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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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ππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JAN TDM
JANUARY 2025 TDM: IMMORTALITY
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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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."
8-BALL
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, nsfw.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
NEW YEAR, NEW ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: homophobia, misogyny, implied grooming, cultural insensitivity.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
DIRECTORY
cw: the hanahaki is here
Zephir kisses him. Matt sighs into his mouth, lips parting eagerly. He feels something pass between their tongues, soft and paper-thin and tasting of soap, and without meaning to--before he can stop himself or start to think better of it--Matt swallows. Something between embarrassment and thrilling submission coils in his gut as he realizes what he's done. His vision swims. The stranger's hands are on his cheeks, holding him for a moment. Then he steps back. ]
Oh--I. [ Matt lifts a hand to his stomach and throat, fingers touching lightly down. Something's ... scratching at him, from the inside. Brewing. ] Sorry, I--
[ On a scale from sprouting feathers to being murdered by Pierce, what happens next doesn't hurt so bad. But it's sharp like sprouting feathers had been, and feels, in a way Matt couldn't possibly explain, like the photo negative of Pierce's magic. Purely opposite, a strange internal origami that fills his lungs with chlorophyll and makes him bloom, bloom.
Matt is too horrified to move, but he reaches for Zephir with one shaking hand. He tries to say help. But as he opens his mouth, the scarlet petals of a rose peek out instead. ]
no subject
Petal after petal drowns out the attempt to call for help. Zephir offers nothing of the sort, with or without proper supplication, and takes another step back instead. Any other might walk in and immediately try to undo Zephir's creation; always so preoccupied, these people, with ridding the body of things that don't belong. He knows better β that Matt is too beautiful to not be seen, his pain too rich to be wasted. ]
It's strange, I know.
[ With the condescending empathy of a parent talking to a child with scraped knees. Petals collect at their feet. ]
Don't listen to your body. Just let me see what happens.
no subject
"Don't listen to your body"? What else is there to listen to? His heart hammers, let me see let me see. And unbidden, the answer comes: listen to the light. The sun, the seed-sparker. Listen to thee dispeller of the night. Matt coughs, slumping back against the wall. His shoulders heave.
An orchid comes next: eternal love, opulence. Then a poppy, mourning and rebirth, then asphodel for regret beyond the grave. A spray of angelica, the flower of the angels. All of them are spit-soaked, speckled with blood, and with each one, Matt feels--weirdly, lighter. Like he's doing what he's meant to be doing. He feels hallowed, empty as a vessel. There's a strange pleasure wheeling through his mind, flushing his veins with adrenaline.
His eyelids are heavy. He aches. He watches Zephir hopelessly. ]
Please, [ he rasps. ]
cw: gore
You should see it, too.
[ Stepping forward, he slides one finger down from Matt's chest to navel; the split splits open there, bleeding. Flower after flower spills free from his torso, but strangely β his organs stay in place. This man isn't dying here, not tonight. But he is suffering.
Zephir pulls out a flower that blossoms in his palm, held up between them like a secret. ]
You made this, love. Isn't it beautiful?
no subject
For now, he can't form thoughts that complex. He feels the terrarium inside him sway, as if it can sense the stranger's outstretched hand and is lurching to reunite with him. The slide of his fingertip becomes a bassline, gentle thrum beneath the screaming aria of splitting skin, of petal-spill and wet, sprawling leafage. Zephir shows him a glistening hyacinth, puffed like lungs or cotton candy. Flower of regret. Lover killed too soon. ]
Is-- [ Speaking hurts. Everything hurts. ] Is that me? Or you?
[ He means is that my pain, is that my body, is it something you invented. He wants to say the plants of earth are rich in milk, and rich in milk is this my word; he wants to beg Zephir to make him bloom until he can't give any more. Shockingly, miraculously, Matt's body persists through its suffering to blaze a familiar path: despite his agony, he's half hard.
Zephir does, at least, fulfill the brief. Matt's eyes are wet with tears as he struggles to focus on his face. ]
no subject
It's us.
[ The hyacinth joins the rest of the flowers on the pile. More are coming. ]
You don't like it?
cw: some wildfire talk
A new flower spills to join the pile, one that Matt has only seen in pictures before. Iliamna bakeri, a dainty purple hollyhock that only blooms in the ash after a wildfire. Matt's read the seeds can germinate for a hundred years, waiting for the kiss of heat that wakes them. ]
I feel--
I feel like.
[ Like a nebula. Like a greenhouse. Another tropical swell of tears fills his eyes. Matt whispers, syllables crackling against Zephir's mouth: ]
A miracle.
no subject
That's right, love. That's what you are.
[ And with his cheek against Matt's temple, Zephir's hand digs deep, past the endless propagation of these cursed flowers, past the organs fighting for room inside this tortured body. After some search, he carefully withdraws, something small and precious held between thumb and index. Zephir looks at it as though he's found treasure only talked about in books.
