horny.
And is he... is he wearing a tux?
"Jesus Christ," he mutters to himself, and sort of gravitates toward the snack table. There's a bowl of punch and several cups lined up. He picks one up and sips. Not spiked. Well, fuck, if this is a high school dance, he's gonna have a flask in his pocket, right? Duh.
Of course he does. He gives it a sniff. Cheap, throat-burning vodka. He empties it into the bowl.
There we go.
Johnny is so ready to get utterly obliterated and possibly high, throw up on the football field, and make out with anyone who will have him. Not necessarily in that order. He hasn't felt this way in years. He feels like... like a teenager.
"Oh, come on," he says out loud, and checks his face. He doesn't seem any younger - no, all his scars are there, the tattoos, everything. But he feels like he's going to explode. He has a lot of feelings. And he needs somewhere to put them. As fast as possible.
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Come to that, Charley herself feels more than a little adolescent, which is very peculiar. She feels... impatient, ready to do anything; wanting to do something and careless enough that she might very well regardless of the wisdom of it. She furrows her brow, thoughtlessly brushing her hands over her skirt, which makes her frown properly, looking down at herself. Gosh, that is very... glittery fabric.
Feeling suddenly and unaccountably self-conscious, she retreats through a nearby, streamer-hung doorway to find a bathroom or a window or somewhere where she might examine her reflection. A bathroom presents itself first, possessed of chipped tiles, mint-green toilet cubicles, and its own, distinctly adolescent odour.
In the mirror, Charley finds herself decked out in a short, black and white halter dress liberally covered with spangles. The very thing a hip sixteen year old might wear to her prom in 2004, not that Charley knows that. And it's certainly a nice enough dress, but the feeling of self-consciousness persists, and Charley frowns and pokes at her stomach. Mouth twisting, she turns to the side and sucks her belly in as much as she can, before letting it out with a huff and a wrinkle of her nose. She feels... awkward, and unattractive, and then, as soon as she lets that thought realise, annoyed. That's not like her at all, and she's buggered if she's going to pay any attention to it.
It's with a particular, head-held-high insistence on her own quality, therefore, that she heads back into the auditorium, streamers fluttering behind her. She maintains this attitude until she sees Johnny, at which point she blushes hotly, and has to swallow down a stupid little hiccough of giddiness that blooms just under her sternum. Bloody hell, she can hardly keep up with her own mood.
She sidles up to him with a faintly prim expression, not entirely sure what else to do with her face. 'Hello.'
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Her frustration about the dress isn't the only reason for her to avoid the gym as if magnetically repulsed (don't even get her started on the tragic lighting situation), but it's good enough to be getting on with, and no one tries to stop her as she wanders the darkened hallways. Hell, there has to be some normal clothes that would fit her somewhere in this place, right? Nurse's office, maybe. She'd even take a damn smock if she could find the art department.
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"Uh, hey!" he says. What a fuckin charmer. He grins, like that will help. "Hi."
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He's definitely not feeling the mood lighting, nor is he all that enticed by the punch, so he wanders out into the halls of the school instead. He's feeling...he's not sure, but it's definitely not normal. Thankfully he's got a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. That should help to pass the time.
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Not in the mood to dance or chat over the snack table, he slips out into the hall to find a drinking fountain. Having located one, he's busy getting a drink when someone else comes by.
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Someone's beaten her to it, actually, and she wants to run away in embarrassment, but she can't quite turn away from someone in such audible distress. That sounds like a man's voice. Did she come into the wrong bathroom? Well it doesn't matter now.
She knocks timidly on the door. "Hello?" she say softly. "Are you okay in there?"
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He's the size of a bean. A human bean, that is, not a food bean -- though which would be worse he's not sure. Intellectually he knows that this means no one's going to step on him and there's no reason to be afraid or to want to hide, but viscerally he can't shake the feeling that something's going to swoop out of the air and get him. For that reason he has crept under one of the snack tables and is just barely visible behind the low-hanging plastic tablecloth. His clothing is another puzzle to him; quite unexpectedly he finds himself wearing an impossibly neatly sewn brown suit and a pair of uncomfortable, bean-style leather shoes. The shoes he kicked off almost immediately, which is why they're just sort of laying on the floor a short way from the snacks.
