𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐒 . . .
Rayaan Iyer — intro .
Yoo Serim — intro .
summaries + connections masterlist — tba

Janaina Medeiros
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@rcppled
𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐒 . . .
Rayaan Iyer — intro .
Yoo Serim — intro .
summaries + connections masterlist — tba

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PEDRO PASCAL The 77th Primetime Emmy Awards
status: open | location: ferox llc break room
Oh, woe is he to have all attempts at some friendly team bonding fall through. All Reinaldo wanted was for their little secluded corner to be inched into the spotlight for once. Have the entirety of finance be seen as something more than those stingy budgeters that get in the way of the company's more ... frivolous expenses. That and, perhaps, bridge in the accounting team just around the corner. Together they could have been — well, not unstoppable, but certainly showstopping.
Turns out — everyone's a critic!
If it wasn't a 'this idea is certainly an idea' this, then it was a 'no, just... no' that. Which, sure, maybe his off the cuff themes weren't the best, but at least he tried. Everyone else just kept their eyes latched onto their dual monitors and kept themselves stationed with horrid posture.
Alas, here he is — popping bits of candy corn into his mouth to totally not feel some modicum of joy. And, no, he's not sulking by the strangely off-colored punch bowl located in the breakroom. Even if he holds onto a shitty plastic cup filled with said mysterious punch that, quite honestly, matches how he mopes about. "So what do you think it is?" Dark eyes peer over the rim of his gaudy yellow shades to address the nearest person. "What kinda combo do you think can give something this shade of.. yuck?"
[PEDRO PASCAL, ELEMENTAL WITCH, CIS MAN, 50, HE/HIM] REINALDO CASTILLO RIVAS called into 333FM. They were a little bit WILY & UNFORGIVING at first, but we kept them talking until they got a little CHARMING & RESPONSIBLE. They said they’ve been working as METEOROLOGIST, and thinking about aligning themselves with THE NAMELESS since they have been living in New Orleans for A MONTH, and from what we can tell, they still give off huge TIME STOPPING PAST THE THRESHOLD, NO PAST BUT AN INFINITE PRESENT, NIGHT TERRORS BLEEDING INTO REALITY BLEEDING INTO DEVOTION vibes.

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Where: Serim's restaurant
Who: @rcppled (Serim)
Kestrel had been sitting in her favorite restaurant waiting for her usual order. It had never bothered her what the food looked like. Only that she liked how it tasted. Which was hard to do. She knew there was something wrong with her pallet. She had always liked very plain, comforting foods (grits, bread, tea). So much so that family and friends had mercilessly teased her for her choices. Eating out had always been a special kind of torture. Until she found this place. Unpretentious food that she actually liked. She didn't know what Serim did, and truthfully she didn't care. It came out fast and it tasted warm and satisfying. She glanced up at her server, someone else she had known for a good number of years. "Tell Serim to come say hi to me when he has a chance between lighting things on fire back there."
Busy, busy, busy — business is booming and he couldn't be more grateful. Or, perhaps, it's the high he's still riding from receiving yet another positive review of his more worrisome food experiments the night prior. Either way, he's practically glowing amongst all the very concerning, very big surges of flame. Yet not a single hair comes away singed. Though his skin might be flushed from the sheer heat, he lacks any manner of fresh burns.
If one of his staff hadn't cautiously poked their head into the fiery space, he would've passed most of the day cooking nonstop. Honestly, he probably would've kept at it anyways if a specific name hadn't been passed along. It's only then that he steps away. Leaves the rest to the others that can brave the intense heat.
"Hey," Serim greets, cheery as can be when Kestrel's spotted. "Welcome back. How's everything out here?"
