πππππππππ ππππ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburntmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
Entry tags:
ππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JAN TDM
JANUARY 2025 TDM: IMMORTALITY
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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. 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."
8-BALL
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, nsfw.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
NEW YEAR, NEW ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: homophobia, misogyny, implied grooming, cultural insensitivity.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
DIRECTORY
OBERYN MARTELL, game of thrones; current player, new character.
β β β WELCOME
His vision is askance and doubled, and it takes Oberyn a moment to find the same shape of the maid, walking away from the curtains still speaking in the same far-off muffled way. On his elbows he stays for some time until he notices the silver tray and places words he can scarcely remember: medicine for your head, Oberyn is trying to filter through the debilitating throb in his skull but doesn't trust this place, his recollections of it, and his last point of comparison - the arena, and The Mountain. He leaves the pills where they lay, distrustful of anything not crafted or purchased by his own hand, but he takes the glass of water holds it under his nose for a smell, examines the glass, and puts a pinky finger into the liquid before deeming it appropriate and drinking from it like a man starved and struck and the excess liquid pours down the front of him.
He's still sporting a damp coat front when he wanders down the hall in the direction of melting butter and salty meat. Breakfast, despite the churning in his head and the floating of his own feet, makes him feel ravenous and he piles high what he can of fruit, vegetables, tea, and honey until the plate is stacked high. He dips the individual fruit into honey, using it as a remedy for what ails him in place of the medicine that had been left. He consumes, with little regard for those around him and only lifts his head once in a while when another person manages to enter the dining area. He'd get to the bottom of things once he'd had his fill, not particularly put together wearing some of his current feast, sporting untidy and unkempt hair and a tell-tale wince of needing the cure he's looking for. ]
β β β 8-BALL : 13 ; CW: POTENTIAL SMUT
I:
Parties meant people, people meant information, this much Oberyn was intimately aware of but truth be told, he also enjoyed the debauchery and despite the opulent environment around him he couldn't be bothered to dissuade anyone from the dancing and fornication. It simply wasn't in his nature, he does play voyeur to it, and inevitably despite his lack of experience in such a different kind of masquerade more parallel to his time at the brothels than any gala he gives himself over to it, the strange new ballads, the proactive dancing, the solid liquor, the drugs β everything. ]
II:
What kind of old magic is this?
[ His clothes vanishing does nothing for his confidence, or ego, there's no shame really just irritation and that irritated like dissipates when the triangle reveals itself: ]
Fuck without getting caught.... Who would mean to catch us?
β β β CHOOSE YOUR OWN
ii
It's new magic to me, [ he says archly. But his expression shifts from exasperation to curiosity over the mysterious dice. They look like something Eddie would be into. ] Mine says "ask someone on a date."
[ Which Matt would ignore, but this guy is pretty hot. So after a moment's consideration, he inhales--
And a golden filigree, formed of light, sweeps to encircle them. There's a warm gleam, like standing close to a cozy fireplace, a carbonated sparkle across the skin. And suddenly, though they remain exactly where they are, the world a few feet past them blurs to a soft focus. The room's sounds, too, go dim, as if they're being conveyed underwater. ]
Wanna go out with me? [ Matt's breath is coming quicker, his cheeks slightly pink. ] Or I guess "stay in."
no subject
[ This man and his modesty bring a smile to Oberyn's lips, unbidden, something about his sense of decency where Oberyn can't be bothered to care bringing the desire to see more to the forefront of his mind.
After all, Oberyn spent much of his time naked and had seen his fair share of the human form. The sense of shame wasn't something they shared and his gaze moved from the man's face, to where his palms were presently splayed, eyebrow raised β interest piqued. ]
Are you propositioning me for sex, boy? I doubt fucking you here, without being caught, counts as courtship.
no subject
Well, ah--if it helps, [ he offers, ] we've mostly abandoned courtship where I come from. I've had plenty of dates that ended in fucking without getting caught.
[ And rarely a second date to follow, but that's not relevant. Matt didn't see go into detail about your love life on that 8-ball. ]
no subject
I go after what I want, the pageantry and splendor have never been my preference.
