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draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
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πππππ, πππππ, πππππ β£ 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 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, using Β« 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, 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.
πππ πππππ: 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.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"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, 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
πππ πππππ: 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.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"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 βΒ 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 β 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 βΒ 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 β 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 βΒ 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 β 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 βΒ 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 β 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 β or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering βΒ 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 βΒ 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 β or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering βΒ 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 βΒ 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
no subject
forget the altar.]
Who are you?
['how do you know about that, what are you, leave me alone' jumble together on his tongue, swallowed back down. his heart is beating too fast, deep breath. he tries to form more words together, but falls short.]
no subject
He starts to walk, one step at a time, eyes locked on August now that he's staring back, locking his gaze in turn. All that pent up energy in one young man, even more of it trying to claw its way out. A curse, is it? ]
Zephir.
[ One step after the other. The smile is on his lips, not his voice. ]
And who gave you all that appetite, I wonder.
no subject
If you're wondering, you already know.
no subject
Mm. Is playing with yourself in the contract or just a way to pass the time, then?
[ Yes, let's tease the witch currently out of his mind. ]
no subject
You want to find out?
[if he's going to poke the bear...]
no subject
[ Like he's been dying to be asked. ]
Can I take my clothes off first? [ Never mind; he's already doing it, walking off with his back turned to a beast. Apparently facing the cold won't be as challenging as what he's looking for: ] I'm trying to avoid getting any blood on them. They're brand new; you understand.
sry im tldr-ing
I don't care about your clothes, and neither should you.
[everything starts how it should. he only needs to place one foot in the circle, half in and half out. he's done this over a thousand times, even in his sleep. whispered phrases in darker languages; Latin mixed with others. the presence that rises from below August and snakes its way into Zephir's space makes a show of clawing at exposed skin, but its main directive is to invade his mind. it wants to flip every table and and run the worst memories over and over and then put itself there, too. much like JΓΆrmungandr opening it's jaw to swallow the world, it hovers over Zephir's head, coiled around his body.
which August can usually control just fine, but he's overrun with heat and Zephir's just - undressed, and he's faltering. his gaze is carnal on his body, heart hammering in his throat. he sways, catching himself from stumbling but it's too late. he's too obvious and the presence is gone as soon as it arrived. it's just him now, left standing with his fingers twitching at his sides, panting into the cold air. fuck.]
no subject
And then it's gone.
Zephir opens his eyes to find August defeated by his own shortcomings. The naked being lets his hands drop at his sides. ]
... Well.
That just happened.
[ Or didn't, rather. ]
no subject
only disdain when he looks at him, but that's all he's got. he's a helpless mess.]
Convenient for you.
cw: pseudo spit/emeto, forced
[ Poking the bear too drunk on gluttony to remember how to use its teeth. Zephir changes his pace, closing the distance one more time β whether August likes it or not β to grab his face. ]
You've taken too much, boy. One life after another after another. You steal from me and call it sacrifice so you can go jerk off in the middle of the woods. You waste yourself.
[ Every single word is bullshit. August didn't steal anything from Life β every creature that died at his hands was delivered to Death as intended, meeting their predestined end. But if the witch failed to put on a show, Zephir is more than willing to do it for him. ]
But you should rejoice. Because I'm feeling generous.
[ His expression softens with the promise that things are about to get worse. In a snap, August's face is pulled up as Zephir leans down, lips forced open to receive the poisoned gift. Just a bit of blackness that never made it to the ground, poured into his mouth. Let's see what this button does. ]
no subject
I don't--
[don't steal, waste, want his generosity. either from pleasure or disgust, the rest of his words are drowned by the groan that vibrates from his throat when his mouth is opened by this naked being looming over him. the strange liquid is swallowed too willingly, the second it drops over his tongue he wants to lap more of it up. it sends a delectable dose of magic through his veins.
what does he have to do for more of that. he stares, half-dazed, then he's got one hand on the back of Zephir's neck to pull him down and close any distance left between their lips.]
no subject
But the earth hums, the altar offered to lesser beings digesting Zephir's sticky sweet poison. There are two sides of a current reaching for and destroying each other, but one is clearly winning. It's a frantic disequilibrium, grounds brought to brand new life with joyful terror; none of what it breeds belongs here, plant-like shapes blackened with hard shells that dribble golden lines of unfathomable heat. They grow in one spurt, fade, and are consequently expelled by the next generation, building a forest on top of itself, shielding them from the world as it tries to reach the sky. If only his precious Death were here to see what he's made.
The grip in August's hair is immovable. This is his doing; he won't let the boy see any of it until he's satisfied, commanding his attention with lips, tongue, teeth, pressing an erection between their bodies. ]
no subject
he's here, covered, swallowed up by something else entirely and being watched. he can feel it, and he'd like to both eat and be eaten with how much heat courses through him.
the earth vibrates and the altar pulses, energy recycling itself in the stagnant air made wild with erratic magic. he knows the only way out is through, and he's not even looking before his hand wraps around Zephir's cock, stroking the length of him. come here, come here, come here, but he'll never say that.]
no subject
Who said you could touch me?
[ Who said he deserves to touch a god when he couldn't even muster dominion over creatures beneath him? Zephir shoves August's hand away, grips his throat instead, deciding where his balance lies and how he's allowed to stay upright with each step, until the witch's back is scraping on the sharp edges of a corrupted tree, still blazing with the golden tones of incandescent heat. He can smell the place where August had been feeding his derangement with blood and his own fist. ]
Look at everything I've done. Everything you couldn't. [ They're so close August could leave a mark on Zephir's lips. He'd let him. ] It's your turn to offer oblation. I might just be merciful enough to accept it.
no subject
I've been touching you.
