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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
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It's all a little too much to sort out when naked and occupied with untangling the glorious mess of curls, so Koby puts it aside until later. Instead he grabs for the shampoo, something a bit more floral than the soap -- light, not too overpowering, just the faintest scent of lilac and linen. It's subtle enough that Koby doesn't feel like he's suffocating when he uses it, and it's poured liberally into Quentin's now-damp hair, before Koby sets about lathering it up. He'd been skilled with the general bathing, but his fingers positively fly through this, like he's been handling long, tangled curls for years.]
There is. There's a shower right over there. [Koby says it matter-of-factly enough that it'd be easy to assume he's just that oblivious. But it's accompanied with him tugging gently at his grip in Quentin's hair, pulling him back to rest fully on Koby's thighs, so the younger man can smile at him upside-down.] I don't think that's what you meant though, is it? [A shake of his head, clever fingers buried to the knuckle in sudsy curls, then dragging down from root to tip.] You're insatiable, you know. Close your eyes.
[One hand scoops up more water, rinsing out the soap, another moves to shield Quentin's face so he doesn't get shampoo running down into his eyes. It's another of those automatic, careful gestures, all of them layering one upon another to say the same thing, again and again -- this isn't just for sex, isn't just for fun. Koby meant what he said, when he asked to help, when he said let me take care of you, and he means to make the most of the time he's allowed.]
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this is all different, of course, and he closes his eyes on command, not that it's hard to. he sighs deeply, so much of his tension leaving his body as koby's hands work, and he hums, amused, at the little tug. ]
Mm, a shower? No. But keep doing that and I'm not sure we'll leave this tub. Which would be a shame because then I really couldn't do much about getting you cleaned up.
[ there's the implication that he likes the hair pulling (oh, he does), and the implication of course that he would like to spend time with his head and newly washed hair pressed between koby's thighs (he very much wants this). but for the moment he settles, breathing evening out a little as koby works, as he settles against the boy in the heat of the back, skin on skin.
it's wildly intimate - and he's had softer encounters with his port stops throughout his life. tender barmaids and sweet pageboys, the ones who know how much it means to be cared for on a rough sea. the ones who travel and know that a tiny fleck of humanity goes such a long way. but this feels like much more - let me take care of you, koby said, and quentin believes him. how can he not with his open, wide eyes and his quick reactions, his kneejerk snipping. ]
You're good at this.
[ the wine may be hitting now, too, making him pliant and lazy, his head tipping back and a hand skirting the line of koby's leg beneath him. thank goodness the tubs are big. ]
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More than that, he enjoys watching the tension leave Quentin's face, smooth out from between his brows, loosen from around his smirking, teasing mouth. One roughened thumb strokes over one temple, tracing slow circles there, as if to ward off any worry. As if that'd be enough.] I wouldn't mind being a fish. Or maybe a dolphin. [Koby's voice goes softer, the faint accent easier to parse out now, a bit of a twanging drawl that would mark him as East Blue, were he in the real world. But he isn't. He's in this one, warm and wet and pleasantly sore, that spark of wanting stirred back up by the weight of Quentin against his lap, by the inky cling of curls between his fingers.
There's that urge to lean down, to kiss Quentin again, to send the day hurtling back towards the steamy, hazy heat of their bodies entwined, to collect on the teasing implication hidden in that smiling, rumbling voice. There's also an urge to ask Quentin to stay, to spend the night, to let Koby keep looking after him, keep showing him again and again that he'd made the right choice following a scrawny, nervous, awkward little sailor up the steps, into his room, into his arms. At the heart of both is something that's been throbbing like a bruised rib this entire time -- he doesn't want this to be the only time he sees Quentin. One way or another.
A slow inhale, then Koby starts dividing Quentin's hair into sections, starting at the crown of his head and beginning to braid, an intricate pattern that gathers more and more sections as he braids down towards Quentin's neck. A French braid, it'd be called in some pockets of the universe, but Koby has no idea what France is.] My hair used to be much longer. I got good at braiding it to keep it out of the way. [A beat.] It wasn't as pretty as yours, though.
