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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
[ He's caught her by surprise, he's aware of that much, but she doesn't shy away from him either, doesn't make efforts to deny him access. Instead, her head lolls, baring more of that vulnerability to him, and it's all he can do not to bury his face in her throat with a possessive snarl, sink his fangs into that rapidly pulsing vein to make her arch against him. It's been some time, he thinks, since he's hunted, set a trap for the feeding, but even that feels like the wrong thing to call whatever this is between them β her ability to hypnotize him by merely existing, and his willingness to satisfy her by whatever means he's capable of.
His open hand settles on her hip, sliding over the soft fabric of her dress, before fingers curve inward, establishing a firmer hold β not to control her, or direct her, but to indulge in the pleasure of touching her, of feeling how slight she is beneath the cupping of his palm.
He bends low over her again, the strands of his hair brushing against the juncture between her neck and shoulder β and when he kisses her skin again, he does bury himself more definitively, tonguing over the flutter of her pulse, nipping with the blunt edges of teeth rather than pointed fangs just yet. ]
Do you taste this sweet all over, ma foudre?
no subject
[ Lauralae is getting more accustomed to the strangeness of this - of people finding her and desiring her, of them wishing to wrap their arms around her and draw her close. It is soft, sometimes, as it had been the first time, but it can be rough and deadly too. She does not know which she prefers, if the sweetness that others give her is something she desires, or if the harsh touch is lustful or a punishment.
It is hard to know either way, when all of these things are so foreign to her. Slow change is better than none, however.
As Lestat's mouth trails over her skin, as his teeth scrape over her, Lauralae makes a soft noise, a quiet moan, allowing him to move her, manipulate her, place her wherever he might like. If she wished to throw him off she could, she thinks, has magic enough to urge him away and the power to turn into a bird to flutter off, but - but. She does not want to.
Lauralae wants him to bite her, wants to feel her blood trail over her, to feel the bite of pain and the hurt of it. It makes something inside of her burn, warmth between her legs as she tries to catch his gaze. ]
I have been told my taste is a good one.
no subject
She's softening against him, any initial apprehension she might have possessed dissolving slowly but surely beneath the gentle presses of his lips. The bite will be less soft, a sweetly puncturing pain, but he sees no reason to pursue it immediately. He wants her eager for it, requesting it, so that he can give her exactly what she's asking for.
Her admission, quiet as it is, prompts a momentary chuckle from his end. ]
Have you? By another?
[ It piques his curiosity, the question of whether she has been sampled by another vampire here and who it might have been β not Louis, surely, since his preferences lie elsewhere, but he's not ruling out any of the others. He feels a keener desire, then, to learn her taste for himself, the part of him that still occasionally falls prey to competing with Armand, even after all this time. He lips against her throat, then reaches around her smaller frame to lightly grasp underneath her chin, keeping her gaze on his. ]
Where did he drink from you? [ Only one of the vampires here is a woman, and he feels relatively confident in ruling Caroline out of the mix. ]
no subject
She wonders if he can sense it, recognise it in her, the need for more that she cannot quite find the words to express.
Even so, the bite is not enough. She wants more: the flush of her blood, the sting of fangs, the mark. Some animal part of her wants to be scarred by someone who loves her enough to claim her as their own.
Eyes flickering, briefly, she nods. ]
Armand.
[ With her eyes forced to focus on him, Lauralae watches, intent and needy. Her fingers lift, pulling the sleeve of her dress up to bare her skin, the blackness stopping just around her elbow. There she digs her nails in, to the pale flesh above the curse, to where she had been so delicately consumed. ]
Here.
no subject
The extent of blackened flesh is another point of intrigue; she hasn't initiated touch between them, so he is less certain whether that part of her is tainted somehow. From the looks of things, it could very well be a sort of witch's curse; the ones he is regrettably familiar with would easily be capable of inflicting something like this on a person, whether deserved or as a more vindictive consequence. ]
And you enjoyed it?
[ His hand joins hers, above the bend of her elbow, touching the place she indicates; his voice is still low, like a secret shared between them alone.]
A part of you craved it, even while it was already happening?
no subject
Now she is struggling with what that means for her, in the future.
The touch of this man inspires something similar. It is two predators coming together, something dark sparking between them, the knowledge that either of them could bite and tear and come out the other side content, rather than truly harmed. ]
Yes. I enjoyed it, seeing my blood spilled, seeing him take it and enjoy it. [ There's a flush to her cheeks, now, heating up the paleness of her. ] And he gave me his, too. It was...
