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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
no subject
It's a good question, actually. Given what he's been through lately, why isn't he freaked out about this? Is he repressing things? (Probably.) Matt concludes what he always does, where this sort of play is concerned: It's not what happens. It's whether he wants it to happen. ]
Don't worry, [ he murmurs, wry. ] You'll know. [ That actually sounds kind of ominous, and not everybody appreciates fire as a safe word, so Matt redirects. ] Uhh, though there's a code we use where I'm from, to communicate comfort. I don't know if you have anything like it--it's three colors. Green for good, yellow for wait, red for stop.
[ His breath catches, cheeks flushing slightly, and the golden bauble deepens to a verdant green. ]
Like that.
no subject
[ But this works just as well. Better, actually. His eyes flicker to the light, and then down to Matt. ]
Do you enjoy pain? Or Temperature?
[ He asks it carefully, his fingers hovering over him even still. He reaches out to press his legs next, each one, leaving his hands braced against the back of the altar, and his knees locked onto the other edge, unable to move. ]
I can... do more than hold you down with my ability. [ It's half an explanation, half a promise. He reaches up, to manipulate the veins in his leg, letting it go numb, before he stops, and it flooded back to life again. ]
no subject
[ It's a practical concern, technically; and yet Matt's smile has a hint of mischief in it.
The expression fades in favor of considering Heinrix's question--of considering the way he finds himself moving, again, effortless as a dream, before he's once more locked into place. He's spread out across the altar now, hands a little behind him and legs hooked over the stone edge. Arranged like an offering or object of veneration. ]
I like both, [ Matt admits. He exhales. ] Not to like, an extreme extent, but those heightened sensations can be--
Oh. [ That's for the numbness in his leg, the sudden not-feeling. Matt's gaze drops to the spot, sensation already flowing through again by the time he lands on it. He looks back to Heinrix, fascinated. Almost craving. What he really wants to ask for is for hours of this, plucking every note his blood and breath and muscle can be made to sound. Please, he wants to say, just make me feel like I can't leave my body. ]
Pain feels like a good start, [ he concludes. ] Can you do the opposite, too? Stimulate arousal?
cw: reference to torture
That being said: ]
Would you like that?
[ His tone was... surprisingly hesitant. Like it was something not commonly done. ] I am... able to do so, yes. It's a simple thing, really.
[ Just a nudge, a demonstration. He could tweak the information in the thalamus, lift his hormones, and...
Matt would feel it. Maybe just a nudge of it, but nothing to be too overt, or difficult to calm immediately, if he didn't like that. ]
no subject
He's barely gotten the yes out when he feels the shift. Slight uptick in the pulse, th-thump of his heart. It's a familiar feeling, a welcome one, and Matt leans into it: letting his breath catch in his throat, his eyes lidding heavily as his lashes flutter. ]
That's nice, [ he affirms. His hands try to reach for Heinrix, but they're still frozen in place. Matt huffs a laugh, a bit breathless now. ] I'd like it if you did it again.
no subject
[ His voice is a touch more pleased, surprised, though. He isn't used to people being so... willing to feel his psychic abilities. Most of the time, they came from a place of need or force at best. Even the Rogue Trader always seemed to look at him for a long moment, wary, when the air went chill, or when the dancing figures of the warp moving too close to reality for his own comfort.
His fingers hovered over his thigh, a warm flush rising over the meat of him, the blood flowing out, the blood flowing in, he lifted his fingers, to the internal iliac, the rush of blood running south. He smiled, and it's... a little shy. He ducked his head, slightly. The rush of that sensation in his hormones, in the thalamus flushed up again.
He's probably feeling pretty damn good right about now. ]
Most people are... rather frightened, you know. Of us. Psykers.
officially nsfw
Oh.
[ There.
Matt squirms, at least as much as he can with his hands and knees held in place, hips shifting against the altar's stone. His lashes flutter closed at the sensations Heinrix plucks from him, but he quickly forces them back open. He doesn't want to miss any of this. ]
A lot of people are scared of witches. [ His voice is a touch huskier now, as he watches Heinrix's face. His responses harmonize: tenderness for that shy expression, heat for the flare of chemicals in his body. Matt's cock has started to stiffen, with all the eagerness of youth and burning hotter from the knowledge that it's something Heinrix is doing to him. ] But I think anyone can be, um, trustworthy or not. It's not about--
[ A sigh, as he tries to take a steadier breath. ]
Capabilities.
hehehe
[ His voice is calm, but there's the air of instruction to it. His hands move over his thighs, and the flush of warmth takes there as well. Even so, there is a chill in the air. It is as if the temperature has dropped a few degrees. Heinrix's breath is visible in the air. Matt won't feel it at all.
The heat in his legs and against his cock seems to throb in time with his heartbeat, as he syncs all of it up, lets everything move in tandem, controlling bodily function was easy, and it does it all near automatically, he just... nudges it into perfect time. ]
You see, I touch you with my power, the center of all chaos and destruction of man. I do this for our pleasure, but I bring you close to that, even still.
But do not worry. I have spent a great many years, and know my limits explicitly.
