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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
[Zephir gave Iggy a purpose when he made him a vessel for his growth; for the life that blossoms inside him, so lethal to the very life it inhabits and yet it finds a way, a parasitic way, to survive in there. He puts his hand to Iggy's chest, fingers seeking out the spot, to his best approximate. It's like listening for a pulse, but only one he seems to be able to hear.]
I can take away the purpose you were gifted. I can give you a new purpose.
[His hand smooths up, caressing Iggy's neck.]
Or I can help you forget for a bit. You can decide later.
no subject
He manages a smile.]
How will you make me forget?
no subject
[He says, like that helps clarify anything - he won't hide anything from Iggy, even if there'd be bliss in the ignorance. Instead he just caresses his cheek, reaching down to lift Iggy's thighs to properly seat him on the railing if he wasn't there already, spreading his legs to either side of him.
The snow has stopped sticking to the earth around them, water sizzling away when it hits dry earth in a circle around where they stand. There is no heat but there is no anything, a bubble of a perfect void both empty and full.]
You've drunk from him before, do you recall just how that made you feel?
no subject
He shrugs.]
Like... being stoned. Not in a bad way. It was very sensual.
Are you the same? Are you going to make me feel nice?
no subject
[He smiles; he thinks Iggy might enjoy it more, but who's to say. He seems to teeter on the line, staying just shy of being squarely in the middle. Death selfishly claims him as his, and wants nothing more than to pour into him more parts of himself.]
Or we can just fuck as humans do. I can make you feel nice that way.
no subject
Fuck it.
Show me your brand.
cw: dubcon mentions, bloodplay & potential emeto refs
He leans to tip up Iggy's chin, pressing a kiss to his lips - letting the viscous liquid slip into it, flowing like water into Iggy's mouth - bringing with it a cool chill followed by a certain type of serenity, a calming effect of utter certainty and a hollowed yet intense feeling of arousal. A void in need of filling type of feeling.]
cw: emeto refs
Iggy's throat works reflexively, drinking from what he supposes is a poison well. (Although it's one everyone must taste, the moment they're born.) He feels his nerves settle, and if he starts crying, what of it?
He tears his mouth away, coughing, gasping for air. But then Iggy presses spit slick lips back to Sullivan's, hooking bony hands into his shoulders and pulling him closer.]
Want you in me.
[A murmur broken by a shrill staccato of a laugh, quickly muzzled.]
Or is that something only your other half gets to do?
no subject
[He says with a wry smile, amusement even after licking away the blood smeared across Iggy's lips - hands roaming his body, two palms on his thighs and the feeling of more invisible hands stroking up Iggy's body from other angles. He smiles and it's tinged black from his blood, and his eyes seem to be unnaturally hollow as he leans in to kiss Iggy's neck. His hands are dutifully stripping him, like Sully is tending to a gift that needs unwrapping.]
Turn around for me, face the garden.
[Have yourself a nice view of falling snow while he's reaching around to put his hand on your cock, Iggy.]
cw: body horror, plant horror
Okay, but...
[He breathes deep, feeling terror alongside lust, sharpening it into something dangerous.]
You said your other half gave me a gift. And he did, but it's not for me. He said I was to tell you that. To tell you...
[Iggy presses back, ass grinding mindlessly. He realises with dismay that explaining what was done to him is getting him hard.
His voice is low, his words nearly running together in his haste to get them out.]
He cut me open. He put his hand inside me. I felt it. He put a... a seed in there. It was beautiful. It hurt so much, but it was so beautiful.
He said it was a gift, and that you must decide what you want to do with it.
[Iggy makes a tortured moaning sound as he grips the railing with both hands.]
Please. I feel strange.
no subject
[After pumping Iggy's cock a few times, feeling the way his body moves - pliant and easy - Sully leans back. His hips are still positioned to be against Iggy's ass, keeping him up against the railing, but he's lighting a new cigarette because he wants to hold the smoke in his mouth while they fuck. However he does not leave Iggy unattended, because the feeling of his hands remains on him.
One around his cock, slowly pumping from base to tip, and the other smoothly inserting a finger into his hole - completely solid sensation, yet if Iggy were to contort to look, he'd see nothing there.]
