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draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
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๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐ โฃ NOV TDM
NOVEMBER 2024 TDM: RENAISSANCE
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 โ 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, using ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
โ momofuku's "cereal milk" โ
โ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss โ
โ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping โ
โ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling โ
โ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection โ
If you want to leave, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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.
"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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
โ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss โ
โ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping โ
โ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling โ
โ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection โ
If you want to leave, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
2 GIRLS 1 CUP
CONTENT WARNINGS: nudity, potential for nsfw.
Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up โย new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know โ you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.
Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.
On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.
Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes โย a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.
The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional โ while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.
Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!
Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up โย new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know โ you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.
Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.
On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.
Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes โย a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.
The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional โ while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.
Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!
RING AROUND THE ROSEY
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential for nsfw.
The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.
Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking โ or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering โย through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?
Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.
What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do โย kink up or shut up.
Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.
The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.
Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking โ or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering โย through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?
Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.
What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do โย kink up or shut up.
Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.
DIRECTORY
3... hello matt
However, even a few days of it had come with something so subtle that he hadnโt even noticed. Quiet, not of what he could hear, but of his soul. Whatever backwater planet this was, it was far from the forces that pulled at all Eldar. Or, so he thought. Itโs not quite the same, since thereโs no seizing dread that he might be eaten up by She Who Thirstsโฆ But the idyllic, unsettling nature of these woods is enough. Itโs enough to push him forward. Maybe heโs not frolicking, but he wants to be out of them as quickly as possible.
Though. He canโt help his curiosity when he stumbles upon the chapel. That too is familiar, if only because the architecture is so very favored by humanity. So, he enters, having to dip his head just a bit to enter, even with the grander doors that the chapel offers. At least itโs not so bad as the manor. However, he doesnโt even have time to complain to himself about it, since he sees someone already inside. ]
Hmm? I should have known. Youโre always drawn to these—
[ His voice is rich and velvety, even when itโs dripping with haughty condescension. But at the very least, heโs quickly humbled. His gaze falls to the flowers that he sees match his own that peek out of one of the leather pouches on his hip. ]
Thoseโฆ flowers. Why do you have them?
[ He steps further inside, and his tone is accusatory, but not nearly as hostile. ]
hewwo ....
The hauteur and condescension don't seem to bother him. ]
That's a question with a multifaceted answer, [ he notes with a small smile. ] But partly ... so I could meet you. I'm pretty sure. [ Matt lifts his hand from its exploration of the cinder-colored rose and its fanglike thorns. With a flick of his fingers and a quick indrawn breath, the air in the chapel seems to change--it warms and shimmers, as if illuminated by flecks of sun-gilt dust. The yellow flowers in Marazhai's pouch untuck themselves and flutter through the air, floating into Matt's outstretched fingers. His smile now is a touch breathless, triumphant. ] We match. I don't really believe in coincidence.
[ His thumb brushes up the stalk of the cowslip. ]
And I think this means I win.
no subject
โฆSo, when itโs simply his flowers being pulled away from him, heโs a bit incredulous. The tension remains for a moment, and then he relaxes again as a scowl sets in. ]
Hhh— [ Itโs a hissed out sound, more animalistic than anything, but he follows after the flowers as he steps into the chapel. ] And here I was expecting more from a mon-keigh witch.
[ This would be a taunt in the world he came from, but here? Less so. Significantly. The Drukhari has more than a little culture shock to navigate. For example, he had understood that he was trying to hunt down the person who held the same flowers, but he hadnโt fully grasped the rest. Or perhaps just hadnโt listened. ]
The game was mentioned. But not its conclusion.
no subject
He hears the stranger's words as monkey witch, and bursts into a laugh of his own. Warm, surprised. Inviting as the crook of his finger, which curls even as he keeps hold of the yellow cowslip. ]
You want more? C'mere, then. I can show you a conclusion.
[ It could almost be a threat. But Matt's tone and expression imply teasing rather than danger. And his posture is all ease, as if he were lounging on one of Saltburnt's expansive beds instead of this ancient stone. ]
no subject
And, admittedly, itโs tempting to follow through. It always is. But he scoffs as heโs beckoned, since thatโs the funny thing about that temptation. It remains that because of just how familiar that gesture is. ]
Is that supposed to be a threat?
