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draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
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ππ ππππππ πππππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JULY TDM
JULY 2024 TDM: LECTISTERNIUM
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember β dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, so all posters can use the title Β« CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?
CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
VENI, VIDI, VICI.
CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, body horror, gore, animal attacks (specifically wolf), potential body transformations.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
DIRECTORY
no subject
[ not that matt isn't capable on some level, but there's a healthy note of concern in his voice. his temptation is to reach into matt's mind, find the memory, assess what happened but, as promised. he doesn't. ]
I can help you with these. If you want. [ he reaches to touch matt's shoulder, looking at his face, any exposed skin to look for marks. he saw what happened with hawk and the wolfman, so this? even worse. ]
Not out here, though.
no subject
Not here, [ he agrees. He tries to figure out if there's a graceful way to get out of this. Louis did say if you want, implying choice. But refusing would feel really cagey, wouldn't it? And after his spell had such decidedly mixed results, is he really in a position to pass up help? ] Uh ...
[ Besides. He does like Louis. With a crooked smile, Matt says: ]
Your place or mine?
no subject
[ he gives matt's shoulder a gentle squeeze before he pulls back, gesturing down the hall. his rooms, shared with armand, are tidy for the most part, but the dichotomy of he and his lover is apparent in the bed alone. one side primly neat and practical. his side? the bedside table overrun with books, even one on his pillow left split open to mark a spot.
he listens for daniel, for armand, and hearing nothing, he ushers matt in, tugging up one of the chairs for him to sit in. ]
You don't feel anything else do you? Sick, anything like that?
no subject
But he turns back to Louis, letting himself be guided into a chair. ]
No, [ he answers, ] nothing like that. Honestly-- [ With a hopeful smile. ] --it doesn't even hurt, really. I think I got pretty lucky, all things considered.
[ Phrasing? ]
no subject
[ when things start to heal. also, the closer he is to matt? he can smell the wolf on him, knows too well that regardless of what happened, those marks aren't going to go away easily.
he kneels before matt, the opposite of their interactions in the club, eyes skimming over the marks on his thighs. he runs his fingers over them gently, shaking his head. ]
I'm going to need to well, open these back up a little. That okay with you? It's not going to feel great, but I promise it will help.
no subject
He exhales, a little tension seeping from his shoulders, and quirks a smile down at Louis. ]
I have decent pain tolerance.
[ Yet again: understatement. At least this one's mildly flirtatious. ]
cw: bloodplay and vampires
[ there's an easy confidence in the way louis' says it, fingers running over the the fresh wounds. they won't be hard to reopen, and he can still smell the fresh blood underneath. he smooths one palm over matt's left thigh. ]
Tell me if it's too much.
[ there's wolfman blood running through him, too - vicariously through hawk - but he's only getting the beginning of the lust, the need, the intoxication. he doesn't realize this, of course. instead, he chocks it up to the fact that matt's blood smells divine.
and so he leans forward, nosing at matt's right thigh once before he bites into one of the wounds, delicate but plenty to break the skin. he has to resist lapping at it, sucking a drink from the soft skin there. he bites at each scratch, pulling back with a bloodied chin and mouth to press each wound open from top to bottom, taking it slow. ]
You're doing good, Matt. [ soft, soothing, before louis turns and bites at his wrist hard, opening the skin and spilling precious blood between them. he drips it over the first wound, massaging it in slowly with his free hand. ]
no subject
As for the treatment itself, he's not sure what to expect, apart from "not great." His own penchant for understatement leads him to think that likely means more pain than not. To prepare, he breathes gently. Coaxes himself into as much relaxation as he can before Louis' teeth pierce his skin.
As with the bite he'd received in the club, it's not the pain that's shocking, but the pleasure. Matt's head falls back, a slight but fitful move. His breath catches hard in his throat, shading into a small, trapped sound as Louis reopens the scratches along their lengths. It isn't until Louis says you're doing good that Matt remembers to breathe again. Those breaths come harsh and quick, and only start to even out when Louis pulls back to bite at his own wrist.
