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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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πππ πππ ππ ππππππ πππ πππ β£ MARCH TDM
MARCH 2025 TDM: RENEWAL
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 (THE REMIX)
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
CUPID'S ARROW STRUCK ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: possible sex, violence, a/b/o themes (pheromones, mating, heat/rut), breeding, body transformation/body horror, aphrodisiacs.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw (exhibitionism, ritual sex, orgy), dubious consent via magical compulsion.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
DIRECTORY
matt murdock | mcu | new player/character
(cw: brief allusion to suicidal thoughts)
[it isn't unusual, these days, for matt to wake up with a pounding headache, with the distinct sense that his skull might cave in; it isn't unusual, these days, for him to wish that the rubble at midland circle would've already done that for him, so that he'd never wake up again with the knowledge that he'd made it out and elektra hadn't. but he wakes up all the same, with a pounding headache, inhaling a deep breath and taking in the scent of stale air as he does, just like he has been. only β
this isn't the basement of st. agnes.
there's no trace of the must from the old bibles in storage, or of the kind of soap the sisters use in the laundry room, or of even the antiseptic and gauze that have been a constant presence on the table beside his makeshift bed. those things have been so familiar that even when his senses hadn't quite recovered, they'd become a part of him β but there's nothing like that here now. nothing to orient him at all.
matt's chest is tight as he puts feet to the floor β hardwood, much more expensive than anything he could ever afford, much less even come close enough to step on β and for a time, he grips the edge of the bed he's ended up in, tilting his head to listen to any stray heartbeats or conversation he can pick up on. the voices he hears, some more muffled than others, are all unfamiliar; there's nothing to be learned here.
his hand finding the wall, he makes his way out the room, down the halls, and, eventually, to where breakfast is being served outside β the strange assortment of whatever this breakfast is.
to anyone who happens to be nearby, matt asks,]
Have you, uh β tried the cheese? [his smiles are hard to come by, now, and this one is thin.] I think I have some here that smells fresh.
cupid's arrow.
[there's a joke to be had, the kind of bitter one that he's been favoring especially lately, about sending a blind man off to the lawn to watch. matt doesn't voice anything approaching it, though, instead finding his way across the grass.
his footing over it is much more unsteady than anything he's used to, moving through the familiar streets and across the rooftops of hell's kitchen, and he has to take it much more slowly than he'd like. (he has to take everything more slowly than he'd like, now.) if anyone happens to come along and give him a hand along the way, he simply nods his thanks.
along the way, when the tip of his shoe kicks against what sounds like plastic, he pauses, bending over to pick it up β and takes a plastic egg, like the kind they used to hide outside the orphanage every easter; there's a weight to it, so something's inside, something that smells sweet. after he settles into a spot, he opens it, and, still hungry, he pops the sweet into his mouth.
what he doesn't know are the words iced onto the heart he's just eaten: horny af.
even so, what starts to happen is hard to miss: heat rushing under his skin, a hitch in his breath, a tightness in his pants.]
This spot's open. [there's an audible strain to his voice.] If you want it.
a rose by any other name.
[this wouldn't be the first time that matt has been in the proximity of some sort of strange ritual. that had been part and parcel of dealing with the hand, and everything that had resulted in the fallout.
now, though, he's being led into it. he's being touched by more pairs of hands than he can keep track of, being painted with something he can't even begin to recognize. he just knows this: there's a pull, and something inside him wants to follow it.
that's what he's supposed to do, as a lord. when he tries to step back, the pull sets him straight; there's no fighting what he's supposed to do.
from the crowd, he takes a hand. says,]
I'm Matt.
[at the very least, he thinks, he can allow this person the decency of an introduction.
later, after the rite has been completed, matt finds his way to the lake. one lap of the water against his toes has an impact; already, his breath settles, turning easier. he feels better than he has in months, years β maybe even ever. that only becomes more true as he sinks deeper into the water.
for the first time in as long as he can remember, the anger, the anxiety, the pain all begin to ebb; for the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn't feel anything at all.]
wildcard.
[have something else in mind? throw it at me! i'm also available at
just as a note: because of his heightened senses, matt has abilities that will allow him to perceive things about other characters (such as knowing when they're lying by listening to their heartbeats). more details are ironed out in this old permissions post. as a rule, i'll follow what i'm given in the narration of a tag and have matt go from there, but please reach out if there are any questions/concerns! canon point is toward the beginning of daredevil season 3, because i love pain.]
cupid's arrow
still, she eats it. she hadn't ben feeling that hungry at breakfast since she'd forgone the drugs they'd offered as pain relief.
she's doing okay up until she actually arrives to where the others have gathered to observe whatever's supposed to be happening, and then she starts feeling...strange. a little too warm, a little short of breath. something tightens in her stomach and she presses her thighs together as she clenches her fists, trying to sort out the sudden rush of heat under her skin.
a voice comes from her left and she turns towards it, prepared to say something dismissive and snappish, but then she looks him over, eyes lingering a little too long between his legs. he doesn't look any better off than she is, and he's...really attractive, she can't help but notice, too. ]
You really wanna stick around for this? [ her voice is low and heady, a little moreso than she intends. but there's a strain her hers that she's trying to suppress, too. ]
no subject
his own heart pounds in his ears. fingernails dig into his palms, but they don't do much to ground him.
it's been months, well before a building had fallen on top of him and crushed his world in the impact, since he's had a thought remotely approaching anything like this; now, it's all he can think about.
matt turns, leaning closer; not quite in her space yet, but closer. he breathes for a moment. then:]
Not if you have a better idea, [he finds himself saying, his voice low just like hers.
something curls on his mouth.]
no subject
but he seems to catch on all the same. so. ]
Yeah. Let's get out of here.