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[ he hums, teasing him again and stretching languidly in koby's lap, the fingers weaving in and out of his curls so soothing in a way he's never experienced. ]
It feels like you'll get yourself in a tangle like this.
[ but koby explains and he hums thoughtfully, listening to his story and trying to imagine the fair-faced boy with long hair. it would suit him in a way, and quentin wonders what it would be like to thread his fingers through it and give little tugs and pulls. but he can immediately connect why the long hair went, why the koby he's meeting now is different from the one who came long before. ]
I like your hair. The color. Unusual, but memorable. I could never forget a fellow navigator with pink hair - with those big eyes and glasses - no less that stubborn tongue. You are stuck to the very roof of my skull, whether you wish to be or not, my fellow navigator.
[ he laughs a little, feeling the way the braid starts to come to an end. he's miserably impatient, but pleasantly sated. he shouldn't turn, he shouldn't roll to his stomach in the bath, in koby's lap but he does anyway, arms reaching for the tub to bracket koby in, legs sprawled behind him in the water as he pulls himself up into koby's space and kisses him hard, slow, his own body still burning from the afterglow. ]
It means I must spend all night scrubbing the very image of you out of my mind. It will be a long, laborious task. One that will mean I need supervision from the lands' finest medic.
[ he nudges their noses together, playful and tired and laughing against koby's mouth. ] You simply cannot kick me out. Your bed is far closer than mine - you wouldn't want me to get injured on the way to my rooms would you?
[ all that to say: please invite me to stay. our time can't be up yet. ]
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Quentin smiles up at him, sleepy and fond and sweet-scented, Quentin calls him unforgettable, in so many words, and Koby's smiling before he can stop it. There's an ache in his chest the shape of that grin, and Koby knows better than to hope for impossibilities -- but then, he's hidden away under layers and uniforms and scrunched shoulders for so, so long. But: he's here now, unveiled, unmasked, bare-chested and soft-smiled, with Quentin bright and beaming in his lap. There's something impossible.
Koby's about to reply when Quentin moves, and there's a brief frown of concern, both hands reaching out to ease the movement --] Careful, you're hurt -- [--but then Quentin is there, warm and broad and glorious, like some sort of sea god, rising from the depths to bewitch and beguile poor sailors.
Poor sailors who immediately reach out, who lean forward and curl both arms around said sea god's necks, pull them closer and kiss them deep. Stupid, foolish sailors who surrender immediately to the tricky twist of wind or fate, who murmur:] You shouldn't be doing anything laborious. Not while you're recovering.
[And, eyes wide, lashes damp from the steamy air, thumb finding Quentinβs cheek and tracing the sharp shape:] You should stay. If -- you want to. [An inhale, chest pressing against Quentinβs, the contact like the wind filling sails, the snap of rope and canvas and the scent of salt.] I want you to.
Stay.
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[ he hums when kobyβs arms wrap his neck, when he cannot help but sweep one of his own arms behind the smaller man, dragging their bodies closer again, the warmth of him against the cooling bath water enough to make hime want to stay pressed close. he imagines what it would be like setting sail with koby - wind in their hair and the seas open before them. but that will always be a sailorβs dream, wonβt it?
he sighs against kobyβs mouth, nudging their noses together playfully. ]
Iβd like to stay. So itβs settled. I will be taking over your bed for the night, fellow navigator. I hope your ship is well prepared and your sails deployed, I suspect weβre in for a long evening.
[ he grins, goofy and almost boyish, before sliding back away. his side aches of course, but he still pushes himself up slowly, standing from the water and stepping over the edge, uncaring that heβs dripping water all over the tile. itβs tile for a reason, after all.
he turns to koby and offers him his hand, ignoring the sting in his own side, instead admiring. ]
Youβll have to lead me through the books and the maps - Iβd hate to take a wrong turn. Your bed looked comfortable on the horizon.
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If it's the latter, Koby almost feels like it's worth it, with the nudge of Quentin's nose against his, the taste of Quentin on his tongue, the warm rumble of Quentin's voice in his chest.]
