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draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
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ππ ππππππ πππππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JULY TDM
JULY 2024 TDM: LECTISTERNIUM
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, so all posters can use the title Β« CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, 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, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itβs 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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, 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, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?
CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
VENI, VIDI, VICI.
CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, body horror, gore, animal attacks (specifically wolf), potential body transformations.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
DIRECTORY
no subject
... Well, gosh. Now he's feeling restless. Matt rubs a hand up the side of his neck, passing over the collar on the way from the join of neck and shoulder to his ear. Laughs on the exhale. ]
Just when you were getting to the good part.
[ Did Quentin mean breathplay? Deep-throating? Either is a solid yes on Matt's part. He slumps down in the water, pretty sure he's being teased but not mad about it. The only trouble is trying to reroute his brain to something that isn't sex. ]
Have I seen you around here before? Or, um. At breakfast?
no subject
[ quentin smiles lazily, rolling his neck a little bit, stretching his arms out, relaxing in the heat, not unlike a lion in the desert, waiting and watching prey from afar. matt is easy on the eye, seems flustered enough, flattered enough. ]
But I just got here this morning - woke up in a big, fancy bed, fed a big fancy breakfast and told I needed to go to a party, so here we are. I can't exactly say no to the free things and all the luxury.
[ he decides to move then, pushing away from the wall and floating a little closer to matt. ]
Figured it was better this way - don't have to talk quite as loud about all the good parts.
no subject
Still, he frowns as Quentin confirms that he's another new guest. There's a whole crop of them, it appears. ]
Well. This place isn't exactly straightforward, I guess I'd say. But the beds are definitely fancy. [ Matt's lips quirk, a slightly sheepish expression, as he realizes he zeroed in on the only sex-adjacent part of the explanation. ] Ah ... I'm more than happy to answer questions, if you have any.
[ To be actually helpful, he should let the offer hang there. Give Quentin a chance to formulate questions or points of confusion. ]
But I was kinda curious about what happens next, [ he can't stop himself from adding. ] If you wanted to keep going.
no subject
but he doesn't. instead, he laughs a little, running a hand back through his hair to push it from his face. ]
And what makes you think I wanted to stop? [ he shrugs. ] I don't know, though. Get my hand around it - bruise it up a little bit. So many things one can do with a throat so pretty like that. Make you gasp, get my - or, well, he theoretical person's - cock down your throat, sit there until you've gone all beet red. Who needs air if you've got something nice to nurse?
[ he speaks like he's just talking through the steps of a recipe or something mundane. ]
What would you like to happen? In a perfect world.
no subject
Anyway, despite the casualness of the stranger's tone--or hell, maybe because of it--Matt's mind can't help but bloom with images. Possibilities. Sensations that have yet to occur. He smiles, small but bright, not quite meeting Quentin's gaze but following the line of his throat down, outward to his shoulder. With his eyes, he traces the muscles of his arm. ]
In a perfect world, [ he muses. His eyes flick to Quentin's, and his smile quirks secretively. ] You know, you made me think of something while you were talking just now.
[ Matt glances idly around the bath. There are other people here, none of whom are within what he'd think of as earshot. Still, he shifts slightly closer to Quentin, craning delicately to speak into his ear without brushing against him. ]
I had this image, [ he confesses, voice soft--like he's trying to touch Quentin only with the politest caress of his breath, ] of riding your cock while you choke me.
[ One would be forgiven for thinking the attitude of shyness is a bit of a put-on. But regrettably, despite the fact that Quentin's been painting quite the word picture, there's a little voice at the back of Matt's mind that worries he's being too much right now. He doesn't think he is. But he's not 100% sure. ]
no subject
so the man leans in against his ear, the faintest whisper, and quentin smiles, not moving immediately, as though thinking about the picture he's painting. slowly, however, he begins to turn in the water, to face matt. he lets his hand fall to his bare chest, over the lotus, then slide up slowly, slick with bathing pool water, to cradle his throat, fingers molding over it gingerly, a whisper of a touch. ]
My hand fits perfectly.