[ Perfect. ]
no subject
[ The feed is an intimate act in itself, but a vampire allowing someone to drink from them in return can be a euphoric experience, one that has the power to heal any wound left behind while creating a conduit of sensation. Some vampires are not that considerate, more intent on selfishly satisfying their own hunger and caring little for any enjoyment; others only pursue the hunt and culminate it with a quick and efficient kill. These days, Lestat drinks less overall, but that means he is more likely to do so for the sake of pure enjoyment than necessity. ]
But it seems a shame to waste a single drop of your blood.
[ His other hand begins to gather up the tantalizing skirt of her dress, trying to make its way through the sheer folds so that he can roam over the soft skin of her thigh, lightly grazing with the sharp points of his nails. ]
There is a vein here, near to where you are softest, that's especially sweet to drink from. [ He leans forward, so that his lips tease against the shell of her ear. ] But it tastes sweetest right after you've experienced la petite mort.
no subject
[ Lauralae does not know the depth of what it means, to feed a vampire and then be fed from them in return, but she enjoyed the experience. It warmed her body, flooded her, made her feel something that had abandoned her in the midst of that night, in the midst of being locked away and shoved in a corner of her own making. She had been a monster, then, but Armand had been kind to her, sweeter than she deserved.
There is no part of her that resists his touch, that protests as his hand slides up to find the warmth of her body under her skirt. She even wriggles, shifting a little to help ease his way, her eyes dark as she watches him. Her hands drop, adjusting them, tugging them up so that he can get to what he wants - what she wants. She burns for him, and what she wants...
Breathless, she sinks into him, careful of her hands. ]
I do not know what that means. Those words. [ She thinks she has an idea, at least, and it makes her bite her lip, digging her small fang in to summon a burst of her blood. ] But I am willing. For all of it. Please?
no subject
[ It's not a request, but more of an order as it leaves Lestat's lips β he would never call himself particularly kind or even all that considerate, but somehow it feels important to give this little waif of a thing some say in the matter, even if it only amounts to her directing the placement of his hands, his mouth.
There's no sense in using rough handling, either, not when she's already so pliant for his touch, so responsive to everything he's initiated. His hand is cooler by contrast as it finds the more intimate parts of her body, roaming from outer to inner thigh and savoring the warmth that accompanies that slide.
His gaze drops to her lips, finds that drop of blood beading up, and that, paired with the softness of her plea, renders her irresistible. He cants forward to seize her mouth with his own, tongue sweeping over that fresh blood, unable to suppress his own quiet groan as he sucks on her lower lip a little, wanting to earn more of her taste beyond that mere drop. ]
no subject
[ It appeals to her, being given this choice, and she is honest in her response. It is only her arms that cause her pain or ill feeling, and elsewhere on her body is fine enough for her. Nowhere else is sore, or aching, or the cause of agony, and it means she can feel free to allow Lestat to take what he wants from her - because there is some pleasure in that, in permitting him to do what he might like.
She enjoys the sensation of losing her control a little, of her eyes being drawn to another seeking pleasure and knowing she has been capable of offering it.
Tilting her head into his kiss is easy, her smaller body pushing forward to chase after his lips, humming with pleasure at the knowledge that it is her blood that is pleasing him so. When they pause so that she can catch her breath, her fingers flex with the urge to touch that she resists, tilting her head and leaning closer instead. ]
You may bite me as you please, if that is your pleasure. I enjoy it.
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[ It might be a loaded question, too loaded, and Lestat does not want to risk spoiling the mood, but he also wants to understand this little sprite in his arms, to know what she must endure. There is a longer story behind that marking, he is certain, but he won't insist on hearing it now, especially if he can offer her something to counter whatever discomfort she already experiences.
His eyes are notably darker, though, as the kiss breaks, as she draws the necessary breaths to continue on β so dark that it seems as though the pupil has completely swallowed the iris, leaving no traces of color left behind. His fangs haven't fully descended yet, though his lips are parted, his gaze hungrily dipping to her mouth again. ]
I will bite you at your pleasure, mon petit lutin. But first...
[ His hands drop to the inward dip of her waist, and with an effortlessness, he hoists her up, maneuvering her so that she's seated atop the altar instead of standing before it, before he drops to his knees before her, his hands beginning to gently push up her skirts. ]
A different taste.
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She is anticipating it, warm and wet between her legs, dark eyes gazing at him as she gasps for breath. ]
Only when touched. Or when I touch another. I have been given means of easing the pain, but some enjoy it.
[ Her fingers flex, unsure where to put them, before she goes to help him curl her skirts around her waist and out of the way of his questing touch, to give him the space and room he needs to settle without issue. ]
At your leisure.
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[ No doubt she has, if she speaks of it here and now, but Lestat finds that he already enjoys listening to her voice, the musicality in it, and he certainly doesn't want her to stop now β even if he suspects she might be distracted from speech in very short order.
