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ππ©π© π¦π° π΄π’π©π© π¦π« π±π₯π’ π π¬π²π―π± π¬π£ π₯π’π©π© π [FALL TDM]
Welcome to the Test Drive!
The TDM is welcome to current players and anyone who wants to play in the setting and is encouraged to be used by prospective players. If you are interested in joining the game, you will need to obtain invite from the mod or through an existing member.
For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.
Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.
Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.
For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.
Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.
Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.
GAME PAGES
i.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.
It begins with a nightmare, the details of which have slipped through your fingers. Only the curling echo of its dread lingers in your chest. Something has snapped you out of a catatonic state: the shudder of thunder that claps like the hoofbeat of warhorses, a cold chill running down your spine, the call of your name through an empty hall. Whatever it may be that brings you back to your senses, you find yourself in an old, moldering estate lost to a bygone time. Every chamber empty, leading to more locked and broken doors. Rain pours softly out windows jammed shut, pushing you on a path deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the fortress. Farther and farther, you descend to darkness, following the sound of revelry murmuring behind closed doors.
You are not alone.
The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.
No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.
Do not fret if you were spirited away in your plain clothes; this illusion has graced you with the finest courtly attire of an older time. Gauzy silks, satins, and velvets in dark and brooding colors. Your mask fits snugly to your face, double-knotted to uphold the most raucous of partying (or determined tugging).
If you are lucky, you were assigned a π Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.
If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole: Removing your mask is possible, but it doesn't come without consequences. The illusion of this night resides in the mask. When it is removed, the uninvited courtiers appear like corpses of moldering flesh and open wounds. Uncovering the truth will not go well for you. Those who are caught going "faceless" will incur dissent against them by the undead courtiers. Either put the mask back on or they will designate you a better one.
Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.
It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.
You are not alone.
The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.
No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.
What are you supposed to be? A New Kid on the Block?
(cw:mood alteration, master/servant dynamics, potential elements of dubcon/noncon.)
If you are lucky, you were assigned a π Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.
If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole:
π The Sacrifice: You represent the maiden, fair and pure. A gift worthy of giving to the gods. Tonight, you are chosen, and this celebration is for you. Your mask takes on the shape of the lamb, deer, dove, or unicorn. Unlike the rest of the unholy court, your pale colored garments leave you feeling targeted throughout every room you enter.
Those in the presence of the Sacrificed will feel an inexplicable attraction and devotion towards the mask wearer. Enamored by their perceived perfection, their presence creates a genuine, yet terrifying, devotion in others.
π The Justiciar: You represent the lord and master, strength and dominion. This is a celebration for the spirits, and you are here to see devotion is paid. Your mask takes on the shape of a lion, bear, bull, or dragon.
Those in the presence of the Justiciar will feel compelled to serve and obey their every command. Those under another's control are still limited by their physical and intellectual limitations.
π The Devourer: You represent the vices, unbidden from chasing your desires. Tonight, you are here to consume the revelry and become a true eater of sin. For the glory of the spirits, you will live a life unleashed for the entertainment of our guest. Your mask takes on the shape of a hound, boar, rat, or hare.
Those with the Devourer's mask will find their pleasure in the service of others . They hunt the party, feeding vicariously on the pleasure and pain brought by their hand. Sweeter than any tonic, the more they taste, the more they want.
π The Temptation: A representation of the devil themselves, here to pull others into the dance with the macabre. Your mask takes on the shape of a goat, bat, serpent, or vulture.
Those with the Temptation's mask can corrupt others by their touch to feel waves of bliss, catatonia, arousal, or agony. The effects of which only last as long as the temptation is touching them, building and building the longer they remain.
Drop the Act
Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.
π The Wretch You now represent the fool, left to the mercy of all other courtiers to entertain through profound humiliation. A metal mask moulded as the face of a gargoyle. A bridle bit fits into your mouth to prevent from speaking. This mask comes with a bell and collar, drawing the attention of others who relish in the wretch's humiliation.Those who escape are of the lucky few to break away from the echo's thrall. The hellish courtiers will continually hunt for faceless to punish until the festivities subside.
Those with the Wretch's mask will feel compelled to obey any command the other masks give them or incur the heat of the metal mask sear into their flesh when they refuse.
It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.
ii.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.
The festivities seem inviting, tempting easily to get swept up into its fray. Those with a strong gut may sense the underlying foulness of deceit and malice that runs under current of it all. Perhaps you let yourself get carried away by the magic of the night, perhaps you play along for your own safety. After all, how often do you find yourself at a ball fit for a court of the damned?