When a flower blooms, it's destined to wither. Do you want to bloom? I'll take care of you - it's up to you if you want to let life grow in you a little bit more before I take it from you.
no subject
Ah. I. I don't know. I'm not supposed to pick. He said... he said it was up to you.
[He thinks perhaps it's a cruelty, some game between Sullivan and Zephir that he can't begin to comprehend. He just knows that Sullivan's touch soothes his soul even as it sets his body alight.
His cock is hard and leaking already, his ass relaxing, welcoming the intrusion.]
no subject
[He already knows he's going to remove it - and what that entails - but he would be remiss not to give Iggy some say on the inbetween. He fingerfucks him, while also still enjoying his smoke, hips moving as if he was fucking him with his own cock instead of the unseen hands - of which there are four now, two already set in their motions and the other two caressing Iggy from neck to thigh.]
What's the worst pain you've ever experienced?
cw: body horror mention
Physically? I guess... being opened. By your other half.
no subject
[He asks like it's any kind of question to ask a stranger - but Death finds interest in the stories of people, distraction in their devastation and what they do to recover from it. He keeps up the attentive touch, pumping Iggy's cock faster, fucking into him with the girth of additional fingers. He even flicks his ashes away from Iggy, though he's staring at the median line of his back, like he can see something specific.]
no subject
Gratitude. That's what he focuses on instead of resentment. Pleasure instead of pain. Joy instead of sorrow.
Iggy drops his head, eyes squeezed tight. His thighs tighten, his hips jerk.
He doesn't want to talk about this right now. But he doesn't know how to say no.]
My mother. She cut me out of her life.
no subject
[The topic doesn't feel off limits to Sully, his tone even - curious, but otherwise monotone. He keeps working Iggy over, but the flame of his cigarette is burning down to the filter so he exhales his last breath slowly and watches the plume float up into the overcast sky.
Then he drops his gaze down on Iggy; hiking up his shirt with his actual hand, feeling no different than the rest. He stares at the exposed triangle of skin, before nonchalantly extinguishing his cigarette with a little burn just above the cleft of Iggy's ass. Just to watch him jolt.]
no subject
[He remembers the last time he saw her, her face carved into harsh, unforgiving planes. He doesn't want to think of it, of her, not when he's bent over a railing being spirit-fucked.]
I was sick of the dead. I wanted to live.
[Iggy's body jerks, and he utters a cry of pain. But he still doesn't try to get away. He puts his forehead against the hands he has on the railing. Tears escape closed lids, and spit drips from his open mouth.
He wants to come. Maybe it will end if he does. So he rolls his hips and chases the feeling, growing close in spite of the pain. So close.]
no subject
Sully shifts, unzipping his pants - he's decided on something, and decides it's best to lessen the use of those phantom hands and replace their girth with that of his cock. It slides into Iggy easy, at least to start, unburdened by friction but he groans lowly at the tightness of his hole before bucking in. A few pumps is all it'll take before he's resuming the same rhythm.
But where Zephir can reinvigorate, Sully can instead keep someone on the edge - pulling Iggy just moments shy of his orgasm, balancing him precariously in one spot while he fucks him.]
This will feel sweeter in the end, I promise. Tell me more about your mother. Your father. Your life and the death all around you.
no subject
Iggy is more used to the pain of others than he is his own. His function is to listen, to absorb. His own hurts are to be ignored. It makes responding honestly to Sully both excruciatingly difficult and oddly attractive because he can almost pretend that someone wants to hear it.
Iggy's voice is hushed, the words spoken quickly like he's frightened someone will overhear.]
My mother was my best friend. She taught me everything - all the natural mediums are on her side of the family. The women's side. They were so sure I'd be a girl. My father read books and comics in his youth that made him believe in magic. He's a theory guy, he can tell you about polarities. Dualities. 'Opposites are identical in nature, but different in degree.' Every truth is a half truth.
[Iggy clamps his mouth shut and moans loudly, lifting his head and adjusting his grip on the rail.]