For the moment, his attention is primarily drawn to the pale white skin of her bare thighs, as she assists him in lifting up her skirts, drawing the gauzy fabric up to her waist so that there is little to hinder him in his goal β one that would ultimately see her crying out in pleasure, rather than pain, on top of this very altar. ]
Good girl. [ Though he's also willing to take his time, which might become apparent as he ducks his head to press his lips against the inside bend of her knee β soft and gentle, yet still full of intention, before his kisses begin to trail upward and inward simultaneously, ascending over her thigh and encouraging her to open her legs for him in the process. ]
Your scent... it is enough to make one's mouth water, ma foudre.
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[ Her response is soft, a little hoarse, as she listens to him speak. Even his voice feels addictive, makes her want more of him, but she has to stop herself from completely falling apart like some kind of virginal maiden. She might not have a lot of experience, but she knows better than to slide into his arms and give herself over without offering something in return. ]
I have played at it with other people, and I have been gifted it in return. I enjoyed it. The sting. Bites. All of it.
[ Pain had been a deadly thing to her before, something to shun and be afraid of, but so many people in this place responded to it so perfectly that all she was capable of was giving into it. It made her feel warm, flushed, buzzing with her own desire - so why ignore it?
So many people want her for it. Is that her use, perhaps? ]
I - I do not speak that language. I do not know what you call me.
[ But her legs open all the winder, and her fingers flex, her hips rocking forward a little. ]
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[ Lestat would be lying if he claimed he does not reach for pain in the right circumstances. He wouldn't consider himself much of a masochist, nor does he derive a sadistic pleasure from hurting others too greatly, but there can be a rather fine line between viciousness and knowing when to utilize pain to its most arousing potential. ]
It doesn't need to hurt, now.
[ His hands are cool as his touch smooths over the inside of her thigh, a soft and intimate place all its own that gives way to where she is already wet, her scent intoxicating even before he nudges his nose against her cunt and inhales, deeply. ]
"My lightning." For the magic that crackles so brightly in you.
[ And then he puts his mouth to her, lips parting for his tongue to drag over her folds in a long, blatant stroke, acquiring his first real taste β a soft groan of approval docking in his throat before he licks at her again, in a clear savoring. If her blood is anything like this, he's already done for, but he's always enjoyed having his head between a woman's legs, and this is proving to be no exception. For the moment, however, he's paying close attention to the sounds she makes, letting them dictate the pace of his tongue over her, or where he lingers a bit longer. ]
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[ The ever present notion in her mind of the importance of consent, of what Matthew had drilled into her. Perhaps one day she might graduate to safe words, to finding herself in a position to give up all her control without hesitation, but she has not graduated to it yet. Instead, she watches Lestat, her expression softening, warming.
She would say more, her mouth opening and her tongue ready for words, but then he is making his magic between her legs.
It is blissful; it has been, before, when others have touched her, but there is something primal about it. The two of them have a kind of the monstrous about them, and it means that there's an edge of something deadly and feral, something that makes her heart leap as she gasps out a soft noise. Even as she holds her hand away, wishing not to offer harm, not wanting to pain him - not this time, not unless he asks it of her.
Lauralae wants this bliss, to feel chosen, wanted,and she cannot smother the words that burn inside of her.
Leaning back, she legs her hips roll, rocking into his touch, into the press of his tongue, seeking. She is utterly at his mercy, and enjoying each moment of it. ]
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[ Lestat spares a pause for that assertion β not only because he desires the satisfaction of knowing he's pleasing her as it happens, but because he doesn't want her to feel compelled to hold back out of nerves, or apprehension of causing offense. He'd much rather know, with certainty, that she's enjoying what he's doing, to hear her pleasure spilling out of her unbridled.
But then she gasps, and all higher thought seems to fly out of his head. Her thighs are soft, and he doesn't want to mark them unless she's intent on wearing the bruises his fingers press into them; instead, he spreads his hands over them, anchoring himself to her without hindering the movements she makes. He doesn't want to stifle any of those little lifts of her hips, the way she pushes herself up into the strokes of his tongue over her, clearly seeking more. How can he do anything other than satisfy her every need?
Yet some of this is for him, too, the manner in which he licks at her, exploring over and between her delicate folds, parting them like flower petals to drink the nectar that trickles even more freely the more aroused she becomes. He intends to make her come like this, of course, but he's also familiarizing himself with the sweet-musky taste of her as his tongue maps her intimate flesh.
Every now and then, he pays more direct attention to the more sensitive bundle of nerve endings β licking, or sucking at it, to see whether her hips move differently. But right now, he's solely focused on prolonging every sensation she experiences, since this is partly for him too β the way his cock strains at the front of his trousers serving as clear evidence of just how much he's enjoying this on its own. ]