πππππππππ ππππ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
Entry tags:
π πππ'π ππππππππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππ β£ SEPT TDM
SEPTEMBER 2024 TDM: LUGHNASADH
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, using Β« 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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
FRUITS OF LABOUR
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, gore, cannibalism.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
DIRECTORY
pool party
"Hey, sweetheart. Need more ice? I've got you."
An important thing about drinking, in Richie's opinion, is that the drinks need to be cold, so he's on a circuit through the crowd with an ice bucket and some tongs, plus a jar of lime wedges and a big glass bottle of cucumber water, refreshing glasses and picking up all the little requests and requirements that make an evening run smoothly.
"Can I get you another round of shots? Yeah? That's great, fucking primo. How about a blanket? Getting kind of cold out here. British summer, am I right? Yeah? Okay. I'll be right back."
Shots and blankets delivered, he's on his way back to the little cabana-slash-tiki bar setup when he spots his cousin through the milling crowd, just in time to watch him get goosed by a drunk older lady on a sun lounger. As the storm clouds gather in Carmy's expression, Richie changes direction and hurries over, elbowing his way through until he arrives in time to step in front of the thunder, smiling, hands out.
"Hey! Hey, cousin." He leaves his hand briefly on Carmy's back. "Everything good here? Helen, everything good? Do you need another drink? A martini? Oh, cuz, Sanji was looking for you -- something about the wasabi peas, yeah?"
no subject
He doesn't go find Sanji, leaves the poolside all together, hopping a steel-and-glass fence into the garden and digging his cigarettes out of the front pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, the neon of the pink and blue tiki torches catching his smoke and tinting his curls shades of purple. He just needs to settle, but he's churning with the indignity. It's not the MILFs, that's whatever, it's the fact that his breakfast finally miraculously came together and it's getting treated like a cute trick he did. It's that the kitchen staff don't seem to expect they'll be cooking his food long term. It's the head butler putting he and Richie and Sanji in these little outfits like a punishment. You wanted to work? Here's work. Fuck that. Fuck that, he's not a fucking server.
(It's the drugs and alcohol passing so easily through the crowd; it's watching hot people his age have fun in the pool while he stands by not knowing how to like, do that; it's realizing he's come all the way to England for a new beginning and he's still the same fucking Berzatto asshole that he is in every city in the world.)
no subject
"Carmy! Hey, Carm, where the fuck are you?"
He spots the flare of the cigarette before he notices the specific pattern of Carmy's curls backlit against the house. Climbs carefully over the fence and trots across to join his cousin, hugging his Hawaiian shirt closed. Now he's away from the pool he's noticing that it's not exactly a balmy summer evening.
"Hey, cousin. That was fucked up. Shoulda got there sooner, that's on me."
no subject
The cigarette is helping - his eyes close on a long, angry drag, forcing him to take a deep breath even if it's one full of smoke. Exhales. Offers the cigarette to Richie, glad for his presence even if he kind of wants to just brood in the dark like an asshole.
no subject
Rather than fighting him on the point, Richie circles up in front of him, taking the offered cigarette. Takes a draw on it, offers it back.
"Thought you were quitting," he observes on the exhale, a number of weeks too late but there hasn't been a good time to needle Carmy about it before. "Fucking bad for you, cuz."
no subject
Takes a step forward, getting in Richie's space a little. Almost but not quite shoulder-checking his chest, but not actually touching him outside of the brush of their hands as he takes back the cigarette. "I only did it for the restaurant. And it made me..." Insane. More insane. Withdrawals from both Richie and cigarettes, to the point he can't really untangle the relief he feels here, having them both back. "It didn't work. So whatever."
He can hear that he's too aggro, can't keep the asshole tone out of his voice even though it isn't really directed at Richie, he's just picking a fight.
no subject
Paying back the aggro tone and not moving out of their shared space. This close, he can almost feel the heat coming off Carmy's skin. In the shadows of the dimly lit garden, Richie tracks his gaze over the planes and angles of Carmy's face, where the light makes him look strange and perfect.
