𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖘. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
Entry tags:
"𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒" ▣ MAY TDM
MAY 2024 TDM
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. Prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
LET THEM EAT CAKE
CONTENT WARNINGS: sex, drugs, alcohol.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior you’ve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, you’re expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy — this isn’t school, you aren’t being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, that’s other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights — some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can — anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice — with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior you’ve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, you’re expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy — this isn’t school, you aren’t being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, that’s other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights — some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can — anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice — with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, cannibalism, sex.
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes — but did you find it a little… addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didn’t eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh — well, cake — someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes — but did you find it a little… addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didn’t eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh — well, cake — someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
DIRECTORY
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
II-B
He's draining yet another drink, slopping a little on his ruffled sleeves, listening as best he can.]
Yeah, the microcosm is the macrocosm, I get that. But like... why? Isn't intent like... paramount? Is that a word?
And what the heck are sweetmeats?
[He looks at Matt curiously as he starts struggling for breath.] Watch that gag reflex, sweetie.
[Oh. Wait. He's--]
Ohmygod are you choking?!
[he looks around for literally anyone more qualified to save a life than he is and finds nobody. Crap. Making a constant high pitched sound of alarm he drops his glass and hurries to get behind Matt. The Heimlich. Right. He's seen this in movies! And once, more memorably, at a house party. So he claps his hands just below Matt's ribs and thrusts in and up as hard as he can.]
omg yo~
When, you know. Choking.
A tiny, tiny piece of Matt's awareness seizes on gag reflex and thinks something like how dare you. He may be a shitty queer (no one said that), but he's at least got a supple and flexible throat going for him (please stop). But he doesn't resist Iggy's approach, nor being handled; he'd have to be literally dead to do that.
Iggy may not have medical expertise, but at least he's got a willing spirit. And Matt has an intuition for bodies and how they connect in space, something that by now is more magical than not. Who the hell knows if this result could be reproduced in a laboratory setting, but when Iggy thrusts upward, a small diamond pops out of Matt's mouth and skitters across the floor. ]
Oh my God, [ he scrapes, regarding Iggy with wide, watery eyes. ] Thank you.
[ He's spilled his drink, but miraculously, he's managed to keep hold of his glass. ]
no subject
Holy shit. You almost died. Are you okay? Here, just... uh.
[He scrabbles about the nearest table and finds a glass of... something. He hands it over.]
Drink this. Carefully, please.
no subject
He coughs a little bit, blinking away tears, and sips from the full glass EXTREMELY CAREFULLY. Pauses, swishing the cocktail in his mouth before swallowing. ]
They put a fucking diamond in there, [ he says hoarsely. ] Jesus ...
[ Honestly, Matt's not sure he hasn't died, just at some point before he got here. If hell is other people, then a rich-kid bash like this one is down in the Ninth Circle. ]
That or, like. Some other rock?
[ He looks to Iggy like make it make sense. ]
no subject
[He's just going to hunt around for it a little because, hello, diamonds.]
That's insanity, it's like they're trying to kill someone!
[He can't find it. Iggy straightens and puts his hands on his panniered hips, pouting.]
Fuck. Ah, well. You okay, sweetie?
no subject
When Iggy returns his attention to Matt, Matt is ... still a guy wearing a decidedly dress-code-noncompliant novelty Christmas tie. But at least he's more composed. ]
Maybe somebody is trying to kill people, [ he notes ruefully. Maybe there's a cake that looks like him somewhere around here, a sugar diamond in the throat. He shakes his head, canting Iggy a small smile for sweetie. ] I'm okay though, seriously. Thanks to you.
[ He toasts him with his new drink. ] I'm Matt.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
3
I can't. I can't--
[ The sick desire courses through him, but even in this dream state he can't indulge. He refuses. The scent of sweet buttercream fills the air, of a sour cherry blood that reminds him tantalizingly of summer. But still, he tries to piece Matt back together. ]
You're going to be fine, Matt. Keep talking to me.
no subject
On the one hand: Steve is touching him. Saying he should talk to him. Those things are good. On the other: Mat can't shake the sense that Steve is rejecting him. Gently and sweetly, yes, but he doesn't eat. He won't even taste. ]
Why can't you? [ Matt can hear how desperate he sounds, how heart-lorn, and it embarrasses him. He tries so hard not to let other people know how enrapturing he finds them. How badly he craves their touch. ] Aren't you hungry?