“You know me, I’ll fuck right off if you want me to.” Valerian offers with a bitten-back smile and a huff of a laugh, moving farther into the room, careful not to knock into anything. He steps into Rayaan’s personal space, standing over him for a moment; resisting the streak of temptation that tells him to push him over but giving in to the one that tells him to reach out and push his hair back, fingers gentle through Rayaan’s waves. “It wasn’t a complaint; the house certainly smells better with the greenery inside.” He says, crouching next to him to inspect the offered pepper; ignoring that his own chronic avoidance of dusting wasn’t helping old-house smell. He shifts, plopping his weight onto the cool tile and nodding, “Excruciatingly so.” He hated daytime shifts- too many families; screaming children, thoughtless parents, somehow tourists- preferred, by far, the strange energy the sleep-deprived, liquor-soaked late night crowd offered. His gaze flicks up from the pepper between them to meet his lover’s warm eyes through his lashes, “Heart-shaped peppers?”
A hum, lazy as it drags, is all that he imparts. Completely indifferent by tone alone, but there lies the barest hint of a smile at the very corner of his lips. While Rayaan doesn’t exactly follow Valerian’s movements, he certainly keeps track in the periphery of his sight. Habit and all; one that seems to have stemmed long before their initial rendezvous. At least he doesn’t bore holes into that pretty blond head — well anymore than necessary. Especially not now when those fingers run through the thick of his hair.
Something of a chuckle slips through when met with an expected answer — if the slight noise could even be considered as such. It’s more of a partial huff than anything, but the stone mask of his usually impassive features wears around the eyes. “Of all places to immerse yourself in for work..” He never understood it. Thinks it best that he doesn’t, honestly, but if it’s something Valerian enjoys ( aside from shifts like today ) then so be it.
“Heart-shaped peppers.” Confirmation embossed in a touch of pride, his hand tilts slightly to bear more of the fruit’s smooth skin. “First of this season.” And a damn shame he isn’t able to enjoy it properly, but he has this moment. Deems it sweet enough to stave off the dull ache of disappointment.
She finds him strange, and in that strangeness there is an allurement like little else. The chef who caters to the desires and tastes of more ravenous clientele, for whom even foie gras or ortolan is simply too tame. A dealer in exotic flesh with the mind to elevate such sin to a Michelin star dinner. Even Agathe, who hasn't partaken in solids for many years finds herself dining there when something interesting comes in.
It is late when the vampire finds herself out, arms neatly folded in-front of her, staring inside the window like a statue till she's noticed and then - the smile. All sharp fangs, she hears the fumbling of a lock and a bolt. "So eager," Agathe comments, stepping over the threshold and past him, gaze never once leaving his. "Like a dog when it's happy to see you home. Does your tail wag when you see me?" It's framed much more as an ask than an insult.
"Well, sure." No use in denying the obvious, is there? Not when the entirety of his face is lit like the first rays of daybreak, or how enthused his voice sings with anticipation for yet another esteemed review.
Serim waits until the guest is past the threshold before closing and locking the door once more. Never know who else might be lurking around at this hour, and he'd rather keep this a private affair between curious minds. "So." Hands clasping before his chest, he takes wide strides back into the depths of his modest establishment. "I've been experimenting— as usual, on something new but in two forms."
The ambient noise of rummaging immediately ensues the moment he sets foot into the kitchen. Then comes a quiet hissing before a flash of orange-red bathes the off-white walls. More clanging. Some clattering of ceramics against the stainless steel. And presto — Serim reemerges with a dish in either hand. "Still can't believe I managed to find some prime cuts of Hirros on the market." For good reason, but just because something is deemed nearly inedible never stopped the likes of him.
Both the plate of scorched ... something and the tall glass of neon red is delicately set before her. "All of the organs have a crazy strong neurotoxin that can fuck up anyone's day real quick, but— and here's how I got this other thing started." A finger taps at the foot of the mysterious drink. "Met someone that's extremely resistant to toxins like this. Dunno how, don't really care why, but we made a deal so I can see if eating enough of the organs can influence the profile of their blood."