[ His smile is still shy, a touch flushed. ]
But I would be remiss to not share with you the danger.
no subject
He doesn't mind that teacherly tone at all, not right now. He's of half a mind to argue, or at least seek clarity. What about creation? But another pulse of heat throbs through him, and instead of saying words, Matt lets out a soft moan. ]
Well, [ recovering, ] anything worth doing has risks. I think. [ Matt flicks a glance down to find his hands and knees as obediently placed as before, his erection tenting his trousers. Needy, he shifts what he can: grinds his hips, stretches his neck. Gives an appealing tip of his head in Heinrix's direction. Their eyes meet, and he finds he can't pursue any thaumaturgical argument--even if he could rely on himself to string coherent thoughts together. Matt's expression warms from fascination to affection. ] Will you kiss me?
no subject
He feels shame, for enjoying this β because using his power to have such control over someone shouldn't be pleasurable, but it is. He enjoys the coy way the boy dips his head, even as he speaks blasphemous phrases. Well, he hardly knows what he says, to speak like that. Perhaps Heinrix will teach him, someday. ]
Gladly, yes.
[ He reached out with a hand to place it on his cheek, leaning in to press lips to his, it is gentle, and chaste to start. As if he is testing the waters. His lips are cold, not-quite as cold as ice, and he pressed his other hand to his thigh, a touch that seemed to be like a conduit, a place where everything seemed to flow, before he directed sensation as he chose. The warmth spreading to all his limbs, to his groin, to everything. Like he was on fire β not quite to the point of burning. ]
no subject
The contrast between them sears. Matt's hips strain again, as he tries for both friction and a firmer touch of Heinrix's hand. He moans into his mouth, eager to drink in that cold that pierces the heat within him, but doesn't douse it.
Brilliant man. So thoroughly equal and opposite. Perfect as a dyad, balanced as a virtuous scale. Matt can't help thinking of the Vedic accounts that paint Soma and Agni, moon and sun, as lovers. Joined in operation ye have set up the shining lights in heaven flickers through his mind, a blissful, desperate prayer.
Finally, he has to breathe, and breaks off shuddering. ]
Please, [ he says. He's not sure exactly what he's asking for, except more. ]
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He reaches out with his hand, hovering over his cock, before he lightly places a finger against the tip, smearing the end with a gentle touch, teasing.
Perhaps it's a touch cruel, to tease him like this. But Heinrix was an inquisitor. Cruelty was his bread and butter, despite what he may say. It was built into his everything. He could only do what he knew, and dragging this out felt good.
He enjoyed it. Of course he did.
This was a sweeter torture than the ones he usually offered. ]
Better?
[ he asked, against his lips, scraping teeth and tongue against him. ]
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Fuck, [ Matt moans. He didn't think about how crazy it'd drive him to not be able to touch his partner. That is, it crossed his mind. But the full scale of it, the wild helplessness in his immobile fingers--that's just beginning to sink in. Matt wants to whine. He wants to beg again, perhaps with more specifics. He wants to Agni and Soma, be ye pleased with these oblations brought to you, and come together nigh to us--
He nips at Heinrix's lip. It's not a protest so much as arousal seeking the easiest outlet, an ache to make Heinrix feel something that even comes close to what Matt does. Matt gulps down a lungful of air, and this time, he holds the breath a moment. Releases it slowly, aiming to loosen the control that's keeping his hands still. ]
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Are you asking for something?
[ His fingers drift downward, to circle his cock, and pull it with a slow, deliberate stroke. ]
I haven't stilled your mouth, have I?
[ Is he chastising him for failing to ask? Why yes, he is. He is not helping the "Daddy" allegations, here. ]
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The stroke Heinrix gives him, hypnotically slow, is at once exactly what he's craving and not nearly enough. His cock practically pulses in Heinrix's grip as Matt pushes into the ring his fingers make.
Heinrix says are you asking. Says I haven't stilled your mouth. Matt's breath hitches, the sound of it almost aggrieved. But rather than arguing (or asking, for that matter), Matt aims another kiss at Heinrix's lips. He wants to sink into this one, to arch into it until he's left a stamp of his mouth on the other man's. Finally, when he can't kiss anymore and has to breathe: ]
I want to touch you.
[ It's half-muffled against his mouth. Matt's not willing to pull away from Heinrix and give up a point of contact. But even with that, he can't disguise how plaintive he sounds. ]
I want to make you feel good too. [ A quicker, softer kiss, then another. ] I'm good at it.
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Ah, but would that remove the kink from the equation?
[ He's not cruel, though, he lets his hand release β the left β and he picked it up with his free hand, holding it instead. He, too, feels the pressure between them. His hand still moving in lazy motions, his breath caught occasionally, like chilled bursts from a dying air conditioner. He's feeling heavy, and uncomfortable in his trousers, but he can wait. He's a very patient man. ]
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[ It's hard to make sarcasm sting when you're as aroused as Matt is. The words come out on fluttering notes, his thoughts too scattered to land sharply. Still, he does his best. Suddenly, his hand flies free, and Heinrix plucks it up as gallantly as if they're about to fucking gavotte somewhere. His touch makes Matt shiver. He sighs his gratitude into Heinrix's mouth, pressing hot fingers into his chill ones. Matt's thumb brushes Heinrix's hand, and his fingers flex against Heinrix's, greedy to touch every inch he's being given.
At a particularly maddening stroke to his cock, Matt gasps, meeting the cold hitch of Heinrix's breath with his own steam. His fingers rub into the cradle of Heinrix's palm, then aim to lace with his. ]
'Sgood, [ he murmurs into his mouth. ] Please don't stop.