i. welcome to saltburnt (garden) [ Matt passed several throbbing hours on the path to the front gate.
Hours? That's a lot. Maybe it was only minutes. And in any case, time and dread both exert the same pressure on his brain, narrowing the world to safe or not safe. If he were casting a spell to deter trespassers or rubberneckers, he would design it to do exactly this–work on the emotions, wind them up to a frenzy. Let the interloper deter themselves. But then he thinks, that's crazy. He has no evidence anything magical is going on here, and he does have evidence that he's in the middle of nowhere, with who knows how far until town. And then–who's to say the nearest town isn't all working for them? Cops and gas station attendants and everyone?
Stop.
Loop.
The fourth time Matt wakes up, he wanders to the garden. He eschews the maze's mouth for now, though narrative weight dictates that's the best way out of here. Instead, Matt goes from flower to flower, assessing them rather than appreciating them. (Sorry, girls, you're all beautiful. He just has work to do.)
Now and then, he snaps off a blossom or leaf and tucks it into a jacket pocket. ]
ii-a. let them eat cake (like my mask?) [ There were a number of beautiful clothes hanging in the closet when he staggered awake. But by the time he gets back to what he's told is "his" room, they've all flown away, and only one outfit remains. A navy three-piece suit of a nauseatingly familiar cut and texture, white button-down, and– ]
No ...
[ It's the goddamn tie. The same tie he wore to the last family Christmas party he ever attended, with the festive chimney and Santa checking lists and all that Norman Rockwell bullshit. The whole outfit is the same, but the tie is the one thing that absolutely couldn't be a coincidence.
Though it doesn't have any of Mr. Mercer's cum on it.
Matt shuffles into the party in his Christmas suit and Christmas tie, trying to wear a good-sport, team-player smile. It looks more like a grimace. ]
Okay, [ he says, to the first person who looks like they might be a Jamison family friend–a category that covers a lot of wealthy ground, ] where is she?
ii-b. let them eat cake (diamonds are a girl's best) [ Matt had been trying to avoid eating. Something something fae court rules. But as the hours of this party drag on, and the cocktails shimmer in their glasses while his mouth gets dryer and dryer, and his stomach rumbles–
He doesn't actually remember taking the elegant flute in his hand. It's pretty, though. A perfect gradient of goldenrod to ruby red, ice clicking daintily.
Someone has bisected the cake next to him, and someone else (or multiple someones) made off with one half of the body, leaving only smears of icing behind. Matt bends to inspect the cake. It looks familiar, which strikes him as highly inauspicious. ]
There's an "as above, so below" kind of principle, [ he explains to the person next to him, who may or may not have asked. ] You mimic the area you want to affect, and then the changes you make to that facsimile are echoed in the real thing.
Though it feels like there's something to be said here about organ sacrifice, too. Hearts, livers … I wonder if the sweetmeats are the best part of the cake.
[ Matt straightens, taking a long pull from his glass–only to realize that one of those ice cubes wasn't actually ice. He starts choking on the diamond. ]
iii. a midnight's dream (cw: blood, cannibalism, self-mutilation) [ Did he … eat the cake …?
Matt has a booze-soaked memory of letting someone push crumbs into his mouth, smearing his lips with frosting. And now–now he's desperate, sugar-sticky. Haunting the halls until he finds someone who'll have him.
Isn't that what Vincent always said? If I don't eat you up, someone else will. Isn't it what the gnostic scriptures say? God is a man-eater. For this reason, men are sacrificed to him. What is love if it isn't devouring? Matt finds himself on the dining room table, legs spread for his hungry paramour. His nails bite into the flesh of his thigh, and it gives easily–so easily–as if this is just what he was made for all this time. Pain and pleasure flare, rising in an ecstatic double helix. Matt gasps; cherry jam dribbles down his fingers. ]
Please … [ Panting, he offers the little piece of himself, holding it out to the waiting mouth. ] I got you. I want you to.
[ I'll take care of you. ]
iv. wildcard [ ooc: got a different idea? just throw it in here, at worst we can say it was all just (probably) a dream. ota for m/f, m/m, m/nb for gen, smut, and cake vore. also please have some character info about matt and a kink list. pm or hit up artistformerlyknownas with any questions! ]
matt jamison | disaster witch oc | ota
[ Matt passed several throbbing hours on the path to the front gate.