[ he lets it linger there for a moment, fingertips bending and squeezing just so before it pulls away, resting on the edge of the pool. ]
You'd look good in my lap. In anyone's lap, but I'd rather it be mine. Selfishly, of course. But if you've already got plans, then by all means - I would hate to ruin them. I might ask to watch, though - or join. Party's fun and all but I think it could be a little more exciting.
no subject
Quentin pulls away, and Matt exhales. Smiles crookedly. ]
I can take or leave most parties, honestly. And I don't have plans. [ A slight pause. ] I do have a mirror in my room, though. If you wanted to watch while you joined. I just--
[ A gust of soft laughter, as Matt grins at him. ]
I'm not gonna be able to stop thinking about your lap. And wishing I was there.
no subject
A mirror?
[ a hum, a brow raised. ] Can't say I've ever watched like that, so. Consider me curious - Matt, is it? [ a little gesture to the tag, a mischievous little glance. ]
I'd say we should stop speaking in hypotheticals and move forward, don't you? I think you'd look nice in my lap and I'd like to see it myself - with my own eyes and in that mirror of yours.
[ he reaches to push an errant strand of dark hair from matt's face before he pushes up to standing, uncaring that he's completely nude as he turns to fish for his trousers. ]
Quentin, by the way. How about that bed, then?
no subject
[ His turn to slide out of the water. He hasn't actually brought any clothes apart from his toga, and he doesn't make any attempt to put it back on--just uses it to towel at himself a bit before tucking it into a bundle under his arm. He smiles brightly at Quentin, as if to say, Ready? ]
Bed, [ he agrees.
It feels good to be leaving the party. The summer breeze is pleasant on his damp skin, there's a hot guy at his side, and ... in a bratty way, he enjoys not doing what the Balfours, or the manor, seem to want. ]
no subject
[ he smile winningly down at matt, reaching for his own clothes. he nearly thinks to stop and pull his trousers on, but seeing matt disregard his clothes altogether? well. he decides to follow suit. he tosses his clothes over one shoulder, and doesn't even bother drying off. there's plenty of time to walk to the house. ]
Bed it is then.
[ and there's a little once over himself, glancing at matt and appreciating what he sees - and he's not bothered if matt sees him. quentin walks like a man who owns the place, all relaxed swagger and an air of aloofness to his surroundings (which isn't true - he's just very good at playing the part). ]
Tell me what else you were imagining. My hands, my lap - I personally was thinking about your lips before you mentioned the mirror. Maybe I will face the mirror while you ride me - watch as I make quite the mess of your pretty little behind. Tell you all about what I see while you can't complain. Leave you breathless in more ways than one.
no subject
He's just as enchanted with how Quentin moves as how he looks fresh out of the water. The sense of confidence, of floating above his surroundings without care, may be all or partly manufactured, but it's a physical reality. Warm, muscular, embodied. So it fools Matt, or at least distracts him. He himself walks with ease rather than rizz, a pleasant belonging to the space he inhabits. Footfalls gentle over the lawn, he makes a quiet complement to Quentin. Counterbalance.
He laughs, scandalized and pleased about it, as Quentin continues their earlier conversation. ]
I liked what you said about my mouth before, [ Matt says with a grin. With the prospect of intimacy so close, he can't help the flutter of excitement that's started to warm his belly. ] Something about feeding me your cock until I turn red ...? I'd have fun with that; I love having something to suck on.
I can't decide if I wanna be facing you, or if I want you to fuck me from behind, [ he adds, musing. ] Maybe try both and see what feels more fun.
no subject
Oh yes, just something about feeding you my cock, yes. Watching your face turn red as it hits the back of your throat. But you'll take it - I can tell you're creative.
[ he grins a little, starting into the foyer and toward a set of stairs. ]
And frankly, facing first, from behind once things really get moving, don't you think? I'd like you to see yourself in this pretty mirror you've promised me. Then you can watch my hand around your cock as I fuck you - or would you like my fingers in your mouth instead? Around your throat? Do tell.
no subject
But then Quentin starts talking again, and Matt momentarily forgets that other people exist. At you'll take it, his lashes dip, his smile going crooked. ]
I can be very determined, [ he agrees, ] when I have the right motivation.
