Winter Gala

[justaddh2o]

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: Jeopardy
WHEN: Saturday, December 21 from 5:00 p.m. onward into the early morning hours of Sunday, December 22.
WHAT: The Winter Gala Fundraiser for Jeopardy Relief Efforts
WARNINGS: Please include any necessary warnings in your TLs.
NOTES: This post will serve as a catch-all for logs for the entire event (though you’re also welcome to post things elsewhere, of course).

It's the most wonderful time of the year! Well, mostly. In the wake of a near-apocalyptic event, the city of Jeopardy is in need. What started out as an idea to advertise Rikki Chadwick's burgeoning business, after a little more planning and nabbing some ideas from Kenzi's post, she and Rupert have reconfigured and rebranded their idea to focus less on her and more on the relief effort.


Characters will enter the venue after giving a small donation at the door and they will be greeted by a large room lit in blues, soft pinks, and purples. From the ceilings hang snowflakes made of glass. The centerpieces are also made of glass. Come to think of it, nearly all the decorations are made of glass. Except, that is, the mistletoe hanging from several of the rafters and archways. A buffet-style dinner will be served from 5:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m., at which point, the buffet tables and seating tables will be cleared away to make room for the makeshift stage for the DJ and a gigantic dance floor.

Drinks will be flowing, music will be playing, and people will be bidding on silent auctions to win everything from one of the centerpieces to a date with their favorite imPort and everything in between. So, eat, drink, and be merry until you can't stay awake any longer. Why not? It's all for a good cause, after all.

Comments

powerpose, lmk if not ok

[pillz]

Here's a question: does Kavinsky know that Kaz is scared, uncomfortable, or does he sincerely mistake this for arousal?

Would his behavior change if it did?

Does Kavinsky even know?

Maybe when he's sober. That's a good excuse for a lot of shit: being drunk. His pupils are huge, the carnal bloat of an animal split-seconds from putting its teeth into the vertebrate of another creature.

"So you admit it," he says, cheerfully "you come from a uncivilized civilization." Which is apparently some kind of saucy pickup line in the advanced society that Joseph Kavinsky comes from, because then he's leaning over, his whisky hot mouth brushing a kiss over Kaz's lips that feels like the frictionless slide of ruined satin, even as his hand comes up to bite into the peak of Kaz's knee.

They look like piano keys together, black and white, locked in beside one another for this brief instant, before--

cw: body horror, ptsd, violence; power move let me know if i need to edit~

[roughworkdone]

It all happens fast and then time slows down. Kavinsky's close before Kaz thinks to react - he didn't think Kavinsky would actually do anything. Stupid error. He might even think he deserves what happens next if he could think at all.

He smells the whiskey before Kavinsky's lips touch his.

Then all he can smell is the harbor. Lips press against his, but they're no longer soft and warm, they're cold and swollen and sloughing. Kaz feels the bile in his throat, tastes salt water and the smell--it's no longer whiskey and cologne, it's rotting and death and the scent of burning bodies. It fills his nose and the revulsion tries to climb up his throat. All he can see is the bloated bodies, all he can feel is Jordie's skin falling off beneath his fingers. Black closes in on his vision and his heart is pounding hard.

He feels like he's going to faint.

Little does Kaz know, Kavinsky will see all of it, maybe even feel it.

All of that only takes seconds, then time speeds up again. A few things happen all at once. Kaz Brekker's gloved hand grabs Kavinsky by the throat to shove him back and the wicked head of the crow head cane jams upward against the other boy's stomach.

tw sexual harassment, problematic make-believes, suicide

[pillz]

One moment, Kavinsky is just macking on a cute boy who's playing hard to get because that's the way he thinks about being a creep.

The next, he's floating down a corpse-choked shit river and feeling... what. Bad about it? 'Bad' doesn't begin to encapsulate how bad he feels, the nausea jumping off the fever, the fear of drowning managing somehow to cut through a misery deep enough to drive a suicide. Except Kaz isn't dead, is he? which is something that Joseph Kavinsky, a previous perpetrator of suicide himself, has a split-second to recognize and perhaps admire Kaz's fortitude, if that's what we're going to call it, before

"Pggghk," is his very eloquent lung collapse sound that he makes when the butt of the cane hits his gut.

