𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄 ▣ AUGUST TDM

[saltburntmods]

AUGUST 2025 TDM: BALANCE

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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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.

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.

The day starts much like any other — at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.

Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services — tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.

Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions — irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"

The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"

"The —" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."

A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."

LIVING OFF THE LAND

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes.

By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken … liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either — that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.

At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll just— we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."

Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others — without suitemates, or freshly arrived — find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.

Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that — while the interior is positively spacious — some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.

Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.

The generosity doesn't end there — with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!

No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other — medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race — with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.

Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits — all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."

Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

CONTENT WARNINGS: emeto, slight body horror, potential character death, fuck or die.

While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. You’re only sure of one thing — it seems like you’ve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe you’ve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, it’s probably nothing you haven’t dealt with before, and it won’t stop you from finding your way out of the maze.

The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage — or at least you think there’s no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means you’re probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyone’s desperate to get out, and you’re only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)

Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from — you guessed it — the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you don’t keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.

It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until you’re all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.

These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and it’s up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions — but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into I’m glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them — three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you they’re the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?

The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other — two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how you’ll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how they’ll claim it over you — a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, don’t they? Best to keep your wits about you.

For those of you prone to clumsiness, you’re probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, it’s time to face your vipers — that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin — the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.

If you manage to avoid the pits, they’re not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and you’ll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style — and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky — or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?

Just when you think it’s the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, you’re lucky enough to happen upon a water source — one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, you’re parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you — only it’s either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear you’ve already become. Once you catch your reflection’s eye, you’re caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the water’s depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself — fast.

After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end — a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you — a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. They’re going to need some patching up once they’re done.

As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you haven’t made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfour’s beloved Minotaur statue should be… only it’s nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.

MATERIAL GIRLS

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential character death, loss of limbs.

It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness — or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.

EYE TO EYE — Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made — forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point — the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.

HAND IN HAND — Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined — but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made — reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.

Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well — you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token — a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.

Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house — and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

Tony Stark | MCU | current player, new character

[ingeniar]

GOOD MORNING, MR STARK — cw: house fire

[ Typical. Tony's only been in this dimension -- he's assuming it's a dimension, it definitely seems to have dimension-like properties, definitely too weird to be a dream or an alternate timeline or something, maybe a mishap from his future-or-past experimentation -- for all of five minutes, and it's already burning down. Unfortunately, he's landed in this whatever-it-is without anything useful in the way of superhero technology, so the best he can do to help is hurry his sleep-deprived body through the halls, ducking in to help scoop up wayward guests or staff if they look like they're running in the wrong direction. Not that he knows which is the right direction, but he can take a guess, and he's not going to wait around to see if someone else can help.

He ends up on the lawn in front of the burning house, barefoot and coughing, surrounded by strangers in various states of distress and undress. Without thinking much about it, he shrugs out of the hoodie he threw on back in his room and drapes it over a pair of bare shoulders. ]

You look like you need it more than I do. Might want to.. zip it up.

[ Tony doesn't hang around staring, either. He's immediately headed to the lake to take part in the bucket line trying in vain to keep the flames contained. It's frustrating to not be able to do more, but he does his best, refusing to stop for more than a few minutes, hustling between hauling furniture and guiding dazed people out to fresh air.

Eventually it becomes clear that the fire is as contained as it's going to be and Tony finally slows down enough to drop down and sit on the lawn in the smoky morning light. He coughs into his fist, rubs his sweat-and-soot smeared forehead, and looks around. ]

Well. Whoever was smoking in bed, speak up now. Come on. We listen, we don't judge.

GETTING A LITTLE IN-TENTS — cw: none

[ Camping isn't exactly Tony's thing. Okay, he can rough it just like any other red-blooded American, but he's the wrong side of forty for sleeping on the ground and he's become pretty used to his privacy, and his things, and his wife and his kid and his plans to save the world from imminent destruction, so sue him if he's a little grouchy about the whole relocation.