Let's hope you don't get seasick. [It's perhaps a weak attempt at keeping up with Quentin's easy, rollicking metaphor, but in Koby's defense, that's right about when the other man's moving away, climbing out of the tub in all his cautious, carefully cleaned glory. And while he'd been beautiful before, even bloodied and grimy, Koby is genuinely struck quiet in awe by the sight of Quentin fresh from the bath, broad shoulders and a sailor's physique, the gleaming ripple of sinew and skin. He just stares for a moment, eyes dragging slowly over every single inch of Quentin, still sitting on his heels in the cooling water. Subconsciously, Koby pulls that full lower lip into his mouth, bites down hard, shoulders shivering on a breath. He looks about two seconds from lunging out of the tub and consuming Quentin.
But then his gaze catches the bruise and he's himself again, rising from the water and letting it drain as he takes the offered hand, brow knitting in concern.] Towel, first. And medicine. I promise it's nothing dangerous, I've taken it for headaches since I got here. [The former -- fluffy and thick and freshly-laundered -- Koby grabs from a teetering stack, then presses into Quentin's hands, back to his fussy, busy self. Then he stands on tiptoe to run a smaller hand towel over Quentin's braided hair, squeezing the water out.] Dry off, let me get it. Okay?
[Leaving the towel draped over Quentin's head, Koby grabs one for himself, simultaneously drying off, running water into a glass, pulling open the cupboard to one side of the tub. It's crammed full of things -- medicine and bandages and packaged food and extra paper and pens and stacks of notes that don't fit in the bedroom. Koby's been fortunate that his suitemate hasn't complained about him taking up space in the bathroom as well. He wraps the towel around his body, tucking it in so it stays put around his waist, then grabs a bottle of some painkiller that had been recommended by the staff.] Not too many, I don't trust it that much, but like I said, it's helped before -- but we should still wrap it up, especially after -- after moving so much, but -- you need to rest first, that's the most important thing, we can always wrap it tomorrow before -- I mean, i-if you want to stay until tomorrow, but if you don't, that's fine too, but --
[He'll keep going until he's stopped, Quentin, sorry. He'd put aside caretaking in favor of the intoxicating tangle they'd made in the water, but now he's making up for lost time.]
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[ and here they are - the fussing part of this song and dance he knew would come based on earlier - that the warm, hazy thing they'd experienced would fall the moment they left the tub waters. he stands ready and waiting, even as koby's eyes roam his body. it's very flattering, and to say he isn't doing the same when the other man climbs out would be an utter lie.
but he takes the towel, idly drying off but making a surprised noise when koby wrings out the water in his braid. in the air of tomfoolery he leaves the towel atop his head, continuing to dry himself with the large, fluffy towel. it's warm, which is intriguing - like a towel warmed by a fire or stove. he doesn't know what magic it is, but he's pleased all the same.
the cupboard above the sink has him looking up at it, stepping up a little closer to koby, disappointed that he's wrapped the towel around himself. ah, well, it's all simple to remove later. he reaches for the bottle of painkillers, turning them over in his palm, curious. his world has some tablets and tinctures made up by magicians, apothecaries, but nothing that looks like this.
not that he has time to worry over it - koby prattles on and on again and with a sigh he tilts his head back, letting the towel fall to the floor, dropping the large fluffy one he'd been handed, and he bends, reaching to sweep koby off his feet, one arm cradled at his back, the other under his knees. there's light in his eyes, even if there's strain in his body. ]
Rest is for the dead, Commander. So, shall you navigate to our good vessel or shall I tread in unknown waters and hope for the best?
[ he's close, close enough to kiss koby again but this time? he doesn't. he simply smiles just out of reach, and starts moving for the door. ]
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But then -- there are arms around him, scooping him right off his feet, and Koby makes an undignified squawking gasp and freezes, eyes very wide as he tries to register what's happened. He's being held, cradled against Quentin's still-damp chest, like he weighs nothing, like it's the easiest thing in the world. For years, he's hated being small, being perceived as weak or powerless, but this is -- different. This is very, very different.