[ He asks it as he steps closer, even so. Thereโs also the subtle tone of โyou promise?โ, but itโs also so slight that it could be imagined. It might also be secondary to the fact that as he draws closer, his natural impression is simply looming and intimidating. He has nearly a foot and a half of height over Matt, and his exposed skin shows old, varied scars. ]
Are you so certain youโve won? I think most of your kind would disagree.
[ or: is this flirting working for you ]
no subject
I guess threats get the blood pumping, [ Matt muses. Gently, and without looking away from Marazhai, he sets the blossoms to one side--with two exceptions. He tucks the cowslip behind one ear, and he holds the blackened rose gently, gently, between finger and thumb. ] But no. I was thinking more ...
[ He asked about flowers a moment ago. And Matt alluded to a complicated answer, which he now gives one small piece of. He brushes the rose to the stranger's cheek, along the shell of his ear. Its petals are soft, despite its decayed coloring, its scent fragrant; underneath, there's a smokier, spicier smell, this one clinging to Matt's skin. Matt's other hand lifts to take the rose by the sepals, looping the long stem around Marazhai's neck. He tugs downward and inward, letting slender, spiking thorns dig into skin.
Does some instinct tell him the stranger will like this? Or is it just a thing he wants to do? A thing he needs to do, coaxing blood onto the altar's parched stone? Either way, Matt cranes up as he urges Marazhai down. If he doesn't stop him, he'll brush a tender kiss to his mouth. ]
no subject
Curiosity.
Thereโs credit that has to be give to a woman light years away for already doing the truly difficult work of getting Marazhai to stay his hand. Rather than immediately pounce as soon as Matt raises his hand, he allows the movement, even if his eyes do narrow in slight suspicion. But heโs immediately rewarded for his patience (which he, personally, considers being permissive). ]
More—?
[ He starts to question in a low tone, but itโs cut off. Itโs not even by the thorns, but by how the rose brushes against his ear, in fact. The muscles of his face tighten enough that his ears visibly set back a little, like the motion is ticklish. It is that, but also. Having it immediately followed by the thorns digging into his neck makes him suck in a hiss of breath, but the smile is unmistakable, even if itโs sharp. ]
Finally.
[ He breathes out the word like heโs a man finding water in the desert, because even if itโs no worse than the hooks that would secure his armor to his body, itโs still something. The pleasant bite of pain after the sense-sharpening touch of his ears feels like a balm to his soul. He turns his head just to feel the thorns dig in further as he dips down with the direction. Even the kiss doesnโt bother him just this once, since that feels correct too, if only because of the game of the flowers.
Still, though. The human intimacy of kissing is something almost too soft to him. So even as he meets Mattโs lips softly first, itโs only one gentle note before it turns hungrier. He bites at Mattโs lower lip, but itโs with no more force than the thorns at his neck. ]
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In a moment.
For now, though Matt's known this person for all of two minutes, he's zero percent surprised to feel his teeth so soon. He sighs, a sharp ah that sounds like another laugh, as his mouth opens to return hunger for hunger. Matt aims a nip at his companion's lower lip as he pulls back, breathless, his grip firming on the rose stem. ]
You like pain.
[ He murmurs it, his lashes dipping. Matt tugs, and the thorns dig more sharply into Marazhai's neck, just shy of breaking skin. He wonders, now, about the scars criss-crossing the stranger's skin. Were they all obtained through conflict, or do some of them come from more recreational activities? ]
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Ha—
[ He scoffs with a toothy grin that feels like answer enough. Isnโt it obvious? Yet, he does know humanity better at this point. How blind they are. ]
There is ecstasy in suffering like no other. At least, for those able to open their minds to it.
[ He clicks his tongue, almost like heโs tutting, then tilts his head. He pulls up from the kiss, into the thorns. He breaks the skin himself, and sighs at the pinprick feeling of blood like itโs a relief. ]
Not that I would expect you to understand. Your minds are soโฆ small.
wait a minute, cw: blood, burns, all that sadomasochistic goodness
Matt would normally let somebody else's assumptions roll off him. (He'd try to, at least.) In the event he found himself compelled to prove them wrong, he'd at least attempt to be playful about it. Now, he finds his spine straightening, his jaw lifting with haughtiness of his own. Matt's hands drift nearer to each other, a prayerful gesture that turns the loop of the rose stem into something closer to a spiked collar. ]
You have no idea, [ he says--still in that warm murmur, though a hint of steel has come into his tone, ] what I understand.