More out reach, that's what they said. There couldn't be any contentedness now (or never really). New followers could be reached, the good word could still be spread. Mathias was reaching the apex of his story and now more than ever he needed support. So like the ever subservient ant he was, he did. He started with his own, then those who orbited, and finally those out of his reach. Serim was one of those.
A man he knew from the times Seb would take him to visit. The best food ever is what he would say, and yet it appeared dubious (and perhaps dangerous to consume). Surprisingly it was better than it looked. He blinked several times, sending a silent prayer to whatever god that gods prayed to. "Ezy-squeeze? What does a four in one meal even mean?". Patience was something Mathias was working on, working really hard on. This must have been a test to see how well those lessons were coming along.
"Savory I suppose. Are you gonna tell me what's in it this time? Preferrable before I put it in my mouth".
That's all it takes for Serim to take off in a flurry. Back into the depths of his modestly sized kitchen — with the door hastily propped open by a single shabby stool. "Exactly what it sounds like," he calls out, tone airing on a more neutral side than dismissive. Well, before any manner of speech is cut short by a burst of flames from somewhere near the stove. The temperature swells in an instant before plummeting into something more tolerable. But never mind that, there's the rough cranking of what sounds like a saw and — is that a drill? A hammer? Why is there an engine revving?
"Nope." An extra emphasis on the 'p' pops just as he reappears at the front. "That'd ruin the surprise." A chipped bowl shaped plate ( a blate as he lovingly calls it ) is presented without any further flourish — though it could've used some. Well, a lot to help make things visually appealing. As it stands undulates?, the mass is nothing but a grotesque blob. Off colored in the worst way possible and a textural nightmare.
"Go on, try some. You can slurp it up in one go, or.. Here—" A set of cutlery is offered just in case.
@rcppled A disgustingly busy twelve-hours had passed since Valerian had left the house this morning. He’d run to shower the smell of bacon grease and stick of pancake syrup from himself without so much as a hello the moment he stepped in the door; came to Rayaan now clean, in sweat-shorts and a t-shirt he was fairly certain he’d stolen from the man in 1996, damp hair curling up at the ends as it started to dry. His fingers lifted the large leaf of some plant he wasn’t sure of to peek past, offering a smile. “Monsieur Iyer, you’ve outgrown your kitchen again.” He said, voice soft and teasing. “We’re running out of windows.”
He didn’t spend much time in here; splashes of paint in the sink and one half-dead spider plant in the windowsill he’d made Rayaan swear not to touch the only evidence of his existence in the kitchen at all. Except, of course, now; sliding in to watch- and alright, flirt with- his husband. “Can I come in, love, or is this a garden party for one?”
It's late, as it usually is whenever soil sinks into hair-thin fingerprints. The essence of a mid-summer's glow swims overhead from the kitchen light, casting a gentle glow along the slope of his backside. He's crouched over a medium sized pot, attentive as can be. Worn fingers dust a few leaves; most of which are still a lively green despite the change of seasons. Then a small huff lifts. Moves with him as he goes to sit back on his heels and fold an arm atop each knee.
Two beautiful heart-shaped sweet peppers sit in the middle of his palm; fiery red skin unblemished and firm. He doesn't even need to pierce the skin to smell the vegetal sweetness of the Lesya pepper. This bunch might've taken a while to grow properly, but the small harvest's well worth it. Contented for the time being, he doesn't stir when the sound of footfalls round the threshold again. Foregoes the usual scathing glare and stays hunched near the floor, admiring observing his bounty of two all the while.
"Hardly a party when an invitation's not needed," he scoffs, holding a pepper up to compare with the man nearby. A heart for his heart — or so some saying goes. "And we'll have our windows again in about a week. Almost done with the repairs." For yet another ramshackle greenhouse, but he's done his due diligence to bolster it against the upcoming winter.
"Long shift, I take it?"