Blinking a couple times, Koby slowly looks upwards with those huge, wondering eyes, taking in the drops of water coursing down Quentin's neck, dripping from the loose curls escaping his braid, tickling as they slip down his chest and onto Koby's still-warmed body. He swallows hard, audible, and forgets entirely what he was talking about, forgets about everything but the heat where his bare skin meets Quentin's, but the throbbing pulse of yes, yes, yes that shoots right down his spine and pools between his legs. There's still an ache, a slight tenderness there, but Quentin's arms around him are rapidly fanning that into a hungry emptiness that demands to be filled. Fast.
Slowly, Koby drags his tongue over his lips, takes a shaky breath.] You can -- knock over anything you want. It doesn't matter. [His voice comes out low, husky, and he reaches out, stopping a coursing drop of water as it leaves the hollow of Quentin's throat, pressing his fingertips there instead.] I'll fix it later. [Fingers, then palm, smoothing slowly over the curve of collarbone and shoulder and pectoral, those eyes dark and unflinching.] Just -- take me to bed. Please.
[Interrupting the fretting spiral: a resounding success, Q.]
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Your wish is my command.
[ he teases, though even his own voice has gone ragged with want, and carefully, he carries koby back into the bedroom. he's nimble, despite his injuries, ignoring the twinge in his chest to twist and turn over piles, nary touching a one as he approaches the unkempt bed. he kneels up on the edge, holding koby still, so that when he sets the man down it's in the center of the plush mattress. he's careful, gingerly placing him, but he doesn't stay away for long. in fact, he walks up on his knees, straddling koby's hips with his thighs and leaning down to bring their chests flush and heavy, kissing him with a desperate intensity, tasting him on his tongue and remembering the way swollen, bitten lips feel against his own. ]
Is this to your liking, Commander?
[ there's an easy wag of his brows, head tilting to bite at koby's neck, letting his tongue explore the bath-warmed skin, rediscovering marks he left there but moments earlier. ]
Let me thank you for the bath. Please. [ spoken against his clavicle, then the hollow of his throat. ] I would very much like to show my gratitude.
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Mmm-hm. Sorry. [It comes out laughing, sheepish, pink painted over Koby's nose and cheeks the same hue as his hair.] I -- worry about things. I talk too much. [Koby sighs, kisses Quentin again, strokes thumbs over the jut of his cheekbone.] Thank you for staying anyway. [It's softly, achingly genuine, no flirtatious persona here. Koby's still figuring out how to flirt, how not to be so openly emotional and bleeding his feelings all over. They're there now, awed and delighted and surprised and fond.
And then, slightly puzzled, even as he arches up, the dampened towel he'd wrapped around himself starting to come loose from the movement.] You -- want to -- what? [It takes Koby a moment, distracted by the tease of Quentin's mouth against the marked-up skin of his neck, by the sparking hum of bliss each gentle press of teeth or tongue sends down his spine, but eventually --]
Oh. [The blush is deeper, down Koby's neck, splashed over his collarbone and shoulders. He breathes in, shaky, thinking about the tormenting delight of Quentin's mouth lower, presses his thighs together hard against the dizzying throb of want.] A-Are you -- sure? [Then, quickly, because he doesn't want Quentin to get the wrong idea:] B-Because if you're sure, I'm sure, I'm really sure, I-I'm. Yeah. Yes.
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[ he tips his head up, enough to look into koby's eyes, brows raising in confusion and amusement. yes, koby talks a mile a minute, seems to fret over simple, tiny things and something about it is so wildly opposite his own instincts that it brings him delight to make it all come crashing down to a curious quiet.
he bows his head again, licking a stripe up koby's sternum, between the two scars. ]
And do you always fret when someone wants to do something, offers it? Trust me, Commander, I wouldn't offer to you if I also didn't have something to enjoy out of this. Have you never been spoiled? Even by a stranger?