[ With a jerk, Matt shifts his grip on the rose to one hand. The soft petals fill his palm, while its thorns bite deeper into the flesh of Marazhai's neck. Not that Matt escapes completely unscathed; another thorn nips its bee-sting sharpness into his fingers, making his breath catch. He lifts his other hand, now empty, and his breathing changes, falling into a quick, ordered pattern. ]
To all these fires be this oblation offered, [ he breathes, ] the all-devouring God whom men call Kฤma. [ It's nothing he's done before, but it's the same principle as summoning a column of flame to his palm. All he needs is a shield, glove-like, for his hands; then the fire. Matt's cheeks, already flushed from the kiss and the bite, turn a bit pinker. The tips of his fingers heat until they glow golden-white. ] Is this the kind of ecstasy you want?
[ Matt's hand lifts towards Marazhai's ear, heat blazing off his fingertips in palpable waves. But he doesn't touch down. He seems to be waiting for affirmation--a yes, or perhaps please. ]
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Does it really think it can wield pain in a way that impresses him? The collar of thorns might as well be mild foreplay, and Marazhai moves just a little closer at that steely tone. He sets one hand on the altar, but the other settles on Mattโs waist with a strong grip. It gets just a little stronger at that breathed out prayer, and thereโs a twinkle of vicious delight in his eyes, because he thinks he understands what this is about.
But he doesnโt. Itโs no prayer to the God-Emperor or whatever the mon-keigh call it. It has the tenor of such a thing, but he doesnโt have the space to consider it. He can feel the heat from Mattโs fingers and again he has to swallow the impulse to attack, but as it lifts to his earsโฆ
โฆWhat is it about mon-keigh and their fascination with Eldar ears? Nevermind that, though. ]
From faith? Noโฆ I will never understand such obsession.
[ He squeezes Mattโs hip tightly. Itโs sure to leave a bruise later, but itโs still light, so far as his touches can go. ]
But if it is the source of your fire, so be it. Show me.
[ Itโs a command much more than a โpleaseโ. ]
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Show me is yes, despite its somewhat atheistic timbre, so he pauses a moment to consider. Matt doesn't know how hot he's running in Fahrenheit or Celsius, but he's dimly aware that too much heat just cauterizes. You don't really experience it. He breathes a soft sigh that cools the tips of his fingers from white-hot to a gleaming marigold.
Then, deliberately, his fingers touch down, forming a four-pointed constellation: shell of the ear, earlobe, soft spot under the hinge of the jaw, throat. The latter lands just above the rose stem still wrapped around Marazhai's neck. Matt watches the stranger intently, alert to signs he's gone too far--or perhaps not far enough. ]
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Promising.
[ As if there were promise to be found fromโฆ? Well, heโs not sure what this all is. Itโs no trickery of the Warp or Chaos, but heโll take a pleasant surprise when itโs found. Questioning it can come after indulgence. He tilts his head very slightly up, like heโs obediently presenting himself.
And a burn may not be as intense as some Drukhari instruments in how it lights up his nerves, but itโs not always the sheer intensity that matters. He gasps at the contact as soon as it sears into his flesh, but itโs the contact with his ear that turns the gasp sharper and of a distinctly different timbre. He closes his eyes, but itโs still possible to see how they flutter underneath the lids.
Itโs the sort of pain thatโs bliss. Transcendental. A fear and a desire being satisfied simultaneously.
He rides the high of it for what seems like too long to possibly enjoy, even if in truth itโs only a short few seconds. Marazhai lets him know when itโs enough by tilting his head away from the touch, even if it digs the thorn in the process. ]
Ha— And I was concerned I would have to gut someone just for a little pleasure. [ red flagโฆ ignore that. ] Not bad, mon-keigh.
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Marazhai's head turns, and Matt pulls his hand back, gauging by the stranger's response when he's withdrawn far enough. It requires guesswork: His fire burns in all directions, but the protection Matt's afforded himself means his right hand feels like it's soaking in sunshine on a hot day at the beach, rather than burning up. His eyes flick curiously to the spots his fingers have seared into flesh. ]
I live to please, [ Matt murmurs. The words are wry, but also foundationally true. It feels crucial right now to show people who--what--he truly is. What he's capable of.