"You're so fucking tense, cuz."
Richie puts a hand up, takes hold of the back of Carmy's neck, feels the cold sweat on his skin. Not the first time, but the first time since they've been doing what they're doing now, so there are new layers to it, a new familiarity, an animal thrill to be touching him. Especially when he sets his other hand against Carmy's face and thumbs over his cheekbone.
"Let me help. C'mon."
no subject
This is all new, is the thing, but new in a way where their dynamic hasn't strictly shifted, it just has all this other shit threaded through it now. Layers of meaning. Fucking - yearning, if he's being honest with himself, which he's not. He shouldn't be letting Richie touch him out in the open like this, but Richie says let me and Carmy yearns.
Then: "Okay," he says, meeting Richie's gaze again. Sounding sure, even though he's not, doesn't even really know what he's okaying. A massage? A handjob? A valium? Honestly, he'd be fine with all three right now, or even just something to struggle against until his feelings of anger and insecurity and self-loathing settle the fuck down. "I dunno what the fuck you think you can do, cousin, but okay."
no subject
He nods to himself like he's agreeing and moves both hands to hold Carmy's face, looking down at him for a moment before he leans in and kisses him.
All of their kisses up until now have been pretty good, fantastic even, soft and wet and hot, urgent or sleepy. But they've been the product of compulsions, the inevitable conclusion of a set of chemical imbalances and physical touch. This time Richie moves with purpose, with a conscious desire to kiss Carmen with every bit of knowledge he's built up over two and a half decades of dares and second dates, marital bed good mornings and backseat making out and heavy petting, everything he's learned about how to kiss people and mean it. Wanting to make him feel wanted and special. Wanting to turn him on like a tap and make his knees weak.
Responsive and warm, firm but not too firm, teasing Carmy's mouth until his lips part and he can taste him, cigarette smoke and stress. Then pulling him closer, letting himself groan softly and letting Carmy hear and feel that groan, sliding his hand into his hair. Tightening his fingers in his curls a little, pulling gently. Kissing him some more, deep and hungry and thorough, until he's satisfied he can move away and start layering licking and mouthing at his jaw, down his throat, kissing and sucking gently, nuzzling beard-scratchiness against his skin.
no subject
That's Carmy's first thought, when he finally manages to have one again. It's easily the best he's ever been kissed, like, it's lapped all previous kisses - and there's a fair few more of those than his scant amount of hookups, because Richie was right that women get really into the sad eyes and the tattooed musculature and go for it. Carmy thought he understood kissing, like, he'd mastered the technicalities of it, not like when he was sixteen and kissed like he was trying to swallow a whole orange. He knows when to use teeth and when not, all that shit. But this makes that feel like amateur hour. Richie kisses him with this warm dominance that lights up his whole body.
He is weak-kneed when Richie moves to his neck, breathing fast as interest pings back and forth between his chest and groin, makes him feel like hot syrup all over. "Jesus, Richie," he whispers, clinging to his shoulders - not swooning, he's not fucking swooning, it's just a lot. The cigarette gave him headspins. (The cigarette is no longer in his hands, he dropped it around when Richie made that fucking noise.) Was he pissed about something? He's forgotten.
no subject
He pulls back a bit to give Carmy another little kiss, too pleased with himself to resist a little gloating.
"Yeah, cousin." He's got skills, okay, even if he still spends a probably a little too much time wondering why Carmy and Grace and the other girls see in him -- but that's old habit, all Richie Bad News shit, he's working on it. Kissing Carmy helps. It helps a lot, so he's going to keep doing it.
Richie ducks back in, though this time he's making moves down Carmy's front, layering kisses over his chest and down onto his belly, further down so he has to stoop and then just crouches down, holding on to Carmy's thighs to keep himself balanced. Drops little pecks just above the waistband of Carmy's beach shorts, exploring, giving Carmy a little time to decide if he's going to allow it.
no subject
As is Richie, apparently, crouched down there. Carmy groans and runs a hand over his buzzed hair, shivering a little, pale lashes low. "Shit, uh." He's hard in his shorts, tenting them out. "Are you - you don't have to —" He makes himself look around, glances around in the dark; not that far off the light of the party, around the other side of the hose shed.