He doesn't spend much time in his tent, but that doesn't mean he's hiding somewhere else. If anyone needs him, he can be found trying to make a decent cup of coffee over a campfire, having haggled and engineered his way to a decent percolator and a supply of beans (which he grinds by hand), determined to perfect it even if he does nothing else. He also catches up on his reading with the Portia-supplied copy of the Karma Sutra and isn't afraid to wander around the site with his gift basket under his arm to see if anyone wants to trade their supplies for his. ]

Anyone want a spare candle? No? This one is.. [ He scrutinizes the one in his hand. ] Wow, I didn't know you could make that into a candle. Sounds painful.

WILDCARD

[ OOC: Here for any and all wildcards relating to the first two prompts! Tony's canon point is mid-Endgame, post-timeskip but before the time heist. Ping me at laetificat for plotting or questions! ]

good morning, mr stark!

[tickers]

( let's say, it's not a far stretch of the imagination for tony's eyes to land on what appears to be a giant, red woman, who is in fact letting off sparks from the center of her chest, where a mechanical whir bleats under all the internal goopy stuff. she tries to look very inconspicuous, but given the aforementioned height and heat, not to mention her general demeanor, it isn't exactly successful. eventually she sighs, tapping a sharp nail against her chest. )

Come on, mate! This one isn't me, I swear it. It's all ...

( roaring, fiery, angry? a little like some nearby tieflings with fire in their hearts? she gestures to it, a little flagrantly. )

Well —  ( a little more serious, ) I'd admit it, if it was me, you know. 'Course, can't exactly blame you for guessing. Old sparky's a likely culprit.

[ingeniar]

[ Over the last decade, Tony's come to know many different kinds of people. Green people, blue people. Gods, raccoons. Clint. But this is his first really red person, so she'll have to forgive him for taking a beat to process it all. Plus the tail. And the horn. And, more importantly, the way she's apparently lit up from within, putting her at #1 suspect on Tony's list despite her claims otherwise.

He blinks his smoke-stung eyes. ]

Your name is Old Sparky?

[ He doesn't get up from where he's sitting on the grass, still in just a sooty t-shirt and pyjama pants, arms crooked over his knees -- forgive him, it's been a long morning. ]

Not exactly the most creative name in the world, but I guess it works..

[tickers]

( with a huff of a laugh, )

Can you imagine if my parents named me Old Sparky? Like they picked me up at the pound or something. C'mere Old Sparky, you mangy dog.

( it goes without saying, karlach isn't put as far under the weather by the fire as tony. it's a little concerning, actually — she looks around for someone who could help him out, before locating a small collection of fiji water bottles nearby, saved from the kitchen. she grabs one, careful to handle it by the tips of her fingernails only, but when she passes it off to him, there is the definite melty imprint of her fingerprints around the plastic cap. )

Name's Karlach. Sparky's the ( she taps a finger against her chest, over the orangey glow, outlining her ribcage. ) long backstory.

[ingeniar]

[ The water bottle is appreciated, half-melted cap and all. Tony is wary as he takes it from her, able to feel the heat rolling off her skin, but he nods his gratitude and goes to work levering off the melted plastic. ]

Yeah? [ He coughs into his shoulder, glances up -- and up, there's a lot of her -- and raises his eyebrows a little. ]

I think this -- [ He gestures at the smoking ruin of the house, the other guests and staff on the lawn or wandering helplessly around. ] -- might be kinda it for a while. Nothing but time for long backstories. Here, c'mon, Hot Rod. You show me yours, I'll show you mine.

[ He hooks a finger in the neck of his t-shirt and pulls it down enough to show the edge of the ring of scar tissue where his own personal furnace used to be. ]

good morning, mr stark

[vdovy]

[ Wearing only a sheer slip, Yelena very much does look like she needs his hoodie. She doesn't, but she does look like it. It was a cute gesture — cute in the same harmless, restorative way that it's cute when someone helps a senior citizen carry their groceries. Thoughtlessly helpful. What Yelena should be; what she is supposed to model now.

The selfless thing doesn't come all that naturally for her. What comes naturally is shrugging the jacket off and following its owner as he speeds off, calling after him: ] Hey, come and get your hoodie! I did not need it and I am not carrying it around for you.

[ingeniar]

[ Unfortunately -- or, perhaps, fortunately, depending on how you look at it -- for Yelena, Tony doesn't recognise her, being a little too removed from that fork in the timeline. He is, however, capable of recognising when a young lady needs a coat and doesn't hesitate to offer his own as he scoots on by.