[ They start up the stairs. Matt notes idly that Quentin keeps pace with him so easily, it's almost like he already knows where they're going. He nods for the suggestion about positions, interjecting a cheerful, Good call. But very quickly, as seems to be Quentin's talent, Matt finds himself overwhelmed by good ideas. He chuckles, breathy, the faintest hint of a hum in the sound. ]
You make them all sound good. [ He's still pleasant and smiling, but a craving look has come into his eyes. ] I've already expressed some interest in your hands around my throat ... they do fit perfectly. [ A quick quirk of a grin. ] I bet your fingers fit perfectly in my mouth, too.
I just wanna be watching when you make me come.
no subject
[ indeed, quentin walks right in line with matt, with an unearned confidence for a man who has just arrived today, but he can feel the place thrumming in his bones. there's static, occasionally, as things start to shift and move within the house, but nothing too disorienting. not yet. ]
I'll make sure that you can see your self fall apart - I can only imagine it is very handsomely done. Do I try to make you shout? Pant? Incoherent with lust and pleasure so you only know my name?
[ he grins over at matt, reaching now to take up his hand, bring it cheekily to his lips to kiss the back as they walk. ]
Or shall I discover how you best like to be ruined?
no subject
I think we'll have to leave something to the imagination, [ he agrees. ] Or else I'm gonna jump you right here, and then you won't get to see my bed or my mirror. [ He turns his hand, aiming to lace their fingers together. Squeezes Quentin's hand in his. ] Come on.
[ The manor seems cooperative today, because it doesn't take long for them to reach the hall that holds the suite Matt and Luci share. Matt's room is like many of the others in this house: large and airy, with a big luxurious window and big luxurious bed. The most interesting features, most likely, are the collection of plants Matt has begun to accrue, some of which are in ordinary planters but some of which seem to have been potted in fancy vases and even, in one case, in a serving bowl; and the wardrobe on one wall, which bears a full-length mirror.
Matt is arguably a bad host, because he doesn't offer to give a tour. Instead, as soon as they pass the doorframe, he's grabbing Quentin and going for a kiss. ]
no subject
he laughs behind the kiss, arms reaching for the other man and pulling him flush to his body. the shorts are inconvenient, but wet - leave very little to the imagination as he slides his hands down to the man's ass and grips hard, dragging their hips together so that when he raises his own, it creates a delicious grind between fabric. ]
You have a very lovely home. [ playful, murmured into a searing kiss as he surges forward, with every intent to change their position, to have matt pressed up against the door, under the weight of his body. ]
there was already nudity but cw: erections??
Thanks, [ he manages to breathe back. Quentin moves, and it's the easiest thing in the world to follow him, to let himself be pressed hard against the door. Matt's hands slide to Quentin's back as they kiss. One scrubs up, rubbing firm over planes of muscle; the other slides down to palm at Quentin's ass in turn. Just feeling him bare under his hands makes Matt's heart beat faster, makes him impatient in his shorts. It's too many clothes already. ]
tbf even more nsfw from this moment forward too
he presses his hips hard up against matt's, letting their cocks slide together, but it's only once before his hand slides between them instead, palming the hardening outline of matt through the sticky wet fabric. ]
So hospitable - I'm glad you're so pleased to have me here.
[ all talk one would make when visiting someone, playful and easy, his mouth tearing from matt's to slide wet and wanting against his jaw, to his ear, where he speaks low and heavy, all the while his hand gives the tip of matt's dick a squeeze. ]
I could have you here and hope everyone could hear as they walked by. Move your mirror so you can see the way you look rubbing up against me. See how loud I could get you.
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Oh. [ Sharp, at that little squeeze. Quentin's voice in his ear makes him feel at once boneless, half-hypnotized, and also squirmingly eager. Matt gropes at his ass, kneading into the muscle there. Slides his hand down to the back of Quentin's thigh, then up again to touch and squeeze. ] How do I look rubbing up against you?