In the dark before the dawn, the festivities slowly begin to turn sour. Activities grow more violent and vicious. The illusions start to fade on their own as the courtiers become gradually more and more bedraggled. The sweetness of rot grows stronger, attracting the buzzing of flies. Their façade slips away to reveal the legion of undead carousing among the living.
One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.
Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.
Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.
For most, this is the end.
For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.
Dance! Dance until you die!
(cw:nsfw, bdsm, potential for cannibalism.)
The celebrations have spread its festivities across the heart of the Lonely Fortress. Each hall feeds a different vice, drenched in a different color. All are welcome to and from hall to hall, dared to delve deeper and deeper into their depravities until the night's final hour. Each hall is full and brimming with laughter and life, men and women who don masks of every shape possible.π Great Hall: For dancing and fanfare. The candle's flame bathes all in a merry golden light. Players and singers have been forced onto the tables and the chandeliers to drum up a sleazy tune and a beat to dance to. Stacked flagons and casks wheel out seemingly endless amounts of wine that penetrate even the deepest of inhibitions. The energy in this room is infectious; some who begin to dance may find themselves unable to stop.
π Banquet Hall: The light in the banquet hall appears almost violet, sucking the color out of most of the food. Everything that can be found on the table tastes decadent: the rich cakes, succulent meats, sweet fruits. Your fellow exiles may be spotted being used as platters and furniture here, trussed up for display and entertainment as the hungry pick cakes and caviar off their bare skin. So long as the food they serve doesn't run out, no forks or knives will be turned against them.
π Velvet Parlor: For those looking for a place to feed carnal appetites, they will find a large parlor room draped entirely in lush pillows and heavy velvet curtains. Tonight, the room glows under a deep crimson light as courtiers slake their lusts in a garden of intertwined bodies. The heat of arousal is palpable through the diffusion of the egregore, a symphony of moans echoing from one end of the parlor to the other.
π Long Gallery: If it's a dangerous sport you crave, look no further than the long gallery — a wall of windows on one side let in a dusty blue light of the moon. Up and down the corridor, courtiers race each other riding on the backs of Wretches, swatting their hinds with makeshift crops. Others are made as pedestals to hold apple targets for knives and axes to be thrown at them. A crowd gathers around a game of knives, waiting to see who draws first blood. The iron of blood seethes into the air here, chasing after the play of pain.
Eyes Wide Shut
(cw:human/ritual sacrifice.)
One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.
"Now cometh our rise," drones the gold devil's mask. "Our tribute to the Sleeping One, our venerable host, shall be paid in blood."The deovels roar, their frenzy rising with the heat of the room. If you possess the Sacrificed mask, the blood tribute is...well you. After a long night of salivating, it's now the deovels' turn to come for you. You are hunted to be thrust atop a makeshift palanquin, jeering as you are carried to the fortress's lonely chapel as a living sacrifice.
Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.
Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.
For most, this is the end.
For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.
iii.
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!
With the breaking of the dawn, the terror of the night is swept away as light fills in the shadows. The hellish court and its massacre are gone within the blink of an eye, leaving the Lonely Fortress back in its regressive state of damp and dark solitude. No trace of dark ritual or aggressor remains. The echo has come and gone, leaving the fortress in a dead and uneasy silence compared to the raucous frenzy that had possessed it a blink before.
The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?
If you survived the night: Wherever you are, whatever you had been doing by the end of the night, it matters not. Just like that, you jolt awake from a long and restless sleep. The morning light pierces through old, musty curtains in another hazy day in the Crucible. No traces of your courtly garments or mask remain; the events of the night echo in your body, groaning like a hangover. You may find you are tucked away perfectly into bed, fully dressed and in dirtied boots...or you may have woken to missing clothes altogether. Any injuries accrued at the hand of other exiles remain, lending to some part of the night being grounded in truth.
If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.
If you had died at any part of the night: You will not have woken in any bed (unless you were slain in one), but instead rise in the part of the castle where you fell; not a trace of injuries left, only the discomforting memory of death the strangeness of your awakening.
You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.
Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.
Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.
The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?
Another Glorious Morning
If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.
Deep asleep in thy wormy bed
You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.
Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.
Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.
dyingggg π
Because it's him. Has to be. Steve doesn't know how he knows, but he knows. He's been haunting Quentin like a ghost. Is it the way Quentin eats like an animal starved, the messy snarl of dark hair hair, the tweaky way his hands shake — who knows. doesn't really matter. Steve is just sure. That under that mask, it's him. Or someone that is so convincingly like him, he's desperate to talk to him, touch him, jesus fucking christ, anything really.
