【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to a high volume of check-ins, temporary accommodations have been made in our parking garage for all new arrivals. We aim to have all guests moved into their reserved rooms as soon as possible. We deeply apologize for any inconvenience!
All are invited to There Is No Tomorrow, a Phoenix Casino soiree to celebrate our beloved guests. The festivities will begin at 1800 hours on January 20th and end at 1800 hours on January 27th. Please look forward to 168 hours of delight.
In an effort to raise happiness and encourage better guest relationships, attendance is required. The house will assist guests that are too shy to appear of their own accord. Please note that black tie attire is mandatory. As always, we hope you enjoy your stay! 】
PARKING GARAGE
ANY CAR IN A STORM
PHOENIX CASINO HALL
WELCOME TO THE NEXT 168 HOURS
Phoenix Casino is a-flutter with activity and packed to the beak with guests. As a famously ever-changing space, the staff would be remiss if they didn't deck the crown jewel of the Golden Peacock out. The casino glitters from top to bottom, shining brighter than diamonds, rubies, sapphires, opals! Party-goers are shiny and glamorous with picture perfect makeup, fluttering gowns, and sharp suits. Card tables are packed and the slot machines are a-ringing as guests play, play, play! Prizes, luxury, booze, attractive people, it's the place that everyone wants to be at.
Those people being dragged inside by some invisible force...? Silly, they were so excited to come that their bodies moved before they realized what was happening. Those are struggles of joy and definitely not the casino's infamous ghost hands dragging unwilling guests to the party at the behest of the house. Look, they're literally hurling their bodies at the card tables with unrestrained glee!
All clocks indicating day hours and night hours have been removed from the casino. Once a guest has entered, their Watch will jam, making it impossible to keep track of the time. You don't need to worry about that tonight.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's January event.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header. This month we also have an ongoing ATP / EMP where players can connect. Please feel free to utilize this for all of your peafowl needs!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
( the door opens behind them as someone peeks their head inside only to mutter a quick scuse me before ducking right back out thereafter. from the back, it probably looks vaguely as scandalous as it feels: the burnished sheen of her ripped stocking; her hair cascading in a rippling curtain like a held secret; a simple waitress standing on her heels to kiss someone who could be a king, without any care in the world.
alas, but they aren't children. so she's pulling back as quickly as the door clicks shut, her gaze drifting from his eyes and her lashes dipping low as she regards the bright red stain on the thumb of her glove, where she'd kissed it, missing his mouth.
he still looks put-together. it makes the lipstick look a little debauched where her thumb presses it in to smear at the corner of his lip. )
If you're going to wear a disguise, you should also act the part.
( and down his chin, until it's a bright red stain that she's pressing into the edge of his pristinely white collar. )
[Something in his world stops. The moment stills like a picture in frame, his surroundings limited to the immediacy of his sister beside him, slipping in close, her voice changed to that playful lilting frequency he recalls from a long ago childhood. He feels only in that moment the touch of her hand on his chin, angling his head. He catches the scent of her soft floral perfume, lulling him into a spellbound haze. Her mouth is rouged with a bright cherry lipstick. He does not breathe. He does not think. He —
The door opens, and Sunday is aware of a voice though he has no comprehension of the words, only that it goes away, and the door clicks shut again, leaving him to the paralysis of what has happened. His sister plays her part so well that it's seamless; her lips never touch his skin. Yet the impression of it lingers, almost burned in place by the swipe of wet lipstick at the corner of his mouth, at his collared shirt. A stain that mars the perfect exterior he strives to present.
Perhaps telling is that he doesn't swipe it away, or react at all, even once she's withdrawn and shared those words of wisdom. There is a darker question in his mind, wondering maddeningly, where did she learn this? Yet he only clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
This is clearly an act, and she's helped him perform it. He cannot leave the room looking anything less than this — a man with a sweet, stolen kiss from a pretty waitress, wearing that impropriety on his skin.
He's grateful that his voice doesn't waver when he finally speaks.]
I'll... endeavor to remember that. Thank you, miss.