Matt shifts forward on the altar, leaning his weight into the stranger's hand as he aims to wrap his legs around his waist. Urging him to stay close. He cranes to kiss the spot on his earlobe he just burned, to flick a kitten lick to the injury. Then to close his teeth over it. ]
I want to do that again, [ he breathes against the shell of Marazhai's ear. ] Show me a good spot.
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Excellent.
[ Itโs murmured against him, and indeed, the smell of Mattโs skin is far better than his own. That is a thing about humans, heโs noticed. They smellโฆ different than his own kin. Better, he would say, but why isnโt something he would be able to place beyond a difference in general difference in biology. He is tempted to bite down to have blood join that scent, but the attention returning to his ears stops him. The small kiss is almost ticklish, but the bite is sweeter.
He sucks in a hiss of breath, but the quiver of it is more telling. That, and, well. The way that Matt has his legs wrapped around him means that as Marazhai shifts to hold more of Mattโs weight, heโll feel his half-hard dick through the Faire clothes that similarly donโt leave much to the imagination in that department. Heโs shameless, and he is very into pain, clearly. ]
And I want you to do it again.
[ As if there was any doubt. More of Mattโs weight is put on the altar, but he doesnโt remove his hands as he leans back a bit. Itโs for ease of access, but since thereโs part of him thatโs still paranoid at what he considers his good luckโฆ Having his strong hands on breakable bone makes him feel more secure.
But. He just nods to the feathered collar and leather top. ]
Undress me.
also, nsfw from here on out ... this is not a place of honor
Matt's hips shift against the stranger's. He feels him already starting to stiffen, and crooks his leg to draw them more insistently together. His own hips rock, his body starting to respond to the kisses, the friction, the stranger's voice. His teeth dig into flesh. For undress me, he breathes a laugh and a-- ]
Hm. You got it.
[ Only then does he let the rose slip from around the stranger's neck. Matt's fingertips trail briefly across the marks the thorns have made. Then he tugs at the feathery collar piece, fingers quick and clever even lefthanded. It comes loose, feathers fluttering to follow the rose. Then Matt goes to work on the laces of the leather top. His right hand is still blazing, so he holds a bit distant. In a pinch, maybe he could burn this guy's clothes off, but Plan A is undoing these laces. ]
hashtag just marazhai things
Thereโs a similar noise as the thorns are removed from his skin, though itโs also broken with a laugh when Matt follows his command. ]
Hm. Youโve a deft hand, pet.
[ Itโs said with praise, of course. Nevermind that they donโt know each otherโs names and yet Marazhai has already skipped to this. He shrugs off the feathered cloak and lets it fall, and while heโd have to let go of Matt to take off the top fully, it exposes his chest, which is what matters. Itโs probably little surprise that a glint of metal is whatโs likely to catch Mattโs eye first, since both of his nipples are pierced.
Just like the skin of his arms and legs, Marazhaiโs torso is scattered with scars, some old, some new, and so varied in appearance that clearly this is a man with stories. However, also like on his arms and legs, there are scars that are unusually regular in appearance. Pockmark scars the size of a quarter are more regularly spaced like a pattern, but the reason isnโt immediately clear.
However, he reaches up to grab Mattโs wrist with the burning fingers, and smoothly starts to direct it to one of those scars tucked behind his clavicle. ]
These marksโฆ There is little better. [ Minus the obvious one, clearly. He wouldnโt think heโd need to direct Matt towards his nipples. ] Directly into nerve centers.
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He's breathing harder by the time the stranger seizes his wrist. They've pulled back far enough from each other that Matt can examine his shoulders and upper arms, his chest. His gaze rakes across scars new and old, but is drawn particularly to the regular markings arrayed in their obscure pattern. These, too, strike Matt as constellation-like: star stories from a place so distant he can't name it. Then the stranger says nerve centers, and it clicks.
He wants to tell him that in the past, people where he comes from might have driven hooks and thorns through spots like these. Devoted Hindu ascetics, indigenous American warriors, the Aztecs, who would have offered blood to their gods from their genitals and tongues. But he's too absorbed by the terrible curiosity of watching his fingers drift towards that spot by the stranger's collarbone. Like putting his hand on a planchette, the closer he gets to the mark, the less sure Matt is of who's moving him. He presses a burning fingertip to the spot. It seems to fit perfectly into the groove, as if the whorls of his fingerprint were meant only for this. Skin sears; the scent of burning flesh flares again. Matt sighs heavily, watching Marazhai's face with lips rounded to an 'oh' of enlightenment.