[ It's why he died unwed, with several children fathered, and several beds warmed. Oberyn was, of course, still coming to terms with that truth. With nothing to be done, though, he feels blessed by the gods now - curious about this place and what the future here might hold for him. ]
Your complexion betrays you, but let us entertain the notion. How do you plan to bed me now, without drawing attention?
no subject
God, does it? [ His cheeks certainly feel warm enough that he'd believe they're turning scarlet. Thanks for nothing, Irish forebears! Matt's gaze slides back to the older man's face, his smile gone decidedly crooked. ] The "not drawing attention" part is actually the easiest ... we're invisible right now. And mostly inaudible.
[ Technically, this is a flimsy sort of spell, held together with barely more than a breath and a prayer. Matt's banking on the other partygoers being too wrapped up in their own naked dares to pay much attention to the corner of the room that's gone suddenly indistinct. ]
As for bedding. [ Hmm. Oberyn sounded cooler saying that. ] I suppose ... I'd just have to hope the idea of having sex with me appeals. That's really all there is, right? Attraction, or not.
no subject
[ No, he hadn't said it for flattery or to jest, it was said to make him squirm but admitting that wasn't for right now not when he was much more intent to watch him dance around the subject.
That is, until the next words register to Oberyn, who pivots his waist to get a look around them, and that which obscures them. ]
This is your doing?
[ Oberyn's previous judgment is met with some renewed interest and a half-moon smile creeps onto his lips. ]
You need to eat, more protein, more meat for those bones but beyond that this meekness does not suit you. My question wasn't whether or not you were fuckable, I wanted to know how you planned to fuck me.
no subject
It's mine, yeah. [ This with a small smile, despite the fact that he's pretty sure. Matt's proud of his magic; it may be the only thing he's truly, unabashedly proud of. And speaking of which, since they are invisible, Hot Older Guy has a point: Maybe the moment for modesty has passed. Slowly, Matt lets his arms drop to his sides, fully exposing the long scar that winds from his hipbone to just under his navel. He straightens; arches his neck, rolls his shoulders. And he frowns. ] I ... suppose ...
[ He lifts his gaze to Oberyn's face, peering as if to read something written there. It's all tea leaves to him, of course. ]
Without knowing your specific predilections, I'd probably offer a blowjob first. That's generally a crowd pleaser. [ His lips quirk. ] And I love doing it.
no subject
The long scar brings no reverence or disgust from Oberyn who regards it briefly but pays it no mind soon after, he's seen his share of scars, he had plenty of his own and all it did was add some dimension to the topography of his skin. ]
Do you?
[ A smile creeps its way onto Oberyn's face, his head tilted high as he leans in to grab Matt by the chin, stealing a biting kiss on his way to angle him comfortably to the floor on his knees in front of him. ]
Let us see what kind of magics that tongue can do then.
it was naked but now it's nsfw
Teeth for me, tongue for you?
[ He's already nuzzling into the curve of Oberyn's hipbone, following ridges of muscle with lips and nose. He makes a soft murmur, apparently pleased by what he finds. The past few months, to put it mildly, have fucking sucked. Matt's had more than enough of murder and transformation--this is what he craves. He kisses along the furrow of Oberyn's thigh, letting his tongue flick against tender skin. A moment later, his teeth close on the same spot.
Matt's slow in working his way towards the other man's cock, trying to get a sense for what he likes: whether tongue gets more of a reaction than teeth, a nuzzle more than a kiss, whether he prefers a feathering touch or one that lingers. He brushes Oberyn's shaft with his fingertips, before ducking his head to lick a slow stripe up his cock. ]
no subject
He's pleased that the young man doesn't dally, or act any more demure than what he'd already been witness to. A smile finds him, as he gazes at him from beneath lengthy lashes, not answering his query, allowing him to first find his rhythm.
Oberyn likes a firm hand, and a variation between that and lingering lightness to keep momentum less predictable. The man takes him in hand like a professional, and Oberyn - tired of being less than participatory grabs a fistful of his curly frock to keep him close. ]
You can use your teeth too. So long as you do so appropriately.
no subject
For the sharp, tugging pressure, Matt exhales abruptly. He glances up to Oberynβs face. His lips are pink from the older manβs teeth, wet from these first efforts at pleasing him; his eyes have already gone a bit distant, glossy with sparkling wine and focus.