Only he can't. Not with this bit stuck between his teeth. And in the jostle of being dragged into subservience for whoever wants it, a pathetic little mongrel passed around the party, bell a tingling like a cat that can't be trusted — it's just impossible. So close, so far. It's enough he starts to doubt it's even real. It's not like the party itself is real. So maybe he's just seeing what he wants to see. Because he misses his fog people more than he misses his goddamn family, and isn't that fucked up? Maybe it's because at home his mom is drinking too much white wine and going to bed early. In the fog they're hurting, fighting, dying. And he's stuck here when he should be there. It's not great here but it's also sure not dying, and dying, and dying, and watching everyone you give a shit about die too.
Doesn't matter how many times he's played this game. Steve still fought when it all went ugly. It wasn't enough. It never is. And now they're finally in arm's reach and he still can't say something, besides choked off moans and grunts from behind the full embrace of metal around his head. He doesn't want to jump, not now that he's finally found someone he knows, someone that gets it. He can't say anything but it's clear from the haggard, choking noises he's making that he's on the ugly side of emotional, wet eyes and blood making the burns from the mask sting. So he just holds onto Quentin's hand like a vice. It's only natural to get to this point in a trial. To want to die on your own terms. He gets it.
Only if this is a dream he doesn't want to wake up and be alone again. He doesn't want to jump. Even if it's inevitable.
no subject
He's seen this guy on and off all night, watching him. For a little while, Quentin worried that it was one of the zombie-remnant-walker hosts, but the way he flinches from them says human. So...frankly, he takes the attention and tries not to sweat it. It's easy to pretend he doesn't notice once the party takes a special interest in the wretched mask and the enticing little chime around his neck. It's too big for Quentin to handle, so he doesn't handle it. He has to handle himself.
When he handles himself into the palanquin (when he's handled onto the palanquin by stronger hands once he's fought himself bloody and exhausted enough that he can't stop them), he doesn't have a choice but to pay attention. There's more than one bell chirping in the crowded compartment, but he knows which wretch among the lambs is the one from before. He can tell because he gets a wave of dΓ©jΓ vu. Something about the back of his neck, the clench of his hands. I've been here before.
So when they're all handled out near the pit (the maw, the mouth, oh god), Quentin finds his wretch's hand, and his wretch holds onto him like he was waiting for it. There are sacrifices ahead of them, taking their turns. Quentin pulls the wretch's hand to his stomach, folds over his shoulder to whisper fiercely, "It's gonna be okay.
"Where I'm from, I've died so many times--more than I can count. You should be scared; that means you're alive, you're worth something. Have you ever died?"
catch me forgetting how to write proseeeee sorry for my capitalization crimes lmao
If he wasn't already sure, he's 2000%, all his money down, when Quentin talks about dying, more times than he can count, that being scared is good, what the fuck man. Steve can't laugh in this stupid head trap, but there's a caged gasp of something. He nods, and then he nods again, and nodding more doesn't really translate that he's died more times than he can count, too, hell maybe he was there for a good number of Quentin's, because they never make good choices in a trial together. How the hell is he supposed to tell him that he knows, that he understands, that he's here, for whatever it's worth — that's why Steve is scared. Not so much the dying. He's done that so many times, the edge has worn off a little. It's the dying and waking up and it never really happened and he's stuck here on his own all over again part that is really fucking him up. This is for sure the weirdest dream he's had about some fog person horribly dying, but it definitely isn't the first. It's not even the first time it's been Quentin. It's been so hard to understand what is real lately, and this trippy ass party is certainly not helping things. He is not sure he can mentally afford to find Quentin, be with him, hold onto him, know without a doubt he's real — only to lose his grip on things all over again.