[ what a pity, really. then he must work harder to insure that this evening is everything and more. out of comradery of course. nothing more. (nothing at all, save for the curious way he wants to come back, wants to indulge, wants to spend more time awake than sleeping after a romp.
his mouth moves again, tongue and lips tracing his scars, swiping hot and wet over one nipple, then moving to the other, letting the cool air get to them after his handiwork. he slides down the bed, mouth along the dip of koby's stomach, until he reaches the edge of the loose towel. he hums, thoughtful, then pouts up at koby. ]
Was all this necessary? [ and he pulls the wrap free. ]
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You sound like my commanding officer. [A scrunched nose, an affected, thick accent:] "Stop thinkin' so much, boy, you'll never get any damn thing done. Get out of your head and act." [There's evident fondness there, in the affectionate mockery, in the twinge of homesickness that shows itself in Koby's eyes, just for an instant. Then he sighs, settles back against the pillows, hair loose and curling gently at the ends against the dampened silk.] You're right. Both of you.
And I trust you. [Just like that. As if it's that simple.] You -- [A pause, a shuddery sigh at the drag of Quentin's tongue over his water-warmed skin, an arch of his back up towards that clever, wonderful mouth. Koby's mindful of his handiwork, mindful of the braid, fingers slipping to the back of Quentin's neck instead, cradling there. The next words are on the edge of a moan:] You get me out of my head, Quentin.
[When he complies -- because that's what the touch of Quentin's mouth is, luxury and indulgence, wet heat and teasing touch, where Koby's numb and where he's so, so sensitive -- it gets that moan in full, gets a delighted squirm against the sheets, Koby's blunt nails against Quentin's spine. And it gets a laugh when the towel is removed, when Koby's knees hitch together instinctively, then relax, letting the warm, solid weight of the other man's body settle between them.] Yes, because now I won't get the sheets wet. [Matter-of-fact, almost sweetly.
Then, after a beat:] With water, I mean.
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[ there's a fond smile, because the man sounds about as warm and homey and gruff as his own father had. men like that are good - made up only of seaspray and sunlight, and something in his chest pangs with homesickness, too. but there is no harbor waiting for him where his father will be waiting to scold him.
he comes out of his thoughts as koby's body arches into his mouth, as those fingers cradle the back of his neck. you get me out of my head, quentin, koby says all earnest and gentle and eager and he huffs against his skin. he allows his palms to skirt up koby's sides, rubbing calluses all over his soft skin, sweeping both thumbs over sensitive, damp nipples in lazy circles. ]
Mm. Of course. You won't get the sheets wet. [ there's a devilish grin that he presses into koby's exposed hip, the towel falling away and giving him access to the deep press of his legs. he's pleased that koby relaxes, and quentin presses a kiss to the soft thatch of pink waiting for him. ]
We'll see. Koby? Do what you want. I don't want you to hold back. Ah - what was it your commander said? Act.
[ his hands slide down, down, finding the soft meet oft the man's thighs before he softly pries them apart, and with a tilt of his head forward, he gives one long, lewd lick along his seam, from bottom to top. ]
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Koby's thighs tense a little when Quentin spreads them, another apology rising in his throat for -- what? He's still tender from the bath, from Quentin inside him, from the few (too few) moments of intense, feverish heat. He's still dripping Quentin's cum for god's sake, there's no need to be shy. Or apologize. Or even think, don't think, act, act, and that's an easy command to follow because --
Because that first touch of Quentin's tongue is like sun on the sea, like a soaring, searing wind in the sails, it's lightning on the waves, it's electric and shattering and Koby makes a sound that's almost a sob, that lilts into a moan at the very end. His toes curl against the bed, hips lifting from the sheets, towards Quentin's mouth, blunt nails leaving little notches at Quentin's nape, urging him closer. Then his grip slackens, on a shuddering exhale, and Koby props himself up on his elbows, shakily.]
Don't want to -- mess up your hair. [It's sort of gasped, that crimson flush painted down his neck, over his heaving, scarred chest, his kiss-marked shoulders. An inhale, legs spreading wider, welcoming, inviting.] But don't stop. Please don't stop.