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status: closed @strangedevotions
"Oh shit— hey? Didn't actually think this batch'd come through." Just like that, he's canning whatever the hell they were talking about prior. All eyes stay fixated on the cooler he's currently cracking open. "Got word that my usual delivery guy got axed," Serim explains, clearly still too absorbed in carefully handling the precious cargo. "Literally. Took an axe straight to the neck. Never heard back about this basilisk stuff I ordered weeks ago. Guess it gave them one hell of a time."
Butcher's paper crinkles as he peels back the wrapped parts. Serim all but beams when the organs and - oh shit, is that an actual slab of flank? - is revealed. "Anyways, lemme cook this up for a quick bite. You got time to wait, right?"
status: closed @thegraveyardshifts
Finally, the day has come to an end. Nothing feels better than to flip that sign from open to closed. Absolutely nothing. Well, except for a deep tissue massage, or a spontaneous spa day, and...
Gaze temporarily glazed over, he nearly startles when a figure suddenly appears outside the window. A yelp balloons in the midst of his throat; ready to alarm the entire lot of his surprise, but a flicker of recognition dawns. Then happiness. Then exuberance. Aka the works whenever it comes to one of his favorite regulars.
Locks hastily undone ( thrice all thanks to his butter fingers ), Serim almost takes the door off it’s hinges. “Thought you’d never show. Come on in, the new special’s still piping hot.” Smile stretching from ear to ear, he gesticulates wildly for her to enter.
status: closed @sanguisxferox
“Aw, come on. Doesn’t look that bad.” It absolutely does. The 'soup' looks nothing short of horrific; like the radioactive goop found underneath a rusty dusty reactor. Actually, that was the inspiration for the ‘fix-me-up mush’.
Serim's fit to ramble on and on about how ‘good and cram packed with nutrition it is’ and how ‘it tastes just like chicken noodle soup— but for the body, mind, and soul’ for an eternity if no one stops him.
[DEV PATEL, VAMPIRE, CIS MAN, 35, HE/HIM] RAYAAN IYER called into 333FM. They were a little bit IMPOLITE & CALLOUS at first, but we kept them talking until they got a little EFFICIENT & PATIENT. They said they’ve been working as CAPTAIN, and thinking about aligning themselves with DEATHRUNNERS since they have been living in New Orleans for 60 YEARS, and from what we can tell, they still give off huge REFUSAL TO LET GO OF VIOLENCE EVEN IF IT’S CONSUMED SO MUCH OF YOU, THE ONLY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR IS A RAW WOUND, FOREVER PINNED IN PLACE LIKE AN INSECT TO STUDY vibes.
status: closed — @ascnsionismx
“Come on, look— look.” How unusual of him to carry conversation in a whisper ( more like an aside ), but Serim takes great lengths to speak all conspiratorial-like. As if there are others around that will catch wind of his stupid genius bargain. “Look, listen.. It's just this one small— super tiny thing, okay? Okay— so glad you agree to try out my new and improved ezy-squeeze four-in-one meal. But first... You more of a savory, spicy, sweet, or combo kinda guy?”

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A Killer Paradox 살인자o난감 (2024) — ep.04
[SON SUKKU, HUMAN, CIS MAN, 42, HE/HIM] YOO SERIM called into 333FM. They were a little bit LAZY & INDIFFERENT at first, but we kept them talking until they got a little PERCEPTIVE & KIND. They said they’ve been working as CHEF, and thinking about aligning themselves with NO FACTION since they have been living in New Orleans for 10 YEARS, and from what we can tell, they still give off huge DUBIOUS FOOD IMAGE PNG HERE, GORDON RAMSAY TEARFULLY WHISPERING 'FINALLY... SOME GOOD FUCKING FOOD' (IGNORING HOW HORRIBLE THE MEAL LOOKS), CHAINSMOKING FIVE CIGARETTES AT A TIME IN SPIRIT BUT OBNOXIOUSLY POPPING GUM IN PRACTICE vibes.