[sobering words, some fight flashing behind his eyes. skin to skin, his magic overlapping into Zephir's. August, finally, pushing past the weighty haze of desire. he falls for the trap, or makes it look like he does. he brings his injured arm up and wraps his hand around Zephir's wrist, bites through the pain by biting into this being's lower lip instead, enough to draw blood. revenge.]
What does your mercy look like?
no subject
Zephir releases the throat to press his fingers on August's cheeks, to hurt him into opening that defiant mouth. More black fluid for him to drink as the white drips from Zephir's chin. His voice is soft and his smile cruel. ]
A breath. A heartbeat.
[ The life August gets to keep. ]
Try again. I gave you enough. [ Enough to strengthen whatever it is that failed him the first time. ] I want to know what it tastes like.
no subject
You - [breathless, he fights to keep his eyes open] you know.
[know he dies anyway. everyone dies, though. his death isn't special.]
You want me to? [his eyes flit to the pentagram in the dirt.] I need to be over there.
no subject
Zephir licks August's lips after he's done talking, leaves them wet with the black remains of Death's divine fluid. He's a creature of contradiction, though. His words don't quite match his tone; his actions don't quite match the intent. Moments where he's at his clearest are when the other party has no choice but to look at what they're being shown.
Zephir steps aside, gracing him with something a little kinder in his expression. August can peel himself away from the tree and see how far he makes it this time. ]
So get over there.
im sry i tldr so much
pieces of bark stick to his back, dirt and moss falling to the forest floor. he doesn't bother to try and brush any of it off. he's less high, or he feels less high - everything is saturated with tainted clarity. can't hide the arousal in his pants, but he can use the heat for magic. the circle already has what he needs, it had what he needed for the botched conjuring. only he's breaking a rule, he's opening it up. permission to exit, essentially.
conjuring is easy, forced possession is easier. demons love an unwitting host and love a straight shot out into the world even more. he can control what comes out, deal with it later if he has to, for now the buzz of whispers at the altar feel more like wasps - harsh and threatening to crawl into one's ears. they become so violent and chaotic that they're all that can be heard, a haunting into Zephir's mind. a warning.
Zephir poured gasoline over August and lit the match. the words August chants under his breath invite a cacophony of disembodied screams that barrel directly into him, leaving August to watch as unnamed, unseen demons attempt to burrow themselves inside his mind, fighting for who gets what. they tear at skin, press at it until purple blooms. the mind is different, that's what they want to tear apart the most. absolute fear and total dread. they pick and pick and pick. how close can they get him to insanity, how much space can they hold, and will he stop them? they'll take out nightmares if they have to, run them over and over as a broken record.]
did somebody say tldr also cw: a billion
It's the next part he really cares about. Zephir is being shredded down to the bone, but only makes a noise when they finally crack the shell of his mind. The body of a god being driven mad, crying that white fluid, vomiting black sludge as the flesh races to heal itself over and over, every plant around him grows chaotically in a spiral, various creatures pouring from every crevice the demons used to get in.
Someone is behind August. An observer that feels all too real, a perfect copy of the man he's torturing beyond comprehension. It doesn't speak. It doesn't have to. Words won't part the V of August's zipper, a voice isn't what's going to slide a hand under the fabric and help his cock jerk free. It's a hand that will jerk him off while the other holds his jaw with fingers, palm on his cheek. Zephir's decided that August gets to come to the sight of his horrifying glory. ]
yap city
magic pulses back when August's eyes flutter shut. he doesn't want to watch this, but he's seen worse. hasn't he? he's seen worse. Zephir's fingers dig into his skin and half of him stays alert to what's happening while the other half is lost and at Zephir's disposal. his body has been going through whiplash; the mixtures of pleasure and pain, of still running high with adrenaline and the hunger for a constant release.
the closer to climax he gets, the more erratic the demons become. they want his body and if they can't have it they'll at least get to eat the mind it came from. through short gasps and heady groans, it barely takes anything for August to come and still want more, cock hard and throbbing like nothing is enough. he's exhausted and whining, disgusted at the image he's created yet still so terribly hot for more. he can't help his sensitivity, leaning back against the shape purely for more contact of anything, of the warmth he's helplessly chasing.]
no subject
Teeth clench down on August's shoulder, anchoring him with pain. The blood that comes out is dark red licked clean, the vibrant contrast to the torrent of white from the avatar being tortured a few feet away. Insects and snakes and rats crawl from the gashes, scurrying into the wilderness; plants grow and grow until Zephir is shrouded in nature of his own creation, leaving the witch alone and desperate in the copy's unrelenting pumps. It's a horrifying chapter, obscene and working to pull August's mind down a dark pool of a different kind of madness.
Suddenly, something enrages the demons: they've been kicked out. From the overgrown flora a body steps out, bathed in white and black blood; this Zephir is real, this Zephir is healed and this Zephir is done playing with August's savage little friends. ]
I accept your offering, summoner. A blessing is in order.
[ One might think Zephir is trying to drown August in a kiss. Black sludge into his mouth, white fluid everywhere they touch, the false Zephir keeps jerking him off while this one slides fingers up his hips, outwardly unmoved by August's twitching, oversensitive cock. As the black fluid takes hold one last time, the rest of the night becomes a blur encased in debauchery. Maybe one buried his dick in August's ass while the other bent him over to thrust into his mouth, maybe nothing happened after they pumped him to a second and last orgasm. Almost everything loses its credence in the morning β gone are the mutated trees, the flood of creatures that spilled out of his body, the overgrown plants, the colorless gore. ]