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[ quentin huffs the words against the soft skin of koby's inner thigh, letting his tongue trace wet little patterns there, and decidedly sucking a little mark into his skin, right where the thigh connects to the weeping cunt he has his sights set on. a little marker, as if on a map, to say quentin was here.
koby arches up into his mouth and he hums, a rumbling laugh against he sensitive skin of his folds, happy to see koby propped up and looking. oh yes, let him watch as he plays him into yet another blissful oblivion. and like he's instructed, he doesn't stop.
he presses the flat of his tongue between the warm slick heat, tasting himself salty and tangy, intertwined with the bite of koby's taste, a melody of things that taste like sea and earth and fire. koby's thighs open for him, pliant and sweet, and his arms hook beneath him, dragging him forward into his mouth so that his tongue and press, press, press, swirling little patterns over the sweet bundle of his clit. he tongues at him all the while, lapping like a man dying of heat, needing a reprieve in the desert.
his palms grip at his hips, leaving little half moons in the skin as he dips his head and sweeps his tongue from the eager, spread entrance he'd claimed earlier and back up to his clit, sucking softly - rinse, and repeat. ]
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The sounds Koby makes, soft and needy and bitten back between shuddering breaths are a gift too, ones that quicken at the grip to his hips. He half-laughs when he's tugged down, like the way he tastes is something craved, like Quentin is savoring each lash of his clever, devastating tongue. Fingers sinking into dark, braided hair, Koby shifts his hips up, trying to angle the steady strokes up, between the folds still heated from the bath, from Quentin's cock between them -- how long ago, too long, it's been too long, and it's been a long day, but Koby wants it again, wants Quentin to tease him into shuddery, needy bliss, then fill him up again and again and again--
And then Quentin's mouth is on his clit and those soft sweet sounds pitch high, sharp, fingers clutching tight, harsh, nearly yanking, as Koby sobs out:] There, th-ere, don't stop, don't stop, please, Quentin-- [He breaks off in a frustrated huffing sound when Quentin's tongue moves, insistently grinding up, wanting it back targeted on the throbbing apex of heat. But then, again, nearly immediate and not soon enough, and Koby moans again, dropping back against the pillows, unable to stay propped up.] O-Okay, okay, that -- okay. [Half-talking to himself, learning the rhythm of Quentin's mouth, the tease from worked-open, dripping entrance to clit and back, steady, like the tide, like rolling waves, not-enough to too-much and back.
One hand stays knotted in Quentin's hair, less insistent, but still tightening at every lash of his tongue, but the other moves, shaky, slips down over Koby's own chest, stomach, finds one of the hands gripping his hips. Covers it, fingers curling in time with Quentin's mouth against his clit, thumb stroking over his knuckles. Like he needs that too, like if he can't watch, he needs to connect some other way, needs to seek out those callused fingers and hold on tight.]
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the hand sliding over his own is a surprise, one that has him coming up for air to lay eyes upon it, curious, his mouth and the little hairs of his beard glistening in the dim light of the bedroom. he lewdly swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, chasing the taste of koby before he moves back against him, dragging him close and tight so that his face is all but buried between milky thighs.
he flattens his tongue from stem to stern, lapping up all the sweet nectar that weeps from koby's waiting cunt, and instead of enjoying the little swell of nerves, he turns instead to koby's worked and waiting entrance. there's nothing more he can use now to open him, spread him wide and spear him with except for his tongue and very carefully, he does just that - swirling the blunt tip of it against he waiting flex, before he takes a breath and dives in, pressing his tongue hard against his entrance, stroking eagerly in him to taste exactly where they joined before, to taste the spoils of his need betwixt the sweet, summery sensation that koby embodies.