[ she doesn't particularly care where, just as long as they're not being watched when they hadn't volunteered to be a part of the show. ]
I think we're close to a more wooded area.
no subject
yeah, he hears, and it's a relief; the curve of his mouth sinks in deeper.
heat rises; tension pulls.]
Lead the way. [a beat.] I β uh, wouldn't know where it begins.
[it's a rush of words coming on a singular breath, at least a small confirmation of what she's probably already noticed just looking at him.
(he does know, but that's not something he would tell.)]
cw: hints at abuse and rock bottom self esteem
not that she's getting that impression from him. there's an undercurrent of desperation here, something unnatural that they're both suffering the effects of, and she wants to help as much as she wants her own relief. she nods once again, then huffs a little in recognition of what she's done and reaches for his hand instead. even that simple contact makes her blood rush, leaving her a little lightheaded until she takes a calming breath, starting to tug him in the direction she's just come from. ]
It's this way. [ there's a wooded area a few yards back, outside of where the spectacle is happening, and no one's paying attention as they head over there.
she resists the urge to run, not wanting to leave him without a way to follow. ]
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even so, there's something about the huff he hears from her that breaks the spell a little. not by much β blood is still rushing under his skin, just like it is under hers β but as they begin to walk, it's enough for some approximation of a breathless laugh to escape him.]
You nodded, didn't you? [and before she can answer, he follows up:] It's okay. People do that a lot around me without realizing.
[smiles haven't been easy to come by in months β but there's one taking shape on his mouth, now, softer than anything he'd had before. it's brief, but there.]
I'm Matt.
[he'd extend his hand, but she's already holding it. in a roundabout way, they've managed an actual introduction.]
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I'm Sam.
[ a few more feet and they've found an area that's more or less secluded enough for comfort. she guides them behind a tree, somewhat reluctant as she lets go of his hand. she remains close, leaning in, and oh god, he smells good. she wonders how he tastes. ]
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he shuts the thought, however fleeting, down in an instant.
it wouldn't lead anywhere good.
soon enough, though, he doesn't have the capacity to dwell on it, anyway. there's the loss, which he feels acutely, when she lets go of his hand, but she's close, leaning in, before he can even think to mourn it, and the smell of her is all he knows.
breath catches in his throat, mouth going dry. his own heart picks up the pace. he doesn't know anything else.]
Sam.
[that repetition, that acknowledgement, low and quiet, is all he manages before he leans over the rest of the distance that separates them, finding her mouth with his.]
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the relief is almost palpable, even just from the kiss. she sighs, maneuvering backwards until her back collides with the surface of a tree. she parts her legs slightly and pulls him into the space between them, molding herself to his body. ]
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almost β because they could be closer.
she pulls him, and he follows without hesitation. he steps into her space, bracketing her against the tree, better deepening the kiss with his newfound leverage. one hand rests under her chin to tip it up at a better angle, while the other dips, searching for the hem of her shirt.]
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her fingers make quick work of the fastenings, then move to the waist of her own, shifting against him as she works to get hers undone, too. ]
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cw: death/violence/killing/hints at parental neglect and abuse/drug use
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cupids.
It's just not in him, evidently. He's so hot and aching that he half expects the cross on his necklace to burn his skin and brand him as a shameless sinner. ]
Um. Thank you.
[ Clipped, short words, as his blood rushes and desire tears through him. He does need the place to sit, so he takes it, if just to pull out his phone and text someone that he knows and trusts so he can get whatever this is out of his system. But he hesitates, his eyes landing on the stranger and staying there a moment too long. Control yourself. ]
Sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I'm... [ Mortified, a little scared, so horny he'd probably collapse if anyone were to touch him. ] I'm not feeling well.
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his breath is as clipped as the words he barely hears. if the force of his own pulse weren't enough to nearly knock him off balance despite sitting down, then what sits in the air between them β close, but not enough to touch β almost manages the job.
matt digs his fingernails into his palms, and tries to breathe, slowly, to focus; it barely helps at all.]
I think whatever hit you β [he swallows, but it doesn't do anything; the strain is still in his voice, even more pronounced than before.] hit me, too.
[so he tries clearing his throat.]
Did you eat something out here?
[that doesn't do anything, either. he still sounds the same.]