He smiles. ]
Yes sir.
[ The shape of the words is submissive, like Mattβs posture as he kneels before him. But the tone isnβt, quite.
Matt decides the appropriate use of his teeth right now is to turn his head and nip at the meat of Oberynβs thigh. He kisses his way back to his cock, breathing a moment to relax his jaw and throat. To angle his head just right. Then, with his hand at Oberynβs base to steady himself, Matt wraps his lips around the crown of him and starts to sink down. ]
no subject
When we are done here, you'll have to show me more of your craft. It's rare, to see someone use it so flagrantly. You have my interest.
[ Oberyn is speaking, of course, about his magic but leaves it open-ended as the double entendre for the purpose of his own pleasure, their shared pleasure now. His grip in those dark coils tightens just a bit when he nips his thigh, encouragement as Oberyn's nails meet his calp but never enough to draw blood. Just as soon as they touch and tighten, they soften, and Oberyn bites his lip as Matt takes him on his tongue and down his throat. ]
You gloat, trying to take it all in one go.
no subject
Oberyn says you gloat, and Matt gives a hum around him thatβs more than half a moan. Heβs right. Matt is showing off. But he canβt stop himself: The girth of the other manβs cock halts him for a moment, makes him swallow around him, but once Mattβs adjusted to it, he keeps going. Lets the muscles of his throat soften to accept him, lets tears of strain prick at his eyes. Finally, finally, Oberynβs cock slides past the back of his mouth and into the well of his throat. Mattβs nose bumps up against his belly.
He flicks a bright-eyed glance up to the other manβs face. Matt canβt hold the position for long, but he wants to see what his mouth is doing, his eyes. In the pit of his stomach, he burns to hear a word of praiseβor equally, to hear Oberyn call him a greedy slut. Whatever he has to give, Matt thinks, heβll take. As long as he makes him feel it. ]
no subject
The hum adds some good vibration and Oberyn's answer is an incandescent smile, moving his hips forward slightly, enough perhaps to gauge just how adjusted Matt truly is. The bump of his nose, the texture of his hair, and the wet heat of his mouth all add sensory stimuli to the experience. The eye contact, though, that's something Oberyn can relish. A man secure enough of himself and his sex to meet his gaze while on his knees servicing him and Oberyn stares back at him from beneath a cage of dark brown lashes, his eyes jasper gems piercing the space between them like daggers. ]
You take me like a trained whore, but you must be much more than that.
[ Oberyn cranes his neck back when Matt does something he likes, and cocks his head over one shoulder to keep his gaze held. ]
Either way, you will the taste of me on your tongue for a while to come and long after we finish here.
no subject
Gorgeous.
His eyes bright and implacable gemstones, arch of his neck sinuous. His words sink into Matt's skin, twist and tangle in his belly into molten fantasy. Yes. Train me. I'll be your whore. What can Matt do but suck down a sharp, desperate breath and sink back onto his cock?
Now that he has his bearings, Matt falls into a bobbing rhythm. Lips stretched helplessly around Oberyn, feeling him slide again and again into his throat, the taste and heft of him overwhelming; all he can do is keep swallowing. Meanwhile the promise, order, command--long after we finish here--goes straight to Matt's dick. He'd like to be marked indelibly by something he chooses, for once. He'd like to be sure he won't hurt anyone. As he moves, his grip tightening on Oberyn's hips, his own erection hangs rosy and thick between slim thighs. ]
no subject
His rhythm returns and Oberyn's hands tighten in the same spot of curl, the brown tendrils wrapping around his digits like a handle on a rapier. He languishes in that wet mouth, those impossibly red lips, swollen from his efforts. ]
Touch yourself. See to your own needs as well as mine.
no subject
Immediately, Matt moans. Immediately, he swallows Oberyn down again. Matt redoubles his efforts, his strokes clumsy as he chases the angle that will let him take Oberyn's full length again. His thumb brushes the head of his erection, and he whimpers around the other man's cock.