For what it's worth, Quentin feels real. Steve can feel him breathing, in and out, and it helps him to remember he needs to breathe too. Even if it is haggard, metallic, pained through the cage of his mask. He's dressed up like a Shakespearean understudy, his mask covers his trademark hair, there's literally nothing he can think of to explain. And he just wants Quentin to know, before it's too late. So he pulls their hands closer, thumps them hard against his chest, the spot the hook would go if they were doing this the old fashioned way. It's a pretty esoteric attempt at charades, but he's really trying here, okay???
no subject
dΓ©jΓ vuΒ
In the crook of the wretch's neck, a familiar heat and stink of fear. In his arms, a shape he knows how to hold onto. In the mask, the worn, phlegmy patina of a voice clattering off the metal in a way that hits Quentin's nerves with a rancid sourness. His hands open around the wretch's chest, one over his chest (like he has to push something out, like something is stuck) and one between his shoulder blades (like it will keep him in place, like a pin). The noise around them feels muted as he pulls back, peering for the eyes inside that mask.Β
"....No." His gaze burns, waters. It creaks out of his throat: "Steve?"Β
no subject
Their arms are trapped between them but Steve tries to hug back with the one he's got left. His grip is too tight. Sorry. It's not like he can just headlock onto the guy and keep him from disappearing, right? He tries to say Quentin's name, but it doesn't come out right. Garbled, wrong, trapped between his teeth. They may not have hugged before but having him this close is familiar, anyway. Maybe unhooking DOES count. The shrieks of terror around them and the smell of blood everywhere, it's practically like they're back in the fog. Back in a trial. How fucked up is it that he wishes they were?
Steve really doesn't know what the lightbulb is. Doesn't matter, either. It's such a relief, it's almost crushing — which makes no sense, and yet, that's how it is. He doesn't even have time to explain why, either, it just has to be. He nods, chokes on blood and spit and tears. Tries to claw the mask off, but it doesn't work, because of course it doesn't. So then he grunts, drags his fingers uselessly at the sealed mouth, as if it wasn't already fucking obvious that he can't talk. Well, if Quentin wasn't sure it was Steve before, surely his inner dumb blonde jumping out will seal the deal.
morning timejump...
"I gotta--" He throws a look over his shoulder for an exit, a blindside, anything. There's nothing except a courtier noticing the sweet time they're taking. "We gotta--we can--" His mouth trembles, gut fluttering with it. There's nowhere to go. Nothing to do.Β
"Look at me." If he can see him. Quentin puts his hands on either side of the mask, butts their foreheads together. He strains for eye contact, to promise something with the look. "I'm gonna find you at the fire. Okay? I'm gonna find you outside."Β
Nevermind that he's never remembered the campfire during a trial before. It's flimsy, cheap comfort. He can't even taste it on his mouth, he doubts it hits Steve's ears. But it's all he has as a masked courtier--a masked human? do they have any allies here?--closes in on them. He turns an inch, like he could fit it, but the pit edge is closer than it seemed. He's not sure when, in the dark, he loses hold of Steve's hand.
But there's no campfire. No roundtable of familiar survivors coalescing, recovering. Only bland breakfast and a low burning hearth. He eats out of a sense of guilt and because it's easy to bolt the slop, but it feels uneven and unsatisfying on his stomach as he returns to his meandering tour of the Crucible. It's...nice. A little nippy, but moving helps, and there's plenty to see. The sight of the library puts an extra chill through him, the sight of residents talking lowly and sweetly in a parlor dispels it.Β
It feels like a dream in a way that very little in the Fog did. Quentin has had a good grip on his dreams for a long time, and his ability to move and touch feels as sure it does in his dreams. This place is as surreal as anything in his head too.Β When he sees a wrung-dry reflection of Steve down a corridor, it feels like he's going to leave his body for a second. Leave a dream? Or leave reality?Β
Fuck it. He lets the blanket wrapped over his shoulder fall as his steps pick up pace. When he grabs Steve around the face now, he can feel the lively heat coming off him. Quentin takes a deep smell off the hair behind his temple and pulls Steve into an ironclad embrace.Β
"Am I awake?"Β
no subject
Steve tries to hold on for both of them. He can lift Quentin off a meat hook, he should be able to plant his fucking feet and delay it, just a little longer. It makes it worse to try. Means it is a shove over the edge instead of a lazy prod. He can't hold on and he's falling and then there's brutal pain and then there's nothing and then --
And then he's back in the bed he's been rotting in for days.
That it was all some shitty dream is not the revelation Steve needed after all that shit with Agnete. So truth be told, he is miserable enough about it to rot in bed some more. Maybe he'll go back to that dream. He won't fuck it up this time, freak out, get that thing on his head. Even if it's just the same loop of Quentin making promises he can't keep, that would be better than being awake and being alone.