A seed. ]
β¦ My miracle.
[ He places it on his tongue and swallows with a sigh. There are no more flowers after that β Matt is free of this disease, healed by a hand that closes up his body as though it was never torn open. The blood and the flowers are the only evidence that none of this was a feverish hallucination. Zephir kisses his forehead, hands on both cheeks. ]
Thank you.
no subject
All at once, the pain stops.
Matt's mind is slow to realize this. Still whirling with the panic of blood and photosynthesis, it needs a moment to decelerate. Meanwhile, his stomach knits itself up. There is blood on his skin, flowers at their feet, but no more gash. Just the now-familiar scar that Lauralae's teeth and claws made.
Zephir kisses Matt's forehead. His hands cup both his cheeks. Matt's eyes gleam with fresh tears, as he says, on a reverent breath, the only thing he can think to say. ]
Yours.
[ He feels unsteady on his feet as a new foal, but that doesn't stop him: Matt sways forward, crashing towards another kiss. ]
no subject
... Come with me, love.
[ Take Zephir's hand, walk with him until they've both sat down with Matt on his lap. Zephir brings him closer for another kiss, wrapping a hand around his cock. He strokes him lazily, carefully. ]
no subject
[ Zephir is collecting quite the catalogue of Matt's noises of overwhelm. This one, at least, comes from pleasure instead of pain. Matt's neck arches under Zephir's tongue, small gasps of arousal escaping with each lick. He lets himself be led where Zephir wants to take him, collapsing in a sprawl onto his lap. Matt moans into Zephir's mouth; in his hand, his cock stiffens quickly to full hardness. ]
Oh, [ he says again, messy and muffled against Zephir's lips. Words float in fragments through his mind: lover, iliamna, hundred-handed gather up thousand-handed pour thou forth. Moving his hands is easy as thought again, and Matt takes advantage to clutch at Zephir's shoulder, to comb fingers up into his hair. His hips rock up into Zephir's hand. ] Can I come for you? [ His teeth catch, adoringly, at Zephir's lip. ] Because I'm yours?
[ Hard to untangle dirty talk from devotionals, horror from hunger. The blood streaking down his belly and legs is still wet. ]
no subject
He remains there, quiet, reading the length and girth in the palm of his hand and the circle of his fingers, all-too aware of how close Matt is. ]
Not yet.
[ Not yet, you can't come. Not yet, you aren't mine.
He brings a nail to his own neck, traces a line that mirrors the tendon he'd licked on Matt before. That line splits his skin, a smooth cut that slowly pools with white blood. Zephir tilts his head for him. ]
Drink. Claim what is yours.
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Then the stranger's hand lifts to his own throat. Matt's eye catches on the nail, on the drag against tender tendon. White blood wells from the spot that Zephir's nail parts, and Matt's stomach does a flip-flop. Just for an instant, he can almost feel the feathers bursting through his skin again, can almost see his moonstone eyes reflected in the mirror--
But Zephir says drink. And for all that it feels holy to him, Matt doesn't believe in his bones that it's anything belonging to the manor. He bends. He drinks, lapping with eager kitten licks. The taste is nothing he recognizes, but it's sweet, and just right, like a drink he's been craving without knowing it. Matt moans into the curve of Zephir's neck, cock throbbing in his hand. ]
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Now, love. Now you're mine.
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He moans again for mine. He's clutching at him now, at his shoulder and back, cock leaking helplessly onto Zephir's fingers. ]
Please, [ he pants against his neck, ] please can I come for you now, please please--
cw: using blood as lube idk
What if I didn't let you? [ A soft chuckle, eyes closed. ] What if this is all I ever wanted you to have?
[ As hilarious as the idea would be, Zephir brings the hand covered in Matt's fluid to his neck, swiping some of his own blood with it, and wraps his fist around his cock one last time, using the mix to stroke with slick, hurried noises. ]
Go on then, love. Come for me.
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Technically, the hypothetical has a simple answer. Leave and finish on his own, or work himself into an orgasm with his own breath and imagination. But here in the stranger's lap, it feels impossible to experience any pleasure he doesn't give him. Zephir lets go of his cock, and Matt's lips part around a plea--
But then, blessedly: his grip returns, slicker. Go on then, love. Zephir's barely gotten the words out before Matt cries out, shockingly loud, and spills into his hand. The orgasm jolts him to the bones, bud of the bud and root of the root. He can't remember the last time he came so hard. ]
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You're free now, love.
[ With the tone of a proud congratulations. ]
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Zephir's shoulders ease, and Matt exhales to match him, slow and sated. ]
What if I don't want to be?
[ It's a bit of a tease. But at the same time, this stranger's given Matt an experience he could never have imagined. Horrible, beautiful, theophanous. It would break his heart to leave and never see him again. ]