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draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-11-09 08:00 am
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πππππ, πππππ, πππππ β£ NOV TDM
NOVEMBER 2024 TDM: RENAISSANCE
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."
2 GIRLS 1 CUP
CONTENT WARNINGS: nudity, potential for nsfw.
Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up βΒ new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know β you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.
Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.
On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.
Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes βΒ a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.
The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional β while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.
Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!
Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up βΒ new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know β you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.
Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.
On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.
Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes βΒ a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.
The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional β while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.
Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!
RING AROUND THE ROSEY
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential for nsfw.
The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.
Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking β or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering βΒ through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?
Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.
What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do βΒ kink up or shut up.
Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.
The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.
Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking β or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering βΒ through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?
Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.
What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do βΒ kink up or shut up.
Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.
DIRECTORY
cw: nsfw from here!
Did she want to stop? ]
Nope.
[ The edge of the tub is her support, distance patiently closed to continue into part number⦠something. Blame the steam for making her a little dizzy. (Making her malleable.) Eyes shut, lips parted to welcome his tongue, the hand on August's chest moves like she's mapping out his body, blindly committing it to memory: his shoulder, down to his waist, then his thigh, Cellar charts the warding wounds at her own pace, the smoothness where his skin hasn't been marked by fights. Maybe he'll tell her how far those memories go.
With one affectionate squeeze on his leg, Cellar shifts to feel his cock in her palm, pausing the kiss to watch how he responds, to see if he'll look at her the same way he did before. This position won't be terribly comfortable; her knees are already enduring the pressure and every part of her body above the hot bath wants to get away from the cold. She doesn't care. The slow and indulgent stroke from the base to the crown, softer as it comes up, makes a smile brush against his lips at a thought, betrayed by her shoulders: I can work with that. It's not quite laughter, but it might as well be. She never claimed to be mature. ]
no subject
he's already half-hard when she palms him, and his breath hitches, hips rolling up into her touch. she's pausing the kiss but all he wants is more, looking at her with what can only be described as pure desire. he's really regretting not having them get out of the tub first now, but that's neither here nor there.
he catches her shoulders shudder, and he's pausing now, half-grinning.]
Don't stop, [a sweet sigh against her lips, kissing the corner of her mouth.] that's good.
no subject
Finding balance on her knees, one hand pumps him slowly, thumb rubbing over the divot, while she reaches behind to pull the string of her bikini loose with the other. With the second string pulled over her head, she drops the top on the tile. His cheek is cupped next, lips reunited with an earnest, shameless noise. The water's temperature makes her chest sensitive; she can feel her heart beating faster, too, a different kind of heat pooling between her legs where the fabric already feels tight. ]
Touch me?
no subject
Yeah, [voice thick, rushed,] hold on to me, just a second-
[he brings her arms up around his neck, hating the absence of her touch but knowing this will help both of them in the long run, even if he has to make a bit of an adjustment. his left hand grips the edge of the tub while his right arm hooks beneath her thighs and lifts, then he's lifting himself enough to scoot them both closer to the middle of the tub, hoping she gets the picture to splay her legs out behind (or around) him.
his hand moves from her hips to her back to keep her balanced and he's leaning into her all over again, left hand gravitating back to her body and trailing from between her breasts and down her belly, teasing around the line of her bikini. they're close enough that his cock brushes against the fabric. his mouth is much less teasing, latching on to her neck with lips and teeth, tongue soothing over the areas he nips at.]
no subject
(Okay, so he's strong. That means she can picture him taking care of her, picking her up, holding her downβ)
Keeping her eyes off him is about as challenging as keeping her hands to herself, she finds. The proximity makes up for the seconds spent lacking, though, like their bodies were always meant to fit together, and Cellar would be chasing another needy kiss if August hadn't leaned in first, navel dipping as the beginning of an erection brushes against his shaft, polyester stretched with a gentle twitch.