Carmy lifts his other hand to scrub over his face, pink with awareness that he might be too noisy for this semi-public place. He can't help it, because so far it's been about like, what he can do for Richie, which works for him as a freak overachiever. He doesn't know what to do with all this sweet attention. Thumbs Richie's temple, a little wordless, a little torn. But he wants it, he wants it so fucking bad. And after a second he tugs at the elastic of the shorts, slips them over his cock, which bounces up so eager he nearly smacks Richie in the face, making him laugh breathlessly, eyes wide and shining. "Fuck."
no subject
And he loves, especially, getting to hear him laugh like that, pulls back away from his eager boner just to look up at him and grin.
"Yeah, fuck, cuz." He hums as he returns his attention to the dick in question, a low hungry noise he doesn't bother disguising as anything else. Like he's been waiting all day to be eye-to-eye with this particular cock. Reaches for it, to stroke it a little, thumb underneath to feel the ridge and the silky skin moving over the hard throbbing core. Pretty damn cool to make his cousin go 0 to erect like this, even if Carmy is still a kid and pops one with every strong breeze.
"Got such a good fat dick, cousin. Good job I love some fuckin' Italian sausage, huh?"
With all the confidence of a man who has done this before and means to keep doing it regularly, but also who has learned how to do this mostly from porn, he leans in to get his mouth on it, pushing his hand up near the base in the blond curls of Carmy's pubic hair to keep it at the right angle while he puts a good two or three inches into his mouth, hollows his cheeks and sucks gently, bobbing his head to start getting into a rhythm.
no subject
It's not huge, his good fat dick, which he only ever really appreciates when someone else has their mouth around it, because he's - okay, he has sucked exactly one dick, ever, but it was annoying to have to use his hand on half of it or risk the head gagging him. Like petting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time, trying to concentrate on two disparate things. Richie isn't gonna have that problem unless he decides to get esoteric with it. Or slips him a couple of fingers.
Carmy shifts his stance a little wider at that thought. Just to steady himself, make sure his knees are locked in.
"You're such a dickhead," he murmurs, and he sounds annoyed but his hand is so gentle as it rubs circles over Richie's crown, and he follows it with a low noise as he rocks on his heels. Flustered and thrumming. He drops his hand to his mouth, curling it into a fist to bite down on, something to try and shut himself up even though the low vibrations of noise in his chest as he's sucked off are unmuffleable.
no subject
So he leans into it once he's pretty sure he can do it without choking or making a fool of himself. Pulls his hand away and puts it on Carmy's hip along with the other one so he's holding onto him, thumbs bracketed either side of his Adonis belt, both braced against him and tugging him in towards his face. Like that, he forces himself to relax and breathe so he can swallow Carmy down as deep as he can go, then pulls back, slick and wet and aching in his jaw but enjoying himself. Goes in again like that, back and forth, long slow deep wet pulls, sucking a bit on the backstroke once he's found a good pace. Eyes shuttering closed so he can get really into it, the feelings of being uncomfortable but happy and not wanting to be anywhere else right now except right here.
no subject
He only stops looking when he has to, like has to. Who knows how long it's been, he's lost all sense of time, but it still feels way too soon to be about to pop, and he whines and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to eke out a little more time thinking the least sexy thoughts he can manage. Except that's all insane traumatic shit, that's Chef Fields over his shoulder, and his psyche is already fucked up without reenforcing that he associates being mentally destroyed with sex. Fuck that, he can't, he's too in the moment, too in his body, every time he starts slipping sideways Richie sucks and pulls him right back into it.