[ His hips shift for emphasis, seeking a better position against Quentin's hand. Matt finds it; he bites his lip. He knows how he feels, at least: too desperate already. Breathless. Words like wanton come to mind. ]
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Mm, desperate. Like you're willing to lay yourself out right now and let me have you however I please. All pretty and soft and hard in all the right places. Well, once you get these shorts off. I want to see you in the mirror - standing in front of it so you can see just how I touch you.
[ he huffs, free hand loosening its grip and sliding up, up, up, so that his fingers tease at matt's throat, a whispering promise. ]
Well, if you say please of course - then I'll touch you all you like.
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[ Quentin's hand slides up his body, all the way up to his throat. As before, in the baths, the touch sends a pulse of want through him, palpable in the stutter of Matt's breath. The stutter of his hips. He breathes out unsteadily as his lashes flutter, dip. ]
Please. [ Caressing Quentin's back. Matt's fingers skim up his spine and back down again, kneading idly into his muscles. ] Let me take my shorts off for you. And stand me in front of the mirror. I wanna see how much I like it when you touch me.
[ His mind is skittering ahead a little bit, to the lube he keeps in his nightstand drawer (and okay, also in his desk drawer, and in the bathroom). It'd be nice to just whisk the drawer open with his mind and levitate it over, but--another time, maybe. ]
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the fingers along his spine help, the way fingertips work into taut muscles and he laughs, low and rich. ]
By all means - take your shorts off, little bird. Let me see you.
[ he pulls away altogether, relieving all the pressure and stepping back so that it's matt who can see quentin's backside in the mirror as he waits, watches. he waits only so long for the wet fabric to hit the ground before he circles matt, prowling as he comes up behind him, bringing their bodies flush, the hardening line of his cock pressed to the cleft of his ass, and his callused palms sliding up his front - one staying low on his stomach, the other? up, up, up to his throat. and then, the murmured praise against his ear: ]
Good.
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Fortunately for him, Matt's a deft and accomplished multitasker. He spares Quentin more than one appreciative glance while he sheds his damp swim trunks--while Quentin approaches, circling as if trying to figure out where he'd like to take his first bite. Despite how closely Matt's following him, it still manages to take him by surprise when Quentin steps behind him. Presses his cock to him, earning a gasp and a squirm of his hips.
And there they both are in the mirror. Matt's gaze travels automatically to Quentin's reflection, greedy to watch him speak into his ear, to watch Quentin's hands travel up his body. To drink in the sight of his fingers at his throat. But in Matt's softer periphery, he's cognizant of himself, too: cheeks flushed, cock rosy and most of the way hard. His lips parted, as if desperate to receive something. ]
Oh, [ he sighs. He reaches behind him to caress Quentin's hip, the gesture careful rather than awkward. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing back against Quentin's growing erection. ]
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Good.
[ praise, even a little, and the hand on matt's abdomen slides, nails dragging against the skin until he reaches his hip, gripping and waiting almost like in a stalemate, against the pretty, flushed cock. his other hand finds matt's throat, giving a tempting little squeeze - nothing to cut his airflow off - just a tease. ]
Do you want me to touch you? [ he grinds his hips forward into the little roll of matt's, creating friction that does wonder to send white-hot blood to his burgeoning hard-on. ]
Because I want to touch you.
[ he kisses his ear again, and the hand on matt's hip reaches to lazily circle matt's cock, giving one stroke, before fluttering away to feel the expanse of skin over his other hip. ]
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In the mirror, Matt watches Quentin's hand squeeze his throat. It's a light squeeze, but it makes him gasp. Makes his head tip back, a soft moan tumbling out at the stroke to his cock. Matt's hips shift again, as he chases the ring of Quentin's fingers, before rocking back just as eagerly to rub against the hard line of his erection.]
I want you to fuck me. [ Matt would be embarrassed at his own impatience if he weren't so fucking horny. If he hadn't been vividly imagining this since the moment Quentin started talking to him. His head turns slightly towards Quentin. The angle's not right for a kiss, but he cranes for it anyway. ] Do you want that? I'll be good for you.
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