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There is an ounce of relief, though, that he hasnβt just lost his mind. Somethingβs been done to them, and he can hear it in Mattβs voice now that heβs listening for it. Thereβs a shakiness, like heβs trying to hold himself together. Not unlike Timβs, but his own is airier, soft panting as if he were already approaching a breaking point and ready to beg . ]
I...the candy, out of the eggs.Β
[ Fuck me, spank me, suck it... he'd thought it was just the house having poor taste, as usual, and popped them into his mouth one by one without a second thought. Without even reading most of them. ]
Did you...?
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heat washes over his body; he feels like he can barely breathe.
it's more of a struggle than ever to get out:]
I did. [he nods, once, twice, more than he means to.] Also the candy.
[something's been done to them, and he can get past it. all he has to do is focus; listen to his breath, find the chirping of one of the birds nearby and keep his attention there. but β
his brain feels like static. all he can tune into is a heartbeat.]
Maybe.... [he finds himself starting, then trailing off. fingernails dig into palms, again, and, again, do nothing. so he finds himself finishing:] Maybe we can help each other.
[and he finds himself shifting just a little closer, toward what he should be shifting away from.
(that's always the way it is, isn't it? maybe at another time, he'd examine that thought. now, though, the capacity to do so is steadily dwindling.)]
rose;
In the moment itself, Greer closes her eyes, feeling the cool night air ghost over her skin, creating a taut awareness within her body β and when a hand slips into her own, she looks into the face of a man she's never seen before. That part matters little, and she's certainly not expecting him to offer her a name, not before they perform their parts in this ritual, but her smile is shy and soft, even before she realizes he's not directly looking into her eyes. ]
Greer. [ Her fingers lace through his, as she presses their palms together; she knows what she's meant to do, instinctively, and she feels every desire to take it seriously. The shared name might be a coincidence, or maybe it's a sign all on its own β Matt's way of sending another Matt to her, when he can't be here himself. ]
You feel it too? [ This pull, this yearning β it's greater than she is, but she finds, as her gaze drifts over his features, that it doesn't override her own instinctive desire, not for someone who seems gentle and kind. ]
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enough so, at least, that a small smile tugs at one of the corners of his mouth.]
Yeah. [voice quiet, raspy, he nods.] I feel it.
[he gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and that warmth, against the night air, feels like even more of a relief. even so, that pull is hardly settled; it's as if something is whispering at the back of his mind that he knows what his purpose is, and that he shouldn't fight it.
(it feels good, certainty, after his world has collapsed, just like midland circle.)
still, before he takes one more step, he finds the wherewithal to ask,]
Is this okay, Greer?
[because she should have that say, regardless.]
welcome (remix).
steve has a pretty good handle on people's faces now, though, and this man is both unfamiliar and not β like he's seen him somewhere, but he can't place the face or voice. not s.h.i.e.l.d., definitely not s.t.r.i.k.e. someone from dc, then? no, not that either.
still, an american, if he pegs the accent correctly. ]
'Fresh cheese' is a bit of an oxymoron, don't you think? Considering how it's made and all. I'll take it, though, if you don't mind.
East Coast?
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it's a laugh that turns more genuine, maybe even a little brighter, as he actually processes the words, coming with a shrug of a shoulder rather than a bitter taste.
(that's been rare in his life, lately.)]
Well, at least it isn't covered in mold that makes you wanna toss it across the lawn after just taking a whiff of it. More than you can say for a lot of the stuff here.
[pretending like he doesn't know where the other man is sitting, matt extends the hand that's holding the cheese out toward some place vaguely in front of him. it's the kind of touch he'd make sure to do for most people, regardless, but he makes sure it's in place for someone who's regarded as a public figure.]
New York. [after a beat, he adds:] Hell's Kitchen.
rose petals in the lake
Is it cold?
[Dawn asks softly, hesitant to break the silence that seems to stretch out over the waters.]
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A little warm for ice swimming, if that's what you're looking for.
[a beat. then:]
No, it's not cold at all.
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[She says, her lips lifting in a small smile at his joke as she shrugs off the robe she wore down. She is bare underneath but her heartbeat does not rise when she walks naked over to the water's edge, she's unaware of Matt's condition but doesn't really care either way. She's comfortable in her body and nudity isn't a shameful thing for her, bodies are bodies and right now hers wants to be submerged in the cool waters.]
Oh.
[The word escapes her lips and she stops in mid-wade, the water up to her hips and only now does her heartbeat quicken as something feels...different than before.]
I'm sorry but - [She starts to ask but then stops herself because she doesn't know exactly how to phrase her question.]
-does the water feel different to you?
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so he's able to track the shift in her heartbeat at the moment it happens β the jump that's as sharp as the word that escapes her.
his head tilts.]
Different how?
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Soothing.
[That's a better word for what she's feeling, before when she left the main building she had felt confused and worried about her actions during the hunt. How feral and aggressive she had become but now, all she feels is peace.]
I feel calmer and like I can't really remember what I was worried about earlier. [She moves a little closer to him.]
You don't feel that?