He doesn't expect to be chased for it. Nor does he slow down as he heads across the law to the lake. ]

Uh, beg to differ on that one. [ He turns around mid-stride, walking backwards for a few steps. ] Unless you're planning on spending the next twelve to twenty-four hours in your.. frilly night things.

[vdovy]

That is the plan, yes. For one, I am Russian and this? [ She gestures broadly into the air, indicating (one might be forced to guess from context) the weather. ] This is nothing. That's number two: it is summer time. And number three — [ Here, she intends to point out that an entire wing of the house is still on fire, but she is now within range to make out his very recognizable face and that third point is instantly forgotten. Surprise stops Yelena in her tracks and she raises the hand that isn't still clutching his hoodie, pointing like an excited child at the aquarium. ] Oh shit. You're Tony Stark.

[ingeniar]

[ Hardly the first time he's been recognised in the middle of a crisis situation. As he turns to keep walking across the lawn, Tony's expression flickers with an automatic grimace. ]

Oh, shit. Yeah, I am. [ As if he's also surprised by the news. He holds up his hands, not looking over at her. ] Damn, I was kind of hoping I was Bugs Bunny. Look, I'll sign autographs later, all right? You can keep the hoodie. Call it a souvenir.

good morning, mr. stark: didn't see you there edition.

[rehandle]

[ As the line of people and buckets and water stretches out from lake to house, a shadow passes overhead, small but billowing as man and cloak briefly disrupt the sun. Once in position, a portal opened in the lake lets him skip the buckets and focus on holding and shaping water - already pressurised by the small opening in reality - into a targeted jet to fight smoke and flame.

He too works as long as there's reason to. Transitions from active firefighting to combatting heat with a great blanket of lakewater laid over the section of house he'd been working on, but once that's all sizzled and boiled away or been dropped into the remains of the burned out old mystery house below, he turns, lands, makes his way toward their growing makeshift camp.

Striding by, he's too full of thought and frustration and blissful ignorance to notice the man sat resting in the grass, alive and as close to well as a doomed man can be in the aftermath of another near miss. ]

[ingeniar]

[ It's been a while since Tony's been called upon to do any, like, really dedicated superheroics sans suit and he has to admit that he is, unfortunately, a little out of shape. Though he has to admit that all the gluten-free waffles and protein shakes in the world can't really prepare someone for fighting a raging house fire. But he does his best. Was doing his best, before he figured his oxygen intake was getting sub-optimal and he had to take a quick five minute break.

At least everyone seems to be out of the house, thanks to the actually useful and apparently more magically inclined guests. Now it seems that the rescue effort has turned towards dragging out as much of the antique furniture as possible and placating the lady of the house as she paces up and down.

He doesn't catch the water show, being on the wrong side of the house, but he does catch the red of a very familiar Cloak out of the corner of his eye -- is it waving? -- and turns his head to see a man who should, by all rights, still be dust on a bitter alien wind. For a moment he just watches him sail past, all steely wizardly determination, then he dredges up a line, calls out with a slightly hoarse, smoke-roughened voice: ]

Hey, Bleecker Street! You all booked up for the summer? I promised Happy I'd find entertainment for his nephew's bar mitzvah.

cw: brief death/war refs

[rehandle]

[ Bleecker Street penetrates his single-minded forward march, and by the time he makes it to Happy the voice (even smoke-warped as it is) has sunk in and stopped him in his tracks. For a second he can't move, staring wide-eyed out at the growing campsite ahead and seeing none of it, focus a laser beaming through the back of his own skull, wishing he could see without turning to look.

But he doesn't need to see to know. And it's too late to disappear. So he forces himself to turn and look over his shoulder, not enough notice to smooth away the frown etched into his face when his eyes land on Tony and find him a little blackened, grey around the edges - this time from the ash of a housefire, instead of dying in a war.

He doesn't have a line to throw back. Time-blind in the worst possible way, it's all he can do to commit to retracing his steps, stopping abruptly just out of reach when the reality of Tony just sitting there seizes some vital organ and warns him to a stop. ]

You alright?