[ He flips his hand around, trying to catch Steve's fingers. His wrist, if Steve insists on keeping hold of the cake he's miracled from his thigh. Matt's fingertips are stained cherry red, but their touch is as intuitive as ever. Attentive to tender spots and points of contact. ]
I'll be good. If you just try.
no subject
[ It's wrong. He's so hungry, but it's wrong. It's sick. He doesn't want to disappoint Matt, but he just wants to keep him intact. Maybe it'll save him, who knows? It seems that Matt just wants to be eaten. Maybe he'll find someone else to give pieces of himself to, but Steve can't be responsible for his death.
Not for cake, not for anything. Not even if Matt wants to be the one feeding himself to Steve. ]
Think we've been drugged. Or - this is just some sick dream. You're not -- cake, you're a man.
I met you this morning. Matthew Jamison. You go by Matt.
I don't know a lot about you, but I know I don't wanna kill you.
no subject
Well I'm glad you remember my name, [ he murmurs, trying to tease despite his bruised feelings. His thigh throbs, raw-nerved; he swallows.
Matt's fingers tighten on Steve, as he makes to pull him closer. Into the open V of his spread legs, dangling off the dining room table. ]
Maybe don't ... worry about all that existential stuff, [ he suggests gently. Is Matt a man dreaming he's cake, or a cake dreaming he's a man? He can figure that out after he gets someone to touch him. ] What about a kiss? Could you kiss me?
no subject
He'd tried his best, to save everyone he could. He mourned those he'd lost.
He lets himself be pulled closer. ]
If I say yes, will you stop trying to feed yourself to me? To anyone?
[ Because this feels so wrong, but he'll do it. ]
no subject
He doesn't let go of Steve. He can't bring himself to do that. But for the first time tonight--for the first time since he woke hungry, pulled from his bed by a craving with too many names--he feels acutely, This is wrong.
Though not for the reason Steve would probably prefer.
Matt forces himself to look up at Steve, trying to meet his gaze in the dim. It's not totally pitch black; there's a light on down the hall somewhere. But that light isn't strong enough for Matt to see Steve in much more than broad strokes. Chiaroscuro, yes-no. ]
I want you to kiss me because you want to. [ That's soft, sad. Just under the surface, Matt's roiling. Ravening. His mouth feels dry. ] I mean ... that's the only reason to.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2
Occasionally he engages, some barb or another, but only ever as part of a group conversation. Daniel's most distinctive feature, aside from his sarcasm, is that he's older than a lot of people here, but not everyone, given the patriarch of the household is about his age and his chums are likely mingling.
This idle socializing means he's right there and watching when Matt suddenly starts to splutter. Daniel catches on immediately — nearly did the same thing himself an hour earlier, even if he isn't playing the diamond game — and he immediately slaps Matt hard between the shoulder blades, putting another hand on his chest to make sure that smack, and the next, don't send him flying into the cake. ]
That's it, cough it up.
[ He'll bend Matt forward a little if he has to, shocking confidence as he hits him until the diamond makes itself known again. ]
no subject
He's not exactly the "don't trust anyone over 30" type, but in this crowd, Daniel's age makes him stick out. Is he one of their hosts, sent to mingle with the captive audience? It's the sarcasm that puts Matt at ease more than anything else. There's an outsider quality to it. Matt can't say exactly what it is that makes him think that; all he knows is it's not a quality he associates with cotillion parents or the Jamisons' asshole friends.
He's right on the verge of saying something to him--possibly an inquiry about whether he recognizes the second cake to the right, or possibly a more conventional "I'm Matt"--when he takes that ill-fated swig and something lodges in his throat.
Matt tries to say I can't talk, which goes about as well as one might expect. Fortunately, Daniel seems to understand. It feels like there's no hesitation at all between the moment Matt realizes he's choking and the moment that Daniel just--
Whacks the shit out of him.
It'd be enough to stun him under normal circumstances. Like, have older men hit him with this level of confidence before? For sure. The context is usually a little more fun, however. Matt bends, not sure whether he's angling down of his own accord or if the other man's moving him, and thank God/Kali/Aphrodite, the diamond pops free. It sparkles through the air and skitters under the table, leaving Matt gasping. ]
no subject
Choking's pretty much the most embarrassing way you can die. You good? Didn't cut your throat?
no subject
And his gaze slides sideways to Daniel. Watery, but amused. Choking really is an embarrassing way to die. ]
I don’t think I got cut, [ he confirms. ] I’m okay.
[ After a beat, a hoarse laugh. ] God, thank you. I know they’re doing this scavenger hunt thing— [ The fingers of his free hand flutter dismissively. ] —but I figured it’d be, uh. Optional.
[ He takes another sip of water. Come to think, most everything around here is some form of mandatory. ]
no subject
[ No more warm touch. He's changed his mind about the diamond, ducks under the table and gropes around to find it - nearly gets his hand skewered by a stiletto - before finally straightening again with a pained groan at the creak of old bones. The spit slick little gem brandished between two fingers. ]
There. This one almost killed you, which is a cheaper price than most people pay for diamond.