He winds up leaning over forward, blinking.

Not as emotionally distraught, as afraid as he probably should be, but even before Dr. Chilton got his fingers in Kavinsky's brain, he had a somewhat flat response to physical response. Something wrong with him, probably. He wheezes a breath, blinking, and then his tattooed fingers abruptly snap shut on the shaft of the weapon plugged into his midsection, with surprising strength. That much, one can credit to Dr. Chilton.

[roughworkdone]

As soon as they break skin to skin contact, it stops. Kaz has no idea what the fuck just happened but everything snaps back into focus when Kavinsky gets a grip on his cane.

"Back up," he growls, trying to hide the way his breath shakes on the exhale.

He needs space. He needs to be able to see all of Kavinsky at once. And he needs to figure out how to stop feeling Kavinsky's lips on his. His stomach turns again and his hand slides from Kavinsky's throat to his chest.

[pillz]

God, the fucking smell. What was that? Is he having an aneurysm? Kavinsky worries about himself for a split-second, before his brain reassures himself: he has nanites. He can come back from the fucking dead, if he has to. ImPorts can't catch the brain cancer.

His fingers slide down the pole, toward himself. Mostly because he doesn't want his lungs to stay deflated and uncomfortably kind of sort of half-suffocating, and not because Kaz is telling him to, he pushes back indeed. A few inches. Sucks in a breath as discreetly as he can, trying not to imagine the stench. Then he sits up.

By then, his mind has arrived.

"Was that you?" Kavinsky asks, staring.

[roughworkdone]

Kaz doesn't know the right answer to this. The short answer, he thinks, is yes. The look on Kavinsky's face is something he'd savor if he wasn't so shaken himself. As Kavinsky gives him space, the press of the cane subsides. Eventually, he sets it back at his side.

"Apparently," he mutters. He didn't know this was a thing and he doesn't like surprises. Playing with shadows is one thing, but this--he doesn't quite know what to do with this. It's one thing to feel what he does whenever skin touches skin; it's another to forcibly share it with someone else. Especially when that sharing is out of his control.

He doesn't ask if Kavinsky is alright. In fact, Kaz very much hopes he isn't.

mild powerpose lmk if not ok

[pillz]

Kavinsky is

.......medium? has definitely had better, more positive, less gross life experiences. But he's incidentally had worse ones. And when he looks up at Kaz's face, something about the fetid bloat of the pupils in Kaz's eyes that makes Kavinsky think -- know, that somewhere in Kaz, he wants this. Wants him.

Granted, Kavinsky has a long and terrible history of using exactly that excuse to justify all kinds of horrifying and ultimately self-destructive behavior that has badly damaged his relationships with other young men in the past but never mind that.

Abruptly, he tugs the shaft of the cane in his grip. But not hard enough to yank it out of Kaz's hands; only enough to tip it up into the air, so he can, ill-advisedly, run his tongue a few inches down the left side of it, soft and quick, pink as a kitten's milky kisses.

And then he shoves it back toward its owner, with a callous wrench of his hand.

[roughworkdone]

Kaz stares as Kavinsky licks his cane. He's still staring when Kavinsky shoves it back at him; he adjusts his grip without thinking, letting it slide between his fingers to keep it close. He realizes he might feel the saliva on it if not for his gloves.

He takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly, then gets to his feet. His hand slides over the crow head and he feels a modicum of comfort.

"Good night, Kavinsky."

[pillz]

"Sleep sweet, Brekker."

Kavinsky's enunciation doesn't sound as drunk as he is. He smiles like the curving edge of a scimitar. He swooshes up to his feet, manages not to sway as he steps away, his white suit blending into the wintry pastels of the party-going crowd. And in another moment, he's gone.