Matt watches in fascination as blood drip, drips onto his thigh. As Louis rubs it into the open wound, he lets out a slightly ambiguous hum. ]
no subject
[ he's gentle, the way he swipes the pad of his thumb over matt's wounds, smearing his own blood into the injuries in an angry, red mess. it's inelegant but most vampire abilities can be, and louis tends to his work instead. once his blood seeps into the wounds, he leans forward, dragging his tongue over each scar, the wounds beginning to stitch themselves up.
they'll be angry and red still, but the scars will fade. the blood of the wolf is dying down in his own system, but he can't help but lap tenderly at the blood across the skin of matt's thigh. one more thigh to go. ]
Where else besides here? Any more cuts?
[ as if licking blood from someone's thigh is as normal as anything else. ]
no subject
He's fascinated to find that something's happening to his skin. It's reknitting itself, like watching a fast-forwarded video of the healing process. His own healing magic is certainly nowhere near so flashy, though he wonders how he might be able to imitate these effects. With sexual energy he could do it for sure; most things are easier when he leans into sex magic. ]
Ah ... no, nowhere else. Just the other thigh.
[ Both sets of scratches are in roughly the same place on each leg. ]
no subject
[ he shouldn't ask, of course, but he does anyway - and he'll accept whatever version of the story he decides to give. all the while, he finishes cleaning up the smeared blood on the man's milky thigh before turning to the other, proceeding with the same process of events, slowly and carefully.
he spend a little longer on the bite, letting it be gentler, faint little pinpricks that slowly bloom under the shape of his mouth, letting his tongue gently lap at the weeping wounds. ]
Sorry, does it hurt too bad?
[ based off the sounds he heard earlier? likely not so badly. ]
no subject
Mmm ...
No, it's okay. It's fine.
[ Matt exhales softly. Reaches down to trace the shell of Louis' ear. ]
I think the wolf's one of us. Or used to be. Like the cake was, you know? So I went out there to ... cast a spell to try and restore them.
no subject
it also gives him a moment to willingly enjoy the blood, hot and sweet against his tongue. so rarely does he drink it from the source if it's not daniel. ]
Probably was. Can't imagine they'd not utilize us in some way for their horrors.
[ but he listens, head tipping back when he's only halfway done mending the wounds, blood dripping round the swell of his bottom lip and dripping down his chin. ]
You went out to find it? [ he can respect it, sure, but there's a note of incredulity to his voice before he drops his head again, finishing the long scratch along his other thigh. ]
no subject
Matt pushes those thoughts to the side. Easy enough to do now; this conversation is nothing if not absorbing. ]
Yes. [ If the answer comes out sounding a little aggrieved, it's 90% out of discomfort. (Fascination. An irrepressible edge of arousal.) But when Matt sighs, that's from up in his head. ] Of course I did. I have power other people don't, I figured I was better positioned. And he didn't hurt me--he didn't mean to hurt me.
no subject
[ he moves his head back to matt's thigh, lapping gingerly at his thigh as the skin begins to stitch itself up. it will take time to heal fully - but at least this way it won't leave any nasty scars in the end.
he pulls back, blinking hazily up at matt - the green of his eyes slightly blown out, his fangs dropped, and blood smeared on his lips. ]
Feel better? Sorry if it hurt.
no subject
Better. Yeah. [ A small smile. ] Don't worry about it ... like I said, I have decent tolerance.
[ Matt's hand falls back to his side, and he sighs. ]
Thanks for this. I just wish you didn't have to. I promise I'm actually good at magic, I just--took a guess this time. And I was wrong.
no subject
[ he stays between matt's thighs, enjoying the soft touch to his hair, the gentle way he touches him. it does nothing to soothe the hungry ache in his belly, the desperate need that comes from feeding from live, warm veins. ]
Just glad you're alright. Should feel better in a few days. But I need a second.