Hours? That's a lot. Maybe it was only minutes. And in any case, time and dread both exert the same pressure on his brain, narrowing the world to safe or not safe. If he were casting a spell to deter trespassers or rubberneckers, he would design it to do exactly this–work on the emotions, wind them up to a frenzy. Let the interloper deter themselves. But then he thinks, that's crazy. He has no evidence anything magical is going on here, and he does have evidence that he's in the middle of nowhere, with who knows how far until town. And then–who's to say the nearest town isn't all working for them? Cops and gas station attendants and everyone?
Stop.
Loop.
The fourth time Matt wakes up, he wanders to the garden. He eschews the maze's mouth for now, though narrative weight dictates that's the best way out of here. Instead, Matt goes from flower to flower, assessing them rather than appreciating them. (Sorry, girls, you're all beautiful. He just has work to do.)
Now and then, he snaps off a blossom or leaf and tucks it into a jacket pocket. ]
ii-a. let them eat cake (like my mask?)
[ There were a number of beautiful clothes hanging in the closet when he staggered awake. But by the time he gets back to what he's told is "his" room, they've all flown away, and only one outfit remains. A navy three-piece suit of a nauseatingly familiar cut and texture, white button-down, and– ]
No ...
[ It's the goddamn tie. The same tie he wore to the last family Christmas party he ever attended, with the festive chimney and Santa checking lists and all that Norman Rockwell bullshit. The whole outfit is the same, but the tie is the one thing that absolutely couldn't be a coincidence.
Though it doesn't have any of Mr. Mercer's cum on it.
Matt shuffles into the party in his Christmas suit and Christmas tie, trying to wear a good-sport, team-player smile. It looks more like a grimace. ]
Okay, [ he says, to the first person who looks like they might be a Jamison family friend–a category that covers a lot of wealthy ground, ] where is she?
ii-b. let them eat cake (diamonds are a girl's best)
[ Matt had been trying to avoid eating. Something something fae court rules. But as the hours of this party drag on, and the cocktails shimmer in their glasses while his mouth gets dryer and dryer, and his stomach rumbles–
He doesn't actually remember taking the elegant flute in his hand. It's pretty, though. A perfect gradient of goldenrod to ruby red, ice clicking daintily.
Someone has bisected the cake next to him, and someone else (or multiple someones) made off with one half of the body, leaving only smears of icing behind. Matt bends to inspect the cake. It looks familiar, which strikes him as highly inauspicious. ]
There's an "as above, so below" kind of principle, [ he explains to the person next to him, who may or may not have asked. ] You mimic the area you want to affect, and then the changes you make to that facsimile are echoed in the real thing.
Though it feels like there's something to be said here about organ sacrifice, too. Hearts, livers … I wonder if the sweetmeats are the best part of the cake.
[ Matt straightens, taking a long pull from his glass–only to realize that one of those ice cubes wasn't actually ice. He starts choking on the diamond. ]
iii. a midnight's dream (cw: blood, cannibalism, self-mutilation)
[ Did he … eat the cake …?
Matt has a booze-soaked memory of letting someone push crumbs into his mouth, smearing his lips with frosting. And now–now he's desperate, sugar-sticky. Haunting the halls until he finds someone who'll have him.
Isn't that what Vincent always said? If I don't eat you up, someone else will. Isn't it what the gnostic scriptures say? God is a man-eater. For this reason, men are sacrificed to him. What is love if it isn't devouring? Matt finds himself on the dining room table, legs spread for his hungry paramour. His nails bite into the flesh of his thigh, and it gives easily–so easily–as if this is just what he was made for all this time. Pain and pleasure flare, rising in an ecstatic double helix. Matt gasps; cherry jam dribbles down his fingers. ]
Please … [ Panting, he offers the little piece of himself, holding it out to the waiting mouth. ] I got you. I want you to.
[ I'll take care of you. ]
iv. wildcard
[ ooc: got a different idea? just throw it in here, at worst we can say it was all just (probably) a dream. ota for m/f, m/m, m/nb for gen, smut, and cake vore. also please have some character info about matt and a kink list. pm or hit up