[ He hands it over, since Matt did find it. ]
no subject
I don't want it, Matt wants to say. Except he thinks if he starts saying it, he won't be able to stop. I don't want this party, I don't want this house, I don't want this suit and this fucking tie--
He's gotta keep calm. After all, he's a witch, with vast and spooky powers that terrify polite society. These people should be scared of him.
... Even in his head, it doesn't sound convincing. He reaches to pluck the diamond from Daniel's fingers. ]
Not exactly conflict free, [ Matt notes dryly. He regards the older man with a searching expression, deciding after a moment, ] I think I'd like a little fresh air, actually. If you wanna join ...?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
lestat + starter = lestarter
He's not missing any body parts, unless some of the inside ones are gone. The hall outside his room is piled with spoiled cake, the pieces splayed like limbs. A quick scry reveals, horrifyingly, that the cake was once a human being, magically transmogrified into this sugary mess. Less urgent, but no less unsettling to Matt personally: the maze has no exit at its center, just a minotaur he swears is about to move; and the Norman Rockwell tie is hanging in his closet despite his very clear memories of throwing it into the lake.
He skips dinner.
Night brings Matt to one of the little-l libraries. The lights are still on at this hour, dimmed low--perfect for aesthetic lounging, though actual reading will be difficult. Matt wanders the shelves with his fingers trailing over the books' spines, as if trying to read something deeper than words. His clothes are of gorgeous quality and fit him perfectly, but Matt's done his best to rumple himself: gone without an undershirt, his sleeves rolled up and buttons undone to his breastbone, the shirt only half-tucked.
He plucks a book off the shelf, hoping it'll be about--what, cannibal fairies? Cake recipes? Etiquette tips on how to warn a house full of strangers that the weird dreams might not have been as dreamish as you'd think? Unfortunately, it's a history of the British Empire. And based on the cover's laudatory gold leaf, not one of the accurate ones. ]
no subject
While he'd confined himself to his room by daylight, not yet aware of the strange phenomenon here that causes the sun to have no harmful effect, night is when he finally emerges from his designated quarters, dressed a little more appropriately for roaming in a loosely-buttoned shirt and a pair of trousers, his feet bare even if he makes no sound when he pads across hardwood floor and rug alike.
In fact, he's been in the library for an untold number of minutes — half-expecting to find Louis here, yet again — when someone else enters, and while Lestat makes no initial attempt to hide himself from his position sitting in one of the highback chairs, he realizes he may very well escape initial notice. That leaves him with the opportunity to observe his new company as the young man glances over the contents of the shelves. ]
Find anything interesting? [ Lestat will broach the silence, at least, but his voice seems to fade into their surroundings rather than serving as a loud blurting that would only startle. ]
no subject
His head turns, the first moment of surprise yielding to sheepishness (rude of him to just ignore this person), then appreciation (oh wow he's pretty), then wry amusement. ]
Depends how much you like to read people lying about themselves.
[ Matt holds up the book, stepping closer so the man can get a better look at the title: THE BRITISH EMPIRE: 1558-1983. ]
no subject
Isn't there a saying about history always being written by the victors?
[ He's resting his elbow on one of the chair arms, his hand settled close to his face as one finger gently strokes beneath the line of his own mouth — the faint hint of a smile present, there and then gone. ]
I suppose it's not the worst choice, if you're intentionally trying to put yourself to sleep.
no subject
[ For a moment, Matt considers the brick in his hand, then the shelf where he found it. Approaching a desk, Matt lifts the bust of some bewigged and scowling dude and slides the book underneath it. Steps back to admire his work. There's no point in misfiling the books here, really. No more point than intentionally rumpling his clothes. But in an environment so thoroughly outside his control, Matt feels he's gotta take the wins where he can get them.
He casts Lestat a sheepish grin--he knows it's immature, what can you do--and turns to the high-backed chair opposite him. Instead of sitting down, Matt leans over the back of it, folded arms making a pillow for his chin. ]
Oh--did you want to be alone? [ he remembers to ask. ] I can find another room full of books.
no subject
Yet more amusing is the fact that his unexpected company drapes himself over the nearest chair before posing the question about whether he should stay. It doesn't read like a challenge, a false effort at timidity paired with something all but inviting him to reach for politeness, but it prompts Lestat to lift his chin slightly, mouth curving in a close-lipped smile. ]
Stay. Besides, your presence here is a reminder that I've yet to meet many other guests by name yet. [ A remark that poses its own dare — to provide him with that information. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)