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"Who'd leave their shoes?" she mutters to herself, her voice barely audible beneath the music. She nudges them beneath the table with her foot, then blinks as she feels resistance. Is someone under there?
She crouches, lifting the edge of the tablecloth, then blinks in astonishment at who she sees. "Aglet?" she says, face splitting into a grin. A moment later, though, her expression shifts to something more concerned. "Are you all right? Did you shrink someone?"
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[OOC: If your character has the feels, Rashad's going to help himself. If your character does not especially have the feels we can say he just fed on someone else and I'll give him an emotion to express. :p]
I hereby give you permission to eat everything Johnny has to offer
OM NOM NOM
WHOOPS
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oh dear
this can only end in tears
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But that isn't the weird thing; this is plainly one of those shared Rift dreams, and they all have some kind of bizarre theme that they adhere to. He feels... on edge, somehow, almost like he's high, but without any of the obviously reality-altering side effects. There's an itch under his skin, and he suddenly really wants a fag.
Which is also odd. Cigarette smoking is something he took up for a variety of reasons, but he's fairly sure he's not physiologically capable of becoming addicted to them, and he's never actually craved a cigarette. Well, regardless. He fishes one out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and lights up with a click of his fingers. He's probably not supposed to be smoking in here, but fuck 'em, right?
It's as he's slouching against the wall smoking that he notices the other weird thing. Because he's not just idly perusing the dancing crowd, he's... perving; his gaze focussing as if automatically on tits and legs and necks, tight trousers showcasing bulges and bums, the grip of hands on hips. Crowley sucks harder on his cigarette, shifting awkwardly. That's-- he has sex, obviously, but he doesn't lust like that, indiscriminately and unprompted, entirely independent of any Effort. That's human.
But... that's what it is. He's horny. He has never in his six-thousand some years of existence been horny. What the fuck.
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Oh, speak of the literal devil, there's Crowley, looking unaccountably attractive smoking and leaning against the wall. Aziraphale darts over, feeling a bit sheepish. Like a - well, like a lovesick human.
"Er," he says, blushing warmly. "Er, hi."
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harddifficult to think of much else. If he were in his old stage outfit he would at least have the benefit of trousers tight enough to keep everything contained, but the cheap suit in which he finds himself hides little, and even Peter finds himself a little uncomfortable with his inability to conceal the problem that keeps coming up whenever he spots a short dress or plunging neckline. Besides, it's just awkward to walk around this way even if the situation is irritatingly familiar from some long-buried memory, so he soon slips out of the gymnasium and down an unlit hall in search of somewhere private to take care of himself so he can go back to being a human being capable of real thoughts.no subject
The rather sudden swing to concerns about being abandoned in a strange schoolhouse is alarming on several levels. Bertie rises and heads toward the classroom door, intent on finding anybody else. He pauses before heading out, though, another strange thought that he's feeling a bit greasy about the face comes to him and he rubs a sleeve across his forehead. He doesn't like this one wit.
A discombobulated Englishman comes charging full speed out of the classroom and finds himself immediately running into another man. "What?" He squints in the dimness. "Wh-who's that? Hallo?"
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She stops short when she encounters her first human, her elongated face contorting into a frankly disturbed expression. "What are you meant to be?" she asks bluntly.
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"Annabel McAlistair," she says, offering her hand out before she thinks better of it and puts it back along her side. "I'm a scientist."
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She doesn't mind the outfit, though. But when she spots Peter across the dance floor, heading in another direction, a whole lot of strong emotions well up inside her, her guts twisting, and that is something she can be without. She needs alcohol. Please let someone have spiked the punch or smuggled something in. Getting herself a drink and tasting it lets her know that yes, someone did spike the drink, thank goodness for that. Now all she needs is a hot girl to make out with and it will actually start to resemble her school experience.
