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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
weeps... im slow too also cw brief allusion to violence/abuse
Right from the start of the forest. The so-called wizard may his ass break out in boils kitted me out. Trust me, I would have donned a cute flower crown over this if I had a choice. Don't you think it'd have suited me, tee hee?
[ He folds his hands together and tucks them along his cheek like wao, adorable! β¨. Splattercon had some kawaii-ass nerds making cutesy poses, and his sharp memory happens to drag one kicking to the forefront at the most embarrassing possible moment.
The bridle's a solid piece, shimmering bright as a lure. The reins fall like gleaming water, draping across Louis's knuckles as if an artifact begging to be used properly. To be drawn into a fist, to guide a wild animal to heel. Harry's own eyes flick to the altar, following the line of the other man's curiosity. FMK games aren't usually what he's playing, but he knows about them because of his former college-kid werewolf clan, as well as Molly's valiant attempts at educating him on Normal Teenager experiences he never got to have. ]
β seriously though. Louis, I'm thinking we're stuck in it now. A whole "difference between using a feather and using a chicken" situation.
[ Maybe it's why he moves his hand with methodical purpose, to slide his fingers around that handsome wrist and coil his fingers into the other's palm. ]
I would like to think we're already becoming friends. Don't need magic to dictate that.
no subject
That's the problem, isn't it? Pretty sure we were already friends before this. Not like you exactly bring books to your enemy while they're in prison, after all.
[ and that's the crux of it. friends. marry. kink. and the fey and magic of this place seem to have already pre-determined what exactly it is they want out of harry. so louis brings his other hand up, sliding it along the fine metal of the bridle, following the lines of the reins, knuckles brushing against the side of harry's neck to his shoulder, fingers lightly laying there. ]
Not sure they're gonna give us much choice as to how we get you outta this thing. Flower crown would have been easier, though.
[ he gives harry's fingers a tug, pulling his hand to rest on his side. ] So we got a couple options. Which one makes most sense to you? And if you wanna, then we'll give it a shot.
[ never mind that the haze of magic, the lulling pull of something he doesn't know and cannot stop, has him glancing down at harry's mouth. he's handsome, he's smart, and despite all their early misgivings? he's kind. ]
no subject
Yeah. We are friends, aren't we.
[ Later on, he'll remember this moment when speaking to someone else: " we don't need to know anything more than that we're willing and it's hard ".
He'd walked in, ready and loaded to deal with every vampire in the house like a hostile weapon. Now, he's standing by an altar β studiously ignoring it β leaning down into Louis's space and thinking about how, if he really tries, he might smell the scent of old books on the tips of his fingers. The draw of magic that has him fitting his hand to Louis's waist and lowering his head down, the metal of the bridle ringing like a delicate bell. ]
β I can't marry you. It's not you, promise.
[ That leaves the third option. The one he figures was a choice made for him, like Louis was saying. ( Like most choices were, long before he was born. )
Louis, who's more sensitive than not. Horrified by his body being used to kill, tender with his books and eager to talk. All faint accent that reminds Harry of his youngest years spent in the back of a station wagon, shuttled back and forth across state lines; an accent that makes him want to lean down and just, tuck his mouth to Louis's slow and firm. Maybe he can taste the world he's from there, like that. Stir up an old memory from when he was young, swinging his feet on a bench somewhere in NOLA while his dad ripped apart something rich and spicy and fed it to him bit by bit while they watched the streets come alive and pay his dad mind while he did some magic tricks for the price of the gas it'd take to get them one step further. ]
My safe word's "ravioli", by the way. [ he's so unserious
At least until he reaches both hands down β smoothing them across Louis's waist, before taking the backs of his thighs into his grasp, to lift the other up and press him back against one of the nearest trees. Bad horse. ]
no subject
[ not like this, not in this place. a vampire marriage can be so different anyway, and though he calls armand husband nothing binds them but their history and their many, many years staying linked together.
up close like this he looks down at the bridge, the line of harry's nose, his stubbled jaw, the hard set of his mouth. one that had been full of vitriol before but one now he looks at and considers what the words of the gifted books would sound like on his tongue. yes, this place is doing something to make the decrepit chapel feel warmer but he doesn't seem to notice the very moment harry's hands smooth along his waist.
it's always been erotic in its own right to feel the press of broad hands there, and he allows the tug at his thighs, back hitting the tree eliciting a low, rumbling moan. his arms come up out of habit, wrapping around harry's neck, his back arching once they're there, pressing their bodies closer, grinding his ass against the other's hips. ]
Ravioli, huh? Mine's praline. Come here.
[ he won't use it, won't need it, and chose this word on the spot for this moment. a new orleanian delicacy, a sweet he longs to remember the taste of. instead he chases it in harry's mouth, closing the distance and biting first with blunt teeth at the swell of his lip before kissing him, uncaring if he comes back tasting metal and harry twined together. ]
no subject
There's just the warmth in the atmosphere, the weight of Louis's body that he can hold so effortlessly β not because he's strong enough as a human, but because there's Sidhe frost burnt into him soul-deep, a Mantle of power draped across his soul that he can tug on. Harry doesn't grow cold, around nonhumans. Not as frenetic and desperate for them, even though his hunger as he licks across Louis's blunt teeth curiously ( oh, how polite of him! ), before digging his way into that wanting mouth.
His fingers dig harder into the backs of his thighs, pulling him apart like something soft and pliable, to wedge his own narrow hips into the space he's molding for them. The rattle of the reins and the bridle hinder him from kissing too deeply, a frustrating thing that has him hissing faintly as metal bit clatters across his molars and keeps his straining tongue from twining around Louis's. ( He can feel the altar reaching for them; ivy twining up the back of his shoulders towards the reins, as if to drag them back and keep him straining, an untrained horse seeking what it wants instead of being precisely what is wanted of it. ) ]
no subject
You taste like ice and gold.
[ a cool, white-hot sort of spice laced with the tang of metal, not unlike the sweet syrup of blood on his tongue. his hands slide down his crown, his nape, his shoulders, reaching for the bridle being pulled by ivy and magic and giving it a soft tug of his own. ]
Wants us up there.
[ the altar - that's where this needs to happen. ] Let me take care of you. [ a soft huff, his mouth moving to find harry's jaw, nipping and kissing and sucking. marking in a way vampires don't. in a way that doesn't leave him blood or punctured. he finds a tender spot beneath harry's ear where the strap of the bridle falls and has rubbed the skin and he sucks hard, working it with his devilish tongue. ]
Only way to get this off. Fucking house. [ a hoarse little moan falls from his lips as one arch of his hips brings his burgeoning hard-on dragging against harry's fly. ]