[Without providing an opportunity for her reaction, Sunday goes to the door. He cannot look at her any longer when his mouth feels like it's on fire, and his heart is a loud drum in his ears, as if she might divine his thoughts, his broiling emotions, should he stay.]
the problem with that, is that it leaves a vacuum in its wake, and the kind of silence that will leave them both wondering, well, what now? and worse. maybe he'll be the one to ask.
the way that sunday freezes up is cute in a way that she expects for all of the wrong reasons, half of her wondering if he'd wipe the stain off on the back of his glove, smearing red across his mouth and face until he fussed towards the nearest washroom to fix his appearance. that he leaves it on makes her wonder if he might be able to act through whatever it is that this place might throw at them... and what that means. it also leaves her with the memory of what that blank, stranger's face looked like, and how her brother's might have looked like under that, half-formed and the thought still inescapable.
... but the room's cold by the time she's turning, the door clicking shut as she carefully doesn't think about what it means when she's alone, feeling a little like she's been jilted in her short dress and — noticing for the first time — her ripped stockings. the birdsong echoing in the room is suddenly too shrill, too fake.
it isn't so bad. time passes. she changes into another pair of tights and a longer skirt using what she finds inside of the wardrobe and leaves the room more presentable than when she entered.
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peacockstop2025-01-15 09:00 pm
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alas, but they aren't children. so she's pulling back as quickly as the door clicks shut, her gaze drifting from his eyes and her lashes dipping low as she regards the bright red stain on the thumb of her glove, where she'd kissed it, missing his mouth.
he still looks put-together. it makes the lipstick look a little debauched where her thumb presses it in to smear at the corner of his lip. )
If you're going to wear a disguise, you should also act the part.
( and down his chin, until it's a bright red stain that she's pressing into the edge of his pristinely white collar. )
Or you're going to get caught.
cw: just incest now i guess 🥹
The door opens, and Sunday is aware of a voice though he has no comprehension of the words, only that it goes away, and the door clicks shut again, leaving him to the paralysis of what has happened. His sister plays her part so well that it's seamless; her lips never touch his skin. Yet the impression of it lingers, almost burned in place by the swipe of wet lipstick at the corner of his mouth, at his collared shirt. A stain that mars the perfect exterior he strives to present.
Perhaps telling is that he doesn't swipe it away, or react at all, even once she's withdrawn and shared those words of wisdom. There is a darker question in his mind, wondering maddeningly, where did she learn this? Yet he only clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
This is clearly an act, and she's helped him perform it. He cannot leave the room looking anything less than this — a man with a sweet, stolen kiss from a pretty waitress, wearing that impropriety on his skin.
He's grateful that his voice doesn't waver when he finally speaks.]
I'll... endeavor to remember that. Thank you, miss.
[Without providing an opportunity for her reaction, Sunday goes to the door. He cannot look at her any longer when his mouth feels like it's on fire, and his heart is a loud drum in his ears, as if she might divine his thoughts, his broiling emotions, should he stay.]
you ever just want to 🎀 a thread...
the problem with that, is that it leaves a vacuum in its wake, and the kind of silence that will leave them both wondering, well, what now? and worse. maybe he'll be the one to ask.
the way that sunday freezes up is cute in a way that she expects for all of the wrong reasons, half of her wondering if he'd wipe the stain off on the back of his glove, smearing red across his mouth and face until he fussed towards the nearest washroom to fix his appearance. that he leaves it on makes her wonder if he might be able to act through whatever it is that this place might throw at them... and what that means. it also leaves her with the memory of what that blank, stranger's face looked like, and how her brother's might have looked like under that, half-formed and the thought still inescapable.
... but the room's cold by the time she's turning, the door clicking shut as she carefully doesn't think about what it means when she's alone, feeling a little like she's been jilted in her short dress and — noticing for the first time — her ripped stockings. the birdsong echoing in the room is suddenly too shrill, too fake.
it isn't so bad. time passes. she changes into another pair of tights and a longer skirt using what she finds inside of the wardrobe and leaves the room more presentable than when she entered.
they drift. )