But at some point Steve gets up. He would rather not, but there's not enough heat in the blankets to make them appealing. So that's weird. Steve only vaguely has an idea of where he is going (bath maybe. that sounds warm), mostly he's just going somewhere to go somewhere, trying and failing as he always does to not get turned around in the stupid creepy castle. He's so dog tired of all this he doesn't even startle at the footsteps approaching. At this point, if it finally is a murderer he's spent weeks anticipating, it would be strangely reaffirming.
Okay nevermind, he was talking a big game there. When he gets grabbed Steve does flinch on instinct. Quentin is right, it probably is a good thing that he still has some kind of survival instinct rattling around. He grabs fistfuls of whoever has him to try and pry them off, which is already clue enough it's not a trial, because fighting back is not an option in a trial. Thankfully, it clicks before he tries to struggle free. And after it clicks, well, good luck to Quentin if wriggling free is something he would like to do. Because if they hugged it out at the trippy dream party sacrifice, this one is more akin to seeing if it is humanly possible to crush bone through embrace alone.
Is he crying? No, surely not. That pathetic sniffle is from the cold. "Please be real." Even holding the guy, flesh and muscle, breath on his neck, isn't enough to be truly convincing.
no subject
He doesn't need proof for himself. He can tell by the smell coming off Steve's neck, where they hit each other in the embrace, the familiar print of his hand and wavelength of his chest heaving for air. Or maybe that's all psychosomatic exaggeration after the fact, but Quentin knows...he just knows.Β
Knows enough that, while he doesn't let go, he fully grins and turns it against the skin of Steve's neck. "What should I do? You want me to recite the killers in backwards alphabetical order? You wanna go find a flashlight and do some damage? Or maybe show you the spot where you're--"Β
Ticklish? One hand does let go to precision-pinch a soft bit below the ribs that he knows from kind and unkind experience will make Steve jump out of his skin.Β
no subject
Holding Quentin, hearing him, even feeling that trademark unhinged shit eating grin against his neck — doesn't mean this is actually happening. It just means his weird sick brain has perfectly crafted a convincing amalgamation of someone he misses. Someone he may or may not have entirely made up? Who knows, because nobody else seems to have the slightest clue what he's talking about when he brings up realm shit, despite the OBVIOUS ADJACENCY OF THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES!!!
And then Quentin pries ice cold fingers at a spot he accidentally elbowed once and has not had the human decency to avoid ever since. Steve cringes in half, barks a pained laugh, and then pries Quentin away with both arms, one hand on his face at that, in a paltry attempt to save his sides from any more pinching. "What the fuck is wrong with you? We were having a moment, you asshole." Steve wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand, because he just has allergies, NOT emotions, OK!!! But he might be smiling too because yeah, that's Quentin for sure.
no subject
"Man, where the hell are we?"
no subject
"Fuck if I know." Unfortunately for Quentin, the person who has been stuck here for weeks isn't a smarty that could help plot and scheme about their circumstances. It is simply Steve, who has been doing his best, but his best is not very good without his emotional support Jancy around. "They've got a name for it. C something. But you go outside and there's fog everywhere."
What a relief to say this to someone that will understand. Fog everywhere, as in, surely they're still somewhere under the Entity's purview.
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Blanket swathed around him again, he jogs back over, piling against Steve from behind. Both hands squeeze his upper arms, mouth bowing to his shoulder. Not a kiss or a bite, just a kind of puppy-butting. "Show me the ropes," he insists more softly, "so if I lose you again, I can find you. We're gonna figure this out."
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A blanket seems like a really good idea. Steve left his behind because slumping under it didn't feel warm anymore, so he abandoned it like it personally wronged him. It's cold as hell out, though. Maybe he'll just stick close to Quentin. It's for body heat, okay, nothing weird! It's definitely not a desire to stay close stemming from full body loneliness turned desperate now that it finally has something familiar to hold onto. Of course not.
Steve is not the best tour guide Quentin could have asked for. He has a terrible habit of getting turned around in the castle, like his brain has stopped understanding that walls and doors and living spaces work in relatively predictable ways. He shows him what he can find, though. Place for food, place for hanging out. The fireplaces that are best for sleeping by, though he does not mention he's been sleeping by them. The baths, because those are his favorite place, especially now that the food is dogshit. They've more or less made it full circle, as many sights as Steve could reliably navigate to, when they slow down again by a fire that seems smaller and colder than usual, even when they huddle next to it.
"There's more outside," Steve says, voice lowered, like they're sharing secrets that can't leave the hearth they're next to. Did he stick his hands somewhere under Quentin's blanket to warm up? Yup, next question. "I think you can go out there. It's all fog and monsters, though."