[ between the wolf's blood and the witch's blood, he's having a bit of a headrush, feeling his body go warm with it. ]
Were you after food? I can grab it for you - you need to eat after that. Was a good amount of blood.
no subject
He nods slowly when Louis says he needs some time. Then frowns. ]
Was it? [ This part is familiar, in a way. Vincent was always nice to him after he drank his blood--attentive, doting. Even if the doting just meant Gatorade and takeout. And Matt's never been terrific at gauging how much blood he's lost at a go. ] Yeah, I was gonna ... but you don't have to go if you're not feeling up to it. 'Sokay.
[ Matt tips his head this way and that, finding he's not dizzy. He shifts in the chair to maneuver gently around Louis, then makes to stand. ]
no subject
matt's blood sings through him, and he breathes through the intoxication of it as he stands. ]
Get comfortable - relax. I'll get you something. What were you craving?
[ he'll be faster than matt could be anyway, of course. vampire speed. ]
no subject
Anything with protein, [ he concedes. ] And ... separately, something with electrolytes. Honestly, I'd love some more of those figs and grapes, if there's any around.
[ Matt reaches up to brush Louis' shoulder absently with his fingertips. And then, since Louis has said both "relax" and "get comfortable," Matt settles down not on the chair, but on the foot of his bed. Close to the middle, but favoring the book-strewn side. ]
no subject
[ he smiles and steps out of the room, shutting the door behind him. he rushes the kitchens, where they fill a plate full of figs and grapes and a creamy cheese with sticky honey on it. he's handed a bowl of fruit - bananas and cut watermelon (good for electrolytes, they say), and bottles of water with colored tablets to help dehydration.
he's back eerily fast, but walks into the room like he'd not broken a sweat the whole time. he's pleased to see matt sitting on the edge of the bed. his side, no less. louis sets the plate on the bedside table, and first offers matt one of the bottles of water. ]
Still feeling alright? [ he climbs on the bed proper, reaching to set the plate on the covers in the space between them. ]
no subject
I'm good, [ he says with a smile. When Louis settles on the covers, Matt takes the opportunity to shift himself further onto the mattress proper. Like he intends to stay awhile, rather than perching like a bird who might flutter off at a moment's notice. He peers with interest at the food, approving: ] You did get figs and grapes. Look at all this ...
[ Shifting the bottle to his other hand, Matt plucks up a handful of the grapes. He glances to Louis a moment. Then, with a sharp little breath and a flick of his fingers, one of the figs lifts into the air and sways towards his waiting mouth. The process of actually snatching it from the air is not totally unlike bobbing for a cooperative apple, but Matt gets there pretty quick. ]
no subject
he'll have to find armand later - admit to his hunger, even after their time at the party. ]
Of course, you asked. I've gotten food enough times for others that they were able to swing a few extras for us.
[ but it's the little display of magic that makes his eyes raise, makes him laugh at the very image of it. it's not anything new to see items move and float and animate. not after living with armand for so long. but it's delightful to see a mortal do it. ]
Impressive. This is the extent of my skill - [ and cheekily, still feeling he heat of blood rush through him, he picks up one of the figs and reaches across, pressing it to matt's lips once he's finished the other. ]
See? Magic.
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Matt's eyes widen slightly. Grapes in one hand, bottle in the other, he finds himself feeling surprisingly fettered. It's why he did the levitation trick in the first place, of course: there's not so much daylight to him between having his hands occupied and having them bound. With a small hm, the noise both surprised and amused, his lips part to receive the fruit. Matt chews slowly, swallows. His eyes never leave Louis.
Then he shifts back slightly, lifting the water bottle to his lips for another drink. Hydration is so important at this stage. ]
Abracadabra, [ he agrees with a smile. Finally, he pops a few of the grapes into his mouth. ] You're spoiling me.
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well.
he hums softly, and the next fig on the plate suddenly lights up, a pop of little flame - just enough to toast it lightly. he smiles, gesturing to it. ]
Abracadabra. [ a trick for a trick - the sweet smell of roasted fig filling the room. ]
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