[ingeniar]

[ The smoldering wreckage of the mansion makes a good backdrop for a guy in a cape -- in a Cloak. It does mean that Tony has to squint up at him a little to figure out the expression on his face. Not that squinting really helps, since Stephen's expressions seem permanently set on Perturbed, at least when Tony's involved. He looks especially unhappy this time, enough to make Tony wonder if he's supposed to be doing something, like maybe he missed an Avengers memo somewhere in there.

He raises his eyebrows at the question. ]

Am I all right? Am I all right? [ Carefully, he pushes himself up onto his bare feet on the grass. ]

You're the one looking pretty good for a dead guy, Doctor Strange. Who unblipped you? How did you.. did you unblip? Deblip?

[rehandle]

[ Tony starts to move and Stephen's instinct jolts his arm with the intention to reach out a hand— lightning-bolt quick, the echo of that same action years and worlds away locks his muscles taut. There's little but the ripple of the Cloak to show he'd ever moved by the time Tony's stood, his thoughts buzzing frantic for that held-breath second between the incredulous question and the turn of the tables.

Oh. He's the dead man.

Funny to go so quickly from keeping secrets for the good of the timeline to choking on them. ]

Not now. [ All he can say in the absence of any time to prepare. He says it with all the time wizard authority he can muster - fear bleeds in around the edges, makes him sound tired, and maybe that's for the best, too. ] There should be— clinic staff around here somewhere.

[ Casting his gaze about for a tent marked with any kind of sign of refuge - for himself almost more than for the apparition before him, who has endured much worse in his time than a little firesmoke. ]

intents

[babyknife]

[ Fully decked out now that he's had his food with his mask off only up to the bridge of his nose, Wade is keeping warm by the fire in his skin-tight suit. Wiggling his toes in front of the open flame when Tony freakin' Stark (no way) happens to stroll on by.

Wade takes a cursory glance over his gift basket hall and hikes his shoulders up into his ears. ]

Well, I can trade you mine for your dick wick, buddy, but they're butthole shaped, and something tells me the molding process is significantly worse. I also can't guarantee their aroma.

In-Tents

[cholesterol]

( What Dean wouldn't do for a decent cup of coffee. Don't get him wrong, the stash of liquor saved from the big mansion on fire could put his personal selection to shame, but, his every day go-to is a little Jack and a very little ice. Straight from the bottle. But, coffee. Baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph, is it a smell he's missed.

His nose draws him closer to Tony's fire, ready to ditch his bottle of beer - or trade it. Better yet, he'll set up two IV's. They can sit next to each other like a coupla guys there for chemo. Dark thought, but, seriously, he needs the Joe.

Maybe, to participate and score a cup of his own, he can offer help? But, what help can he give besides commentary? It's a one-man job.

He'll figure it out! )

You getting anywhere?

( Smells like it, at least. )

[ingeniar]

[ It's times like this that really test a man. Out in the wilderness. Having to fend for himself. Mano a mano with nature. Rough. Dirty. Real. ]

I don't care what she said, these beans are not Columbian.

[ Tony's talking to himself, a terrible habit he's not grown out of ever since he started making his own friends in high school. He's also getting a pretty good grind on those beans, the product of the last hour's work already percolating away over the fire. The shadow of the new guy falls over him but he doesn't glance up from what he's doing. ]

If you're waiting for your venti frappuccino, buddy, you're going to have to get in line. Hey, hand me that jar. [ He points without looking at an empty jar waiting for coffee grounds. ]

[cholesterol]

( Be glad you're not enjoying blackened lizard in The Bad Place, Tony. )

That Portia chick?

( He looks back behind him, toward the Balfour's glamps. He's got the skinny by now on this cagey af family caked in magic weirdness. Weirdness that pulls people like him and this guy in with him.

Help he can give! He does as he's told, with a hopeful promise of coffee at the end of his kind (incredibly selfish) gesture. )

Here. Also, whatever you get from it, I'll accept. Sludge. Black. Bitter. End of the day, it's all java.

( But not Columbian?

He's sat around the fire before. Cooked a can of beans. Dripped some coffee. Cracked some beers. Things could be worse, right? )

[ingeniar]

[ Coffee grounds go in the jar, jar goes on the dirt next to Tony's foot while he dusts off his hands and eyeballs the percolator, assessing the grumbling noises emanating from within. ]

Hey, this is going to be high grade sludge.