his unbound hand at koby's other hip shifts, just enough to palm his ass beneath his weight. to let his thumb instead skirt between the heat of him, where his slick runs into the towel meant only for bathwater, and allow his thumb to rest over the soft pucker of his ass. no pressing, just the tiniest acknowledgement all over again -
i'm here. stay here. he moves his hand only to slick his fingers against koby's cunt and use it to softly, almost lovingly, press light circles against the ring of muscle while his tongue works him open elsewhere. ]
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But he feels Quentin's hand move, feels how easily his fingers tease Koby open and apart in ways he didn't know were possible, and there's a pitch of questioning in the next shuddery gasp, curious even with his legs spread and his hips rocking steadily up into Quentin's mouth. Something else new, something he hadn't really considered, but suddenly craves, one more way to be consumed, claimed, devoured, Quentin's tongue and his fingers and his cock, his cock there, and Koby makes a soft, needy sound, rolls his hips between mouth and hand, insistent on both, greedy.]
Don't stop. [It's not clear which he means (does he have to choose because he won't, he refuses, self-sacrifice and denial left somewhere in the cooling bath water), but everything is a slick mess of thrumming nerves and desire and heat, and Koby is shameless in the way he ruts against Quentin's mouth, the grip in his hair urging him closer, the weep of his cunt throbbing like a bruise. The words again--] Please don't stop-- [-- the helpless hitch of his stomach, his hips, the way he shudders around nothing, aches empty and hollow and hungry.
Breath coming quicker, pitching higher, even without Quentin's skilled attention on his clit, Koby arches up, heels digging into the bed, back like a bow, chasing that climbing peak and just barely remembering to ask --] C-Can I, can I please, Quentin, please? [Holding back, like before, wanting (needing) the permission, the praise, needing Quentin's voice to release him into coming on his tongue.]
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he groans, deep and throat against him, unable to help the way the sounds and the aste of him make his whole body alight with fire. the way his own cock presses hard and leaking all over again against the sheets. he doesn't worry about himself though, instead keeping his tongue busy, his finger working, letting each little wiggle of hips or arching of the back bring him deeper and relentless.
but there's sweet koby again - asking, being so good and quentin barely parts to speak. ]
You've been so good - go on - you make the choices. I need you.
[ and his mouth goes back to work, this time his lips sealing over the quant little button of his clit and sucking hard, flicking his tongue over it and trying to find the very moment when the waves crash so that he may drink up the sweet juice offered him. ]
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And it lasts, legs shuddering, breath coming in pitchy, shuddering moans, guided up to a peak and lingering longer than Koby's used to. He's accustomed to finishing quick and dirty and silent, used to tucking his face against a pillow and silencing his own ragged breath. This is -- different, luxurious, the swell of an undertow crashing again and again, until Koby's fingers loosen and he presses weakly at Quentin, a shuddering whimpering sound, twitchy and oversensitive.
It's suddenly too much, but -- but Quentin hasn't come yet, and his mouth is divine, his fingers impossible, but Koby's aching inside, hungry and greedy, even as his stomach shivers, and his thighs shudder on the aftershocks of his climax. But he still spreads them wide, tugs weakly at Quentin's hair, free hand slipping down through the mess of his own slick, his own throbbing cunt, spreading wide and inviting, even as his hips twitch with overstimulation.] C'mon, you -- I-I want you inside, p-please, don't -- [A whine, trembling fingers tracing the route of Quentin's tongue, through his folds, over his clit, inside his clenching entrance.] -- don't make me wait.
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he comes up on a groan, licking his lips and looking up at the other with a sort of wanton haziness. he turns his face against koby's thigh, kissing it, laughing under a moan before he speaks. ]
You are remarkable, do you know that?
[ but there are the tugs, the needy little words, the way his fingers spread open the weeping lips of his cunt and quentin is sure he sees red. there's no denying koby he realizes, no turning back at the little demands, the little whines. he huffs a little, shifting to free his hands from around his hips and start up his body, letting his mouth trace a sticky-wet trail, his body staying flush so that even his chest, abdomen, all of it applies pressure to the sweet spot between koby's thighs.
there's no thinking straight as he shifts his hips, letting the hard tip of his cock slide right into that waiting, fluttering entrance. the same velvety, intense heat he'd enjoyed before but he merely grinds his hips against him, nudging his entrance as he dips down to kiss koby hard, desperate, sharing the taste of him between them. he slides his hands along the man's body, capturing his hands (yes, even tugging away the one opening him up so sweetly for him) and presses them into the bed over his head, palm to palm, linking fingers.