The gasp is followed by a mirthful exhale, fingers buried in wet hair to keep his lips and teeth on her neck, hips pushing forward with a slow, curling roll. Her cheek rests next to his temple, loose grip on his arm giving it a shaky squeeze when she moans. She's already leaking, greedy for his touch and his mouth. ]
Pleaseβ
no subject
he breaths out his apology in a harsh whisper. it's too much, it's too fucking much. he hooks one finger right around where it connects at her hips and something sizzles under the milky water. he could have untied it, but he's acting on instinct and that seems like too much of a bother. a contrast to how he's losing himself along her body, the magic is controlled, the remaining piece of bikini dissipating until the fabric is completely gone.
it's then that he presses her in as close as their bodies will allow, hand wrapping around both their shafts to be stroked together with a low groan. he's resisting most of his temptations (all he can think about is being inside of her) and in their push and pull, his mouth moves lower to her collarbone, then her breasts, mouthing along wet skin. however she moves - forward, back - he holds her steady with his other hand against her back, a silent reassurance that he has her.]
no subject
Cellar forces herself to focus every time her imagination slips (βshe thinks about being grabbed, shoved down on her stomach, August's weight on her back and fucking her into the bed, fingers in her mouth to shut her upβ) weak at the sight of his lips on her nipple with a dazed frown. Breathing out, she comes down and brings his face up, meets him in the middle to graze teeth on his lower lip, tongue soothing the bite before she leans left for an insatiable, earnest kiss. This doesn't feel like their first time β or maybe that's just another fantasy. ]
What did you do?
[ A question asked with laughter, hips flexed into his grip. ]
no subject
her hands are pulling him away. with a lewd pop he's brought to meet her lips and he's kissing her just as he was kissing her body. maybe a little sloppy, but his mouth was watering at her skin that she so rudely took him away from. he doesn't answer her, only tightens his grip on the both of them, a choked moan right against her lips.]
What? [he rolls his hips, eyes half-lidded when he looks at her. getting a real answer out of him right now might be futile.] I wanted to feel you.
no subject
She laughs and kisses him again, sigh turning into a whimper, mouth hanging open with a worried frown; there's a gasp, hips snapping and holding β ]
Then feel me. Anywhere.
[ Her hand unwraps August's and replaces it without delay, a soft noise in her throat followed by another drop beading from her dick, squeezing them at the base, grip loosening as it strokes upward. Cellar abandons herself so she can map the full length of August's cock, palm cupped and rolling gently over the head, thumb circling the slit. ]
no subject
he murmurs an incomprehensible word under his breath and his freed hand is reaching around her, open palm and greedy fingers gripping into her ass. without her mouth distracting his, he leaves a trail of kisses down her neck. even beneath water, it's easy to tell how much he's dripping, especially with her thumb pressed along the slit, his cock throbbing.
'anywhere'.]
I like the sound of that.
[is what he means to say. part of it comes out in the tongue he grew up on: French. he doesn't notice. if he did, he notices even less when he rubs his forefinger against Cellar's entrance, pressing inside of her.]
no subject
Long strokes shift the foreskin over the head, gathering and spreading anything he leaks like it's instinct. It twitches in her hand, drives her a little insane, heat pooling with another release of precome that smears against his cock; under her breath, Cellar urges him to keep pressing inside. Asks for more. ]
no subject
he wants to open her up, creates a tantalizing rhythm that he somehow manages to keep steady even as she palms his cock. each stroke warrants more tightness in his chest, breathing shallow and occasional desperate sounds being silenced by his mouth on her skin. his thoughts trail down a dangerous path; no matter how much he wants to come he knows he can't. not like this, not when she's tight around his finger and if he works her wide enough he'll get something better.
he's not chatty, never has been. yet with her wrapped around him, he's open. he sheds parts of himself to be seen by her, possibly parts that aren't ever seen by the light of day. she has all of his attention, mind never straying. kindness, if it can be called that, as he curves his finger to delve deeper with a second one right on its heel. the position makes it harder for him to find her prostate, but that doesn't mean he won't. he wants to give her whatever she wants.]
no subject
Breathless, tilting her body forward, fingers relaxing to massage his scalp before they're tight in his hair again, her hand stops before she remembers to keep working his cock, coaxing any and every reaction she can get. The thought of being on his bed comes back; she wants his weight on her back, to be loud enough to make him shut her up, but stopping now would almost be worse than the gratification. Almost. ] Fuckβthereβ