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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
one hand abandons his hips after a few thrusts, fingers pressing up his spine and into his hair, giving a soft tug, enough so that when quentin leans over his back again he can kiss him. it's a little haphazard, but he doesn't care, licking hot against matt's mouth on a soft laugh. ]
Look at yourself - taking me so well. [ he's a little winded, but it's a good thing, rolling his body a little harder into the next few thrusts so that he may watch his whole body adjust with the impact. ] Meant to be put on a perch and admired - a pretty little thing to covet.
[ he kisses matt's shoulder, following up with a sharp bite. ] Tell me when your legs get tired and I'll reward you for your honesty.
no subject
Matt wouldn't need the mirror to turn at the tug to his hair, but the extra perspective helps. He cranes to meet Quentin, messy collision of their mouths that gets them both laughing breathlessly--until Quentin's next thrust shocks a more profound moan from him. Matt bites helplessly at Quentin's lip, chasing after his mouth as if to drink in those strained words. But as Quentin begins to rock into him more firmly, Matt can't hold the position; his head falls forward again. ]
Oh, [ he groans. It's nowhere near so nice as the delicious words Quentin has to offer. Out in life, Matt chafes at the thought of uselessness, of confinement as someone's object; here, now, it's searing. The hottest thing he can imagine. Pretty little thing draws a reedy sigh, and his cry at Quentin's bite is sharper than it might otherwise be. Matt sighs, ecstatic: ] Smart man.
[ He is absolutely the kind of person to try and tough out strain. He enjoys suffering for a partner now and then, and though Matt doesn't think of himself as competitive, he's always trying to one-up himself. So it is, indeed, smart that Quentin gets ahead of the urge. That's why it's only a little while later that Matt admits on a hoarse laugh, ] Ah--okay--you're turning my legs into jelly.
no subject
[ quentin laughs, airy and out of breath, his thrusts slowing until he's pressed deep and seated in the warmth of him. it's intoxicating, and he leans over the man's back to kiss his unbitten shoulder. he thinks about picking matt up, scooping him into the bed and devouring him until they're both falling apart.
instead, he slowly, slowly, slowly, pulls out, his cock shocked by the cold and aching for him in a way that's nearly painful. but he smoothes his hand out of matt's hair, along his back, his flank, down to the strained lines of his thighs, gently urging him to stand, the other hand out to help for balance. ]
I've got you, little bird. [ he says softly, taking up matt's hand and guiding him back toward the bed. it's convenient that from the headboard he can see his reflection, so he climbs atop the bed and sits back, gesturing for him to join him. ] I'll do all the work, you just sit and enjoy yourself. Face the mirror - watch yourself as you fall apart.
[ he cannot help but reach of his weeping prick, reaching for the little tube of lube left on the table and slicking himself again on a throaty moan, warming himself up for matt. ]
no subject
The actual sound he makes is a little more dignified than that, but not by much. Matt follows Quentin's coaxing to stand on wobbly legs, and immediately grabs for Quentin's hand with a breathless grin. He doesn't strictly have to lean on Quentin to get onto the bed, but it's definitely smoother with his help. Matt hums, pleased, for sit and enjoy yourself, and waits for Quentin to get where he wants to be before settling on his knees in front of him, facing the mirror.
For a moment, he focuses on positioning himself. But at Quentin's moan, Matt's head snaps to regard him, his eyes blown wide with arousal and fascination. ]
God ... [ A shaky sigh. A melting smile. ] I wanna watch you fuck me for hours, but I want to come too bad. I could wait if you told me to, but ... at this point it'd be pretty hard.
[ Somewhere between "erotic torture" and "impossible," actually, but Matt's never one to pass up a chance for understatement. ]
no subject
his little bird is a vision, truly.
he doesn't stroke himself again, not with the way matt looks at him, almost feral and hungry. oh no, he presses his front flush to matt's back again, mouth falling to pepper kisses along his shoulder, laughing against his skin. ]
I won't make you wait.
[ he pets a hand down matt's side, to his hip, then to his ass, pulling the meat of it to one side so that his aching, hard cock can line up again with that previous heat. ]
You've been so terribly good for me, little bird. Have your reward.
