lake party invite + mingle (open)

[channellings]

Who: any and everyone!
Where: the lake and nearby!
When: right now! (july 7th, afternoon)
What: motha 👏 fuckin 👏 lake 👏 party
Warnings: Language (!!!) for now, will be added as needed!



[no, this is not a joke and yes, it's an actual invite to a party over the network from the username: cock.licking.idiot (and no, that's not a joke, either).

those who decide that they'd rather not be square will arrive at some unspecified patch of lake shore (thanks, klaus) at a similarly unspecified time (good work, asshat) to discover that something resembling a slapdash but heartfelt lake party along the northern waterfront. a couple of tables have been dragged out of nearby cabins and now hold a probably inadvisable quantity of foods, at least half of which don't belong at a party by any means. is this what rationing looks like? this is definitely what rationing looks like. there's also an alcohol table, filled pretty sparsely early on in the party but gathering bottles and cans throughout the day. (word of mod says feel free to wing it on what kind of alcohol we have!).

a number of chairs sit in a wobbly line in the stone-filled waterfront sand, most of them not meant for beachgoing but nearly all of them able to recline. about fifty feet down the beach seems to be the splash zone, where all water horseplay exists well out of range of splashing those sitting in beachside chairs. some people dive or cannonball off the mostly-sturdy pier, while others seem to be batting around a-... is that a beach ball they have? no, it seems to be a balloon that says "get well soon". how fitting. please, someone bring them a fucking beach ball.

(this is a mingle! go ahead and make top-levels or tag into other people's.)]

Comments

[kingish]

[ Eliot immediately transforms into a 6'4" pair of bedroom eyes, because why be subtle when you can be effective? His glance is about as wandering as Hannibal's thoughts, mostly centered around oh god the accent and equally oh god no one should be allowed to look that good in flannel.

He offers a languid hand for shaking, wrist crooked such that the effect suggest Hannibal would be as correct to kiss his hand as to engage the more traditional greeting, hazel eyes virtually alight with the prospect of a challenge. What fun! ]

I'm Eliot, and the pleasure is mutual. Can I fix you something?

[ perhaps a tall glass of me? he seems to say. ]

[poisonlittleboy]

[He's seen that gesture quite a few times. Mostly at the opera, among socialites trying to endear themselves to him in one way or another. Hoping to be invited to one of his infamous dinner parties, and perhaps something more.

While he doesn't kiss Eliot's hand, he does slide his fingers briefly along the inside of his wrist before taking his hand and squeezing firmly in greeting.]

It seems to me like you have quite the touch, when it comes to drinks. [The glowing is no stranger than arriving here, he supposes.] Why don't I let you choose for me? What would you recommend?

[kingish]

[ Something more is, uh. Undoubtedly accurate. Though due to the confines of meta different worlds (obviously!) he is unaware of any such dinner parties.

Anyway, Eliot takes the occasion to shamelessly check Hannibal out, though to be fair he really is also assessing his general personage to decide what he recommends and is therefore already thirty seconds into making. It seems slightly cliche, but as distractingly and horribly attractive as his new best friend is in flannel, Eliot has the innate sense he'd be much more at home in a suit tailored within an inch of its very life.

So again, maybe a little little cliche, but what is a cliche when it's fucking excellent? A classic, is what. Which is to say Eliot is making a martini, face like he's performing an operation approximately the importance and delicacy of open heart surgery. There will, in fact, be no dialogue in this tag, because by god this drink should speak for itself!

He sliiiiides the totally inappropriate like, solo cup across the table, quietly smoldering. ]

Unfortunately, I lack the ability to conjure olives out of thin air. My post graduate education was tragically interrupted....by death. 39 times. After that the world kept trying to end, I was High King of Hell's Narnia for a while ...

[ uhhh okay i lied about no dialogue ]

You know how these things go.

[poisonlittleboy]

[Well it is an excellent martini, no matter how it was presented. Lack of olives or not.

Hannibal allows himself to be assessed, basking in it. Enjoying the attention that Eliot is giving him. And Hannibal assesses him in return, admiring his lean build and dark curls. Though Eliot is a few inches taller than Hannibal, which is unusual but not unheard of in his usual choice of partners.

The comment gets an elegantly arched eyebrow in return.] I'm afraid I don't know. I think the world I come from is... slightly different from yours. Or at the very least, we've had vastly different experiences.