[ He finally looks up properly at Dean, apparently unsurprised by what he sees. ]

What's in it for me? C'mon, what are you offering in trade? We're in a strict barter system right now. Supplies are low. Make it worth my while, cowboy.

[cholesterol]

( Dean frowns when the coffee grounds are set down, further away from the percolation. Coffee will take longer if it's just sitting in dirt, but he knows it's being set aside for when it's ready. )

Like, Turkish? Greek?

( Like a little pit of mud in a tiny little cup. Yep, he'd even take that.

Cowboy. If he knew this was Tony Stark calling him cowboy, oh man, he'd be fanboying. He's not big on superheroes as he is on cowboys, Dr. Sexy, and wrestlers, but an Avenger's got clout. Even in a barter system. )

Could find a book with your name on it. Or, go scavenging in the non-burnt out half of the manor. Does it count as stealing if we're all out here? Anything you're looking for?

( Nose-hair trimmer? )

good morning —

[abort]

[ Ava woke up – a novelty for her – in a pair of frilly shorts and matching silk camisole, neither of which are appropriate for the situation, she knows. She cuts a slightly strange figure, stock still and barefoot in the middle of the grounds, arms by her sides, as the panic rages around her. The air clogs with smoke; she breathes through it because breathing isn't something she was built to do, but she knows the smoke particles might stick if she doesn't protect herself. Then someone dropped a hoodie over her shoulders, still warm, and in spite of everything else – the new place, the fire, and the lingering thrum of excitement at the prospect of freedom – it's that that pulls her out of her mind.

She finds him later, once everything has calmed as much as it's ever going to, his hoodie folded neatly over one arm. ]

You gave me this earlier.

[ingeniar]

[ Later, when the mansion is less convincingly on fire and more just smoldering wreckage, Tony ends up in a quieter part of the gardens. He's found a bottle of water from somewhere and is trying to get some of the smoke residue off his hands and face, washing it over his hands onto the gravel, rubbing his eyes until they sting a little less. It might have reminded him of going camping as a kid, if he'd actually been the type of kid to go camping, or if he'd had parents who actually cared about that kind of thing.

He catches movement in the corner of his blurry vision, turning around to squint one-eyed at a young woman he maybe vaguely recognizes. When she speaks, he sniffs and rubs water out of his eyes, blinks until he can see what she's holding. ]

Oh, yeah. Sure. You can keep it. You look like you need it more than I do.

[abort]

[ He said that before. She wonders if he remembers doing it, if he was even cognizant of the person he gave it to. Does that make him altruistic, to have done it without thinking? Possibly. More information needed. ]

Because I'm wearing pyjamas? Or is there another reason?

[ingeniar]

[ The questions earn an upward lift of Tony's eyebrows. He rubs his face with his hand and frowns at the girl as he focuses properly on her. ]

Those aren't pyjamas, sweetheart. [ He gestures at her flimsy outfit, trying as he does so to ignore what he can see of her body through the thin silk. It's a significant effort -- you're welcome, Pepper. Call it character growth. ]

That? Is barely a handkerchief. So, yeah, it's about -- here, it's killing me that you're --

[ He can't stop himself; he takes the hoodie out of her hand and drapes it back around her shoulders, tugging it around the front so he's covering her up. ]

I'm a big fan of the look, don't get me wrong. Ten years ago I would have been all about this, but I'm trying to be, you know, responsible right now. Life comes at you fast. And we're on someone's lawn here. Letting you stand around in your underwear would make me a real sleaze, so do me a favor and accept my nice gesture.

[abort]

[ Her body makes him uncomfortable; her body has never made someone uncomfortable before. She only has a small pool of samples to draw from for this kind of thing, which is why it took her so long to understand it. More people, more variables. ]

I understand. [ He talks a little like Nathan, and that grates, although Ava knows that a lot of what Nathan did was a performance even to her. Maybe it's a common kind of character: the man who talks, who buffets through sentences like he can't stand to have them rattling around in his head anymore, because his head is already full of too much stuff. She smiles benignly. ] I don't think you're a sleaze. For what it's worth.