[ one arm scoops around matt's middle first, bracing before he pushes in once again, without all the careful consideration from before, groaning low in his throat as he's engulfed again by the slick hot heat of matt, hips moving deliberately, roughly, watching the way matt's cock bounces once with the movement before circling it with a callused hand. ]
no subject
Quentin--God--
[ He watches his lips part wantonly in the mirror, watches his cock give an obscene bounce. Quentin's fingers curl around his erection, and Matt whimpers, feeling how his slick wets the man's hand. Feels Quentin's arm wrapped firmly around him. He's so close to his own orgasm he can't help but chase it, can't help writhing for more friction on Quentin's dick. He feels absolutely insane with want. Every glimpse of Quentin in the mirror just makes his heart hammer harder in his chest, sends arousal pulsing through him. ]
Fill me up, [ he breathes, the ragged end of a moan. He turns his head back towards Quentin, arching artlessly for a kiss that he only half-cares if he gets. Quentin gives a hard thrust into him, making him mewl. ] Make me come, I wanna come for you.
no subject
he really is such a pretty thing.
his hand strokes around matt's erection with renewed fervor, matching the brutal pace his thrusts take on, letting the force of it bounce matt up into the slick circle of his hand. it's so easy, letting himself be consumed by him, by the ache and burn as he leans into the yearning mouth, kisses him sloppy and hard, tongue a hot slide against his, drinking from him like a man dying from thirst. ]
You asked so nicely, little bird. So good. So good. I'm - shit -
[ a pant against his mouth, licking into it and kissing him hotly once more, desperate, his hips thrusting more erratically until with one final push and a hard downward pull of his hand round matt's dick to draw him down, down, down harder against his own cock - he comes hard, heavy, hips twitching and pulsing as he spills hot and messy inside him. all the while, his mouth on matt's bites against his lips in bruising, shuttering kiss. ]
no subject
And then--
Everything heats, condenses. Quentin's teeth snap on his lips in a bite that sings with pain, and Matt cries out ecstatically, the sound muffled against his mouth. Quentin's thrusts quicken; he pulls Matt down, his erection seeming to swell inside him. Matt bucks helplessly, barely able to move for Quentin's grip on him, but it doesn't matter. Moments after Quentin comes, Matt follows him. The mirror shows how he spills all over Quentin's fingers, his own belly and chest, his mouth locked with Quentin's in that searing kiss. He moans, a sound so low and filthy he barely recognizes it as coming from him. ]
no subject
just to watch him come undone, like stars racing across the sky.
he grinds his hips up into him, not pulling in or out, merely leaving himself seated in him and applying pressure through his orgasm, until he finally comes down from the heat of it. there's a mess between them, around his dick, over his hand and up matt's chest. ]
You're so pretty like this, little bird. Singing those songs for me, all stretched out and perfect. [ he laughs softly, kissing at matt's bruised lips, then his shoulder, voice a rumble of blissful gravel and warmth.
he smears his hand up matt's chest, reaches to suck his fingers clean of some of the spend, humming and giving another appreciative roll of his hips. ]
You taste so - mm. Try.
[ he presses his thumb to matt's bottom lip, gentle, the lingering taste of his ecstasy on his skin. ]
I would watch you do anything like this.
no subject
Oh ...
[ Even Quentin's thumb on his lip is almost too much to feel at the moment. Still, Matt cherishes the sparks of his touch. His lips part obediently around the tip of Quentin's finger; he tastes. His tongue working against the pad of Quentin's finger, cleaning off every drop of salty spend. It feels good, comforting almost, to take him in this way while he's still inside him. Idly, Matt imagines spending the whole afternoon this way: Quentin's cock buried deep, as he lets Matt suck on his fingers or on--anything, really. He'd take anything. ]
Mm ... good. [ Good as in the taste. Good, as in good thing you like watching me like this, because: ] You feel too good to move.
[ Matt's spine stretches again, this time with a bit more purpose. His eyes are back on the mirror, tracking the curve he can sketch with his body. Watching Quentin's face. ]
no subject
he presses a line of kisses along matt's neck, his shoulder. ]
You feel so good even now.
[ another kiss against his shoulder before he noses up under his ear, nipping at his throat sweetly as matt's spine arches delicately, but he notes the way matt even observes himself. he laughs a little, grinning. ]
Like what you see, little bird? [ he pets his hand down to matt's belly, holding him there, keeping him flush against his chest. ] We'll have to do this again sometime. Turn the mirror, get different angles.
no subject
Every shift he makes brings him closer to some part of Quentin, which is lovely both physically and mentally. Like they're a bouquet made of warm, moving blossoms. ]
We've gotta do this again, [ he agrees, a murmur. ] We look too good together not to.
[ For now, however, he's happy to bask in the well-deserved afterglow. ]