His eyes peek open again, groaning loudly into his own palm. Gritting his teeth, heaving and panting and trying to get his shit together so he can pull his hand away and warn Richie before he nuts in his mouth. He manages with sheer force of will. "Hey. Hey, fuck, Richie, you're gonna make me come, man, I can't... I'm so fucking close."
no subject
Lost in concentrating on it, he doesn't hear Carmy's voice properly at first. Belatedly registers what he's being told and pulls off, panting and coughing a bit, replacing his mouth with a quick stroke of his fist. He shoots Carmy a look, then turns to spit onto the ground, clearing his throat.
"Fucking hurry up and do it then," he croaks out, and returns to what he was doing without giving Carmy time to argue. Faster this time, really sucking and working his tongue like he's felt girls do sometimes, sliding his hands around under the waistband of Carmy's shorts to take a good double handful of Carmy's ass, pulling him in good and tight to shoot his load right down the back of his throat.
no subject
Afterwards, light-headed and overstimulated, he stares down at Richie in disbelief. Keeps running hands over his cheekbones and ears and scalp and neck, his cock throbbing with the aftershocks of it, a feeling like all that sucking bruised it a little. When he pulls it out it does that fucking porn thing where a line of thick, cummy saliva stretches between the tip and Richie's mouth for a moment and he catches it on his fingers and then lifts his hand, holding eye contact, and puts his fingers in his mouth.
Sucks contemplative for a moment, eyes lidded, cheeks flushed.
"Come, the fuck, back up here," he suggests, intense, and truly he's been remade by the orgasm, all sweet pliancy despite the control freak order.
no subject
He groans as he climbs to his feet, brushes shmutz off his knees, maybe trying to cover for the way his own hard-on is tenting out the front of his board shorts to a slightly ridiculous degree. But he does as he's told to, even anticipates what Carmy wants by leaning in to kiss him a little, slow and sweet again.
no subject
Richie's performed a minor fucking miracle, so Carmy touches him with the appropriate reverence, right up until his wandering hands brush over his cock. Pulls it out and hot into his hand.
"Just from sucking me?" he murmurs, and he meant to be mean but it comes out so soft. Knocks their heads together and strokes him.
In the distant dark, a sudden shock of the fireworks starting, and Carmy thinks, insanely, of Claire. Has to push that out of his mind completely, a little wild eyed as the lights in the sky colour them both. "You want I should get on my knees for you?" he asks Richie seriously. Spits in his palm and wraps it around Richie. "You can have whatever you want."
no subject
"No," he says, maybe a little too quickly. His grip flexes on Carmy's shoulders, tense and release, bowed down to be close enough to kiss but not getting there, just sort of nuzzling over the side of his face. He can feel himself throbbing in Carmy's fist, resisting the urge to push up against him because it feels kind of good to have that friction.
"No, cuz." A little tremble on the exhale this time. As much as he likes the idea of having his mouth on him, he can't stand the thought of Carmy kneeling down right now, even that much distance feeling like too much. "Stay here. Just -- fuck. Keep doing that."
no subject
"Richie," he murmurs between crackles and pops. Pressing a kiss to his cousin's jaw, nuzzling the beard, over his neck. A hot kiss there, sucking a little. He's in the zone, like he gets with food, doing three things at once and all of them about getting Richie off.
"That good?" He asks stupidly. "Feels - feels pretty fucking good, your big dick."
no subject
"Yeah. Yeah, fuck cuz, it's wildly fucking good." Muttering right next to his ear, face half-buried in Carmy's curls, eyes closed as well.
"You feel so good doing that. Your hands on me. Fuck. I want you to touch me all the time."
no subject
Then he lifts his mouth and they're kissing again, Carmy all pliant tongue and eager hunger. He, too, is thinking about the possibility of their getting caught, turned on by it and also a little rushed by it, covering Richie's mouth with his own, speeding up his strokes.
He doesn't actually really have a plan for what to do when Richie comes, pressed close and not particularly careful.
no subject
He shudders and grits out a curse as he comes down, kissing Carmy clumsily in the aftershocks. His heart is racing and it feels like the fireworks cracking overhead are inside his skull, ringing in his ears.
"Fuck, cousin," he murmurs against Carmy's cheek. "Made a fucking mess."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)