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"Heyyy," he says, or rather slurs. "I brought you punch. Which I personally improved." He steps back and offers the cup with a grin, quite pleased with himself.
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So Annabel is resentfully settled against the wall, belligerent that her attempts to explore the school had resulted in finding more of interest in the janitor's closet than the science labs.
It's probably safe to say she's ruined her dress with dust and wrinkles, if nothing else, by this point.
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It's Annabel's dress that first catches her eye, more because of the adventure it's clearly been through than the pattern. Here, Eve thinks, is someone far too interesting - and young - to be sulking against a wall all night.
She's not trying to sneak up on the woman, but the noise and the crowd mask her approach. One moment, Annabel is alone; the next, there's an ostensibly human woman with white-blonde dreads and an enormous pair of sunglasses leaning against the wall beside her.
"You," Eve says decisively, "should be dancing."
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[closed]
Aziraphale rematerializes in the school library, destitute and pathetic, and immediately curls up into the first alcove he can find, hugging his knees to his chest. Even now that there's no one looking at him, he feels even more embarrassed, having acted like that - Daine will never respect him again, and neither Spike nor Crowley are likely to let him hear the end of this. He's never been so sensitive, though. What is wrong with him?
Probably some aspect of the dream. The Rift toying with them, like it does. More and more it seems to be a cruel, frivolous and even malicious entity.
He rests his head on his arms, crossed over his knees, sighs, and waits glumly to be allowed to wake up.
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When he's attained a little bit of a buzz from nicotine and liquor, he finally goes to find the angel. He pokes his head into a few classrooms, something that turns out to be a broom cupboard (and thank God Aziraphale isn't weeping in the broom cupboard, he doesn't know what he'd do about that), and eventually comes to the school library. Of all the places Aziraphale could be in a school, this seems the most likely, and Crowley ventures in, peeking a bit awkwardly through the stacks.
'Angel?' he calls. 'You there?'
And indeed there he is, curled up in a nook and looking thoroughly pathetic. Crowley experiences an uncomfortable squirming feeling somewhere in the vicinity of his diaphragm, and immediately ceases to have any idea what to say. 'Uh, hi.'
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oh right NSFW to the surprise of absolutely flippin no one
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This might, empirically, be the worst night of his life. He feels out of place in his own skin, threatened by everyone around him, and he's tried to quell the tide of anxiety with cup after cup of spiked punch. It was not strong enough.
Most tragic of all, his sense of style seems to have vanished along with his self-confidence, and he's trapped in a hideous purple velvet horror that smells like a thift shop. A mature, sane Eliot in control over his fashion choices would have opted for something either totally Oscar Wilde or more modern and Tom Ford, but no, no, this suit has fallen drastically short of either. He is not fit to be seen.
Which is why he's currently hiding behind the gym's bleachers, partaking in liquid courage. Unfortunately, since he has reverted to hapless adolescence, said courage comes in the form of peach schnapps.
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Johnny's been hoping to run into Eliot since he got here - this dream is a thousand times more conducive to pleasant, flirty interaction than the last one they shared - and he can't stop himself from grinning the moment he spots Eliot behind the bleachers. He'd been thinking about shuffling back there to work on getting high again, or maybe have a nap - can you nap in dreams? he keeps meaning to find out - but this is better.
But as soon as he creeps closer he can tell Eliot's in a bad way. He wants to laugh at the hideousness of the suit, but that doesn't seem appropriate. Shit. Eliot probably had a terrible time at prom. At first Johnny's not sure he should maintain his approach, but then he softens and comes over. Eliot took care of him in the last dream, he can return the favor, even as drunk and stupid as he is.
"Hey," he says. "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"
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He heads down the hall on the lookout for a bathroom to decently clean his face off, pulling his pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket as he goes.
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Of course, her mood can't help but take a downturn when she finds Spike covered in blood. It might please him to know that her immediate reaction isn't worry that he's fallen off the wagon (though to be fair, it's not entirely concentrated around his mouth), but she's still concerned.
"Hey," she says, brow furrowing as she approaches him. "What the hell happened to you?"
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