he can't wait anymore, hips jutting forward then, pressing without hesitation into the slick heat, the intensity and his own wired-tight arousal enough to make him groan against koby's mouth. ]
You feel - shit - [ his breath hitches with his first thrust, his face twisting, flushing, hips moving urgently, fucking into koby and chasing the high of his own climax. ]
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-- and then Quentin grabs his hands, pins them above his head and that tight, anxious thing inside Koby unravels like a rope sliced in twain, like a sail flapping free, like waves between his fingers. He laces their fingers together and lines up and presses in, and Koby might come again, he might never have stopped, but he makes a sound sharp and bright and blissful in the space between their mouths, arches up into Quentin, helpless and wanton and lost. It's not too much, it's perfect, it's perfect, that thick full heat notching right into his body like he was made for it, made for this, clenching and throbbing and squeezing.
And that might all be out loud -- perfect and more and harder -- but Koby's not sure of anything that isn't Quentin's hands, Quentin's mouth, Quentin's body pressed to his, Quentin's cock driving to the hilt inside him over and over. Face flushed, hazy, fuckdrunk and blissed, Koby leans up enough to kiss at the other man's mouth, getting his cheek, his chin, clumsily lost in how good everything feels. He's fuzzy at the edges, he's somewhere in the clouds, he's only just aware of the slick, obscene sound of Quentin fucking down into him, too satisfied to do more than float in between worlds and take it. Except -- no, except something's missing and Koby can't quite float away until --]
You too. [It's mumbled, caught on the corner of Quentin's lips, between rasping, panting, shuddering breaths.] You -- inside, come inside me again, again, please, feels s-so good, so good when you do, f-fill me up again, Quentin...
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the wet sounds of skin slapping as he desperately fucks into the clench of koby's body, the fluttering heat that grips and sucks and pulls him in. greedy. he might say it out loud, he might not, a litany of praise and desperation good and so tight and perfect to mingle with koby's. he fucks into him as hard as he can at the pleading, the sounds lewd and wet in a way that makes him want to pull out altogether and devour him once again, drown himself in the sea of the man beneath him and refuse to come up for air.
but all it takes is the little pleading - he demand of what he should do and it's with one, two more thrusts he grinds deep into koby and leans down to capture his mouth hard and desperate as he comes, white-hot ropes of his spend spilling out, wrapping them both in a warmth that makes him groan heady and furious into the other boy's mouth, licking and gasping and wanting as his whole body spasms, the orgasm bigger and more intense than the other, his fingers loosening but still holding. his cock pulses within koby, still spluttering and weeping for the joy of being consumed by him even now. ]
Don't - don't move. [ he wants to savor the hot, slick feeling around him, the way his and koby's passion mingles, his cum and koby's wet spend, sticky sweet and desperate between them. ]
You're - [ a moan, hyper-sensitive as he settles his weight down hard between koby's thighs, staying seated in him as the sparks of fire of the afterglow wash over him. ] - perfect.
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And he stays, he stays, and Koby could die right then, could have nothing after that moment, just the wet heat of Quentin's still-twitching cock inside him, lazily milked with each shuddering orgasmic clench. He finds his way to the messy braid, teases his fingers into the loosened plaits, lets his legs relax on either side of Quentin's hips and lets out a shuddery sigh.] Y-Yeah? [Another shiver, electric-hot aftershocks, the oversensitivity warring with Koby's fervent desire to never let Quentin leave his cunt again.] Yeah. That...yeah.
[A slight press of his hand to the back of Quentin's neck, tugging him down to rest his head over Koby's still-racing heart. Silently -- stay, please stay, even as heartbeat and breath start to slip back towards normal. Koby wants to sleep, suddenly, wants to close his eyes and surrender to the heated, syrupy afterglow.] Perfect. [He repeats it, head tilted back, eyes slipping closed, pulse throbbing in his throat.]
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