He doesn't need to be guided to pull away this time. But his withdrawal is only a brief, strategic retreat. Matt bends his head to tongue at the corresponding mark on the stranger's opposite collarbone. Then his burning fingers tweak one of his nipples, ending with the piercing pinched between forefinger and thumb. His free hand flutters to the stranger's back, palm pressing flat to give him the leverage he wants for a slow drag of their hips. ]
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Which is to say, heโs glad thereโs no protest, only the indulgent, sharp heat of fire sinking into a tortured mark. Itโs only been days since heโd last donned his armor and its hooks had dug deeper into these marks than Matt does, but it feels like a lifetime. The lack of constant, pressing pain is comparable to a sudden, deafening silence. So, this might as well be a song.
He shudders fully in response and tilts his head back slightly as he luxuriates in the feeling with a groan. It distinctly feels like something almost spiritual, and in a way, it is. But it doesnโt last long. The touch lights up his nerves and spikes his adrenaline, so as Matt moves his hand away, Marazhai is grinning. Itโs toothy, almost mad, but itโs pure exhilaration. So, the searing heat applied to the metal poking through his sensitive flesh is even better.
Marazhai makes a sound thatโs somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and the fire may as well have gone straight to his cock too. Itโs not at all a slow drag as he grinds their hips together indulgently, and as he gets fully hard, itโs also clearer that heโs as well-endowed as could be expected from his heightโฆ ]
Ha— If youโre a vision of the Warp, then so be it!
[ He laughs out something that wonโt make much sense to Matt, but he doesnโt leave room for questions either. The tight hand on Mattโs hip digs in enough to cause blood from his nails, but the second drag of his hips is indeed slower. Pain and pleasure, together. ]
And if notโฆ You are promising. It feels good, doesnโt it?
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The stranger is far stronger than him, which helps. But more potently, he couldn't make his enjoyment more clear. It's enchanting to watch, irresistible to take part in. Matt tracks Marazhai's shudders and tilted head with a heavy-lidded gaze, savoring his noises of enjoyment. Nails dig into his hip, piercing skin; their cocks rub together through their clothes. The combination pulls a whimper from the back of Matt's throat. Feeling the length and breadth of Marazhai's erection, he thinks, I'd choke on that, and the thought makes his hips rock against him again, urgent. ]
Yes. [ He aims to catch the stranger's eye, returning his exhilarated grin with something akin to wonder. Overwhelmed, fascinated. ] It feels good, it--
[ Whatever he says next, he needs to say it wearing fewer clothes. Matt scrabbles to get his sweater off, singeing the wool as he jerks it over his head and tosses it aside. Underneath, he's slender, his skin almost entirely unmarked. There are only a few exceptions: the emerald lotus tattooed on his heart; the half-monkey, half-man figure that winds around his right hip; and, beside the stranger's hand, a serpentine scar that coils from beside his left hipbone to just below his navel. Something absolutely deadly happened there, and not too long ago.
Matt doesn't give the stranger too much time to look him over before bending back to his nipple. This time, it's his lips closing around it, Matt moaning as the too-hot metal hits his tongue. He licks, laps; his teeth scrape at spot he's just burned, now damp with spit. ]
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Itโs almost like heโs searching for something, but itโs considerably more intense than that. Itโs predatory, hungry, obsessive, like heโs beyond delighted that Matt agrees. That he understands. Heโs seen this look before too, reflected back at him every time the Rogue Trader deigned to join his feasts. Would this little thing go so far as that?
He hopes so. He would like to see this little pet covered in gore. ]
What heat—
[ From his tone, it doesnโt seem like he means the literal sort here. Itโs purred out in a more sultry way than that as Matt takes off the sweater. His eyes scan over Matt appreciatively (and, ironically, thereโs no chuckle of recognition at the half-monkey figure, since he doesnโt know what they look like), and he makes an especially pleased noise at that long, lethal-looking scar. He traces a thumb against it, nail scraping just a bit, but his attention is redirected. The (comparative) coolness of Mattโs mouth, but how he moans at the pain of his own making is much more enticing. ]
Then be still, sweet thing. But do not stop.