Ah. I. I don't have a life. I knew the dead, as a child. My only playmate was a ghost. I miss her. I grew up and the living knew I didn't belong with them, they thought I was strange. I am strange. I ran away and I painted and I'd talk to people but I'd make it weird and I'd go home and I'd sit alone and fuck alone for strangers on the internet. People who want my body, people who are grieving in smaller ways and need someone to listen. So I listen.
I'm a support system. That's all.
I paint because nobody listens.
cw: goreeee?? body trauma, IDK StILL FEELS iLLEGal
[Like that matters - like that's helpful to say. But Sully doesn't say it to be cruel nor does he say it to be exceptionally kind. He says it to state it like a fact, just like someone about to instruct someone else sets them up to learn that they really do have a purpose. And Iggy's is more than just being a vessel - he's an anchor.
Sully continues to grind into Iggy, deep and forward thrusts that don't still or slow in pace. He still disallows him the ability to come, because he still needs one more thing from him first. Much like his other half, his abilities are vast - he drags a jagged black nail up the curve of Iggy's back and it feels like a cool droplet of water running in reverse.
He splits him open from the dip of his spine to mid-shoulderblades, peeling him open like a painless autopsy, all the while continuing to fuck him. Muscle parts away yet no pain or sensation arises, save for pressure of a cool gust of wind, the sensation of Sully's hand reaching into Iggy and rummaging through him like he's a purse and Death is looking for his chapstick.]
You're good at being a support, though. You breed positivity, even when surrounded by death and decay, the rot of humanity. What do you do when it builds in you? Don't you ever feel resentful?
no subject
Instead he makes soft gasping noises as he's rocked back and forth, grip on the railing relaxing, tightening, relaxing, tightening.]
Ah. I. Yes.
[Such is his shame at this admission that Iggy has to close his eyes while he makes it. But he cannot lie, not split open like this. (Oh, it's metaphorical, surely only that, surely the white knobs of his spine aren't on display, shining wetly like trumpery jewels.]
I ran. I'll run again, I think. When they don't need me anymore.
[Except he can't run here, he realises quite suddenly. He's spent months not quite mocking people who want to leave, wondering who would give up an easy life. But what will he do when he can't stand it anymore? When he's been here a year? Two years? Still haunted, still lonely.
Panic sets his heart beating too fast and he shifts, not quite pulling away.]
no subject
[Much like he needs to find this seed in Iggy, fingers finally finding the blossom - a pulse of energy not unlike Zephir that brings a soft moan to Sully's lips. Tapping into that essence makes him feel as if he's fucking Zephir too, clutching one hand to Iggy's hip to hold him down while his thrusts become erratic.]
Need to pull it out, root and stem.
[With a bloodied had in Iggy's guts, Sully closes his fingers around the seed - feeling the way its roots have weaved through Iggy from the inside, stretching out in an intricate web that was designed to breed life and yet was also potentially lethal to the host in question. Just like Death can be cruel or a welcome friend, life follows no particular path of right or wrong. They are the only two constants, existing in the grey in-between.
All those little webs wither, they die and retract, pulling away from Iggy's insides and disentangling themselves from all his organs. It all retreats into a single, brightly illuminated seed in his palm, which he has the most absurd desire to swallow, putting it to his lips after pulling it free. The relentless pounding of his thrusts into Iggy quickens, hits a crescendo - and when he comes, that wall holding Iggy back from release comes crashing down too.]
no subject
Is that the root of the issue? If it is, what can he do with that? He can't change his nature.
He comes almost in self defense. When his hips stop jerking he puts his head down and just sobs.]
cw: emeto
White, opaque liquid runs down his chin, his nose, from his eyes and ears. It falls like droplets on Iggy's back, dancing around the open wound - which he closes with a wave of his hand. The skin shifts back together, but doesn't heal. It holds together like it is invisibly stitched, at risk of being pried apart, but left to Iggy's body to heal like any other incision would in a day or six's time.
Sully coughs as he pulls out of Iggy, oily-black cum running down his thighs, in stark contrast to the white that still runs past Sully's lips even after he coughs out the seed again, putting it into his pocket after he's put away his cock. He's made a mess of Iggy and himself, wiping his eyes clear so he can see again.]
I've taken it back. Thank you.
(no subject)