[ Because he starts to move, easily lifting and manipulating Mattโs weight. Heโs strong, but itโs only used to move Matt so that his back rests fully against the altar, and the Drukhari practically climbs on top of him. Holding Matt is fine, but he wants more use of his hands than supporting his weight, and he shows it by raking his nails up Mattโs torso indulgently from where heโd been holding him. He misses his clawed gauntlets in the moment. ]
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For the moment, though, there seems to be no daylight between this stranger's desires and his own. He fingers Matt's scar, but doesn't plunge into it the way his organ-sticky imagination feared he might. Matt sighs, mouth wrapped around his nipple. He'd like to wear sweet thing on his skin, he thinks, burning like a brand for all to see. Something to be known for that isn't SNITCH.
Matt offers no resistance as he's laid down on the altar, his scatter of flowers at his back. The stranger said not to stop, so he doesn't--not the attention of his tongue and teeth, as he tries to see what reactions he can coax from him with a there-and-gone flash of a bite; and not the wandering of his hands. With the stranger straddling him, Matt's left hand slides up his back, passing the (increasingly irritating) leather top to encounter more of those regular marks. Nerve center marks. X marks the spot.
The stranger drags sharp-nailed fingers up Matt's sides, and Matt cries out, an ah! of more adrenaline than pain. His spine arches, pressing chest and then hips to him. His right hand replaces his left on Marazhai's back, burning fingers plucking at nerves like notes made of flesh and bone. ]
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He groans appreciatively at the bite, regardless, and he smiles as a hand sneaks under the top. Itโll be easier to take it off now, but that will have to wait a moment. Itโs easy to feel how his lean, whipcord muscle tenses under Mattโs touch. From others, it might be a sign to pull back, but as Marazhai has already made clear, itโs pure anticipation.
So, that cry makes him shiver.
His fingernails dig in more after that, maybe leaving little cuts, but at the very least, itโll be angry, red marks that paint up his side later. Itโs intentional, but itโs also reflexive for how Mattโs fingers work at his skin much more intensely. He moans, raspy and husky into Mattโs ear, completely unabashed in how much heโs enjoying this.
Marazhaiโs hips jerk in half a thrust just for the rough friction of it, and though it takes a bit of uncomfortably craning his neck to do it, he slips into the space of Mattโs neck again. Thereโs no kiss for preamble this time, though, since those burns almost burn away his conscious thought too. He simply bites at the soft spot where his neck meets his shoulder. He wants to feel some of Mattโs pain brush against his senses too, taste his blood on his tongue, even if itโll be light, since heโs no vampire with teeth made for such a thing. ]
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He couldn't explain why this feels different. Only that it does--as different as a glooming night sans stars and the blaze of the Milky Way. The punctuation of nails nipping into skin, the husk of pleasure at his ear as his fingers sizzle flesh, the heavy grind of their hips: It's all intoxicating, pleasure and pain rising like a thermal. Marazhai bites his throat, and though it comes without the numbing balm a vampire's saliva would have back home, without the aphrodisiac simmer Armand's bite might leave, Matt finds himself crying out again, arousal throbbing hot and sudden between his legs. Without intending to, his nails dig into the stranger's back, scratching at old scars and freshly seared flesh alike. Matt's hips arch and rub at the stranger's, his cock beginning to ache as it strains at his fly. ]
You're wearing too much, [ he complains, breathless. He starts to tug at the laces of the leather top, forgetting for a moment that one of his hands is burning hot. ]
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I could say the same of you.
[ Marazhai rolls his shoulders to get top truly off. It comes with a sharp hiss from how the movement pulls at his new injuries, but even thatโs with a smile. Thereโs a gleam of blood on his teeth, and he even indulgently licks at his lips to collect what remains there. His hands are otherwise busy fussing impatiently with the fastenings of Mattโs pants. Whether his movements are clumsy from impatient desire or just his large hands having a bit more trouble with the small fastenings is hard to say. ]
I have not lain with a male of your species.
[ Itโs clearly not a problem to him, since as soon as Mattโs fly is undone, his hand slips to grab at his length instead. His touch is curious, but firm. ]
But a cock is a cock, yes?
[ Which, if Matt is inclined to similarly investigate, heโll find it a bit easier, which is probably why Marazhai isnโt hurried to take off his clothes on the bottom half in a similar way. Underneath the high slit skirt that heโs tenting, heโs not even wearing underwear, so. Marazhai is very large and very pierced, but itโs otherwise not all that different from a human. ]
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