Then--perfectly, miraculously--he finds it. Oberyn's cock sinks into his throat, and Matt feels him wholly seated there. It's a sensation that feels like fullness. Like completion. Breathlessly, dizzyingly aroused, Matt starts to jerk himself faster. ]
no subject
Once he's hilted at the base of his throat, and stroking himself in tandem, Oberyn too gives freedom to his hips and uses his mouth to move things forward. Not enough to harm him, but not gently either, each meeting comes with a tension of his abdomen and his rear and he milks the pleasure as long as he possibly can, using Matt's saliva to slick him enough to start toward a path of completion.
A hiss escapes him, his chest rising and falling, he'd gotten used to holding himself at bay, multiple climaxes in multiple locations and multiple nights so even hitting his sweet spot by use of the boy's mouth wasn't as thorough as he wanted it to be. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
8ball; i
Daenerys holds a drink of her own in the midst of the revelry. She has been informed it's a party to ring in the New Year, and she is reminded how very cyclical the time and seasons seem to be here. A party for such an occasion? Well she hopes it is not just the Belfours celebrating, but the rest of the people in whatever the land they are in, not just the wealthy. (The partying is growing a little repetitive for her as well.)]
no subject
Much of his enjoyment is studying this bold new world with eager brown eyes, a flute of champagne in hand, already having grown bored of its crispness when the bite of alcohol was sacrificed to accommodate it. He's staring at the soft pale liquid, the bubbles rising in it and the condensation slipping off the glass when the familiar tresses catch his peripheral.
After what he'd seen this evening, that wouldn't be enough to distract him, but her classic looks combined with her proud posture was enough to pique his interest and he set the glass down on his way to meet her, resting his palm on the table beside her once he finds himself in her presence. Close enough, that errant ears wouldn't be a problem over the vibrant sounds of the musics from their machines. ]
You must be the Targaryen girl.
no subject
Do I look like a girl to you? [Two and twenty years old, wed, widowed, hatched her children from blood magic, queen, conqueror. No, she is no mere girl.]
You may wish to be more specific though. There are three of us here now. [Rhaenyra, Baela and herself. She turns slightly though to address him. Here, she is not the last of her name.]
no subject
He smiles, flashing his teeth, impressed by her response. He brings his free palm to cover his chest. ]
I meant no offense.
[ It is good to know, however, that he's sharing an inn with several Targaryen women. Something of note, to be certain, but nothing that dissuades from his current curiosities. ]
Well, the woman I speak of, had Tywin Lannister quaking in his leather boots looking toward Dorne as an ally in his machinations for war.
no subject
Her lip twitches at 'woman' before her eyes meet his again. She isn't afraid of Lannisters. She isn't afraid of the machine churning and spitting out bodies in King's Landing. Perhaps she should be on some level, to go into her birthright already a foreigner, but she holds the confidence of a ruler already.]
It is not hard to scare a Lannister. They think only of wealth as power. [Xaro Xhoan Daxos thought he could rule under wealth, and he ended up locked in his own Vault.]
They have forgotten what a dragon can do.
[And she has three. It is apparent then that he is talking to the correct Targaryen though. Her eyes gleaming for a moment as she grins lightly at him. He speaks of Tywin, and Tyrion has told her of his death. It is not strange in this place to see the dead. They returns as they will with whatever magic the house holds, but this is a first for her other than the fact that her family walks among the living. Family that has been dead near two centuries.]
The Red Viper. [He looks as ever Dornish as she may imagine, having never stepped foot in the southernmost region of Westeros.] It is well met.
no subject
[ While wealth makes a good deal of life easier, Oberyn has found it does have its limits in achievement. Wealth can only afford a person so much, skill and intellect would always best what could easily be stolen, usurped, and exchanged.
While her brother, Rhaegar was no friend of his, Oberyn was not so blinded by his pursuit of vengeance for Elia that he would cast that rage toward family otherwise uninvolved. This one, held his interest the moment Tywin expressed genuine concern about her capabilities. Tywin, who he'd sooner draw and quarter than hear bitch and moan about a bed of his own making. ]
I see, my reputation has found its way to even your ears.
[ Even in death, it is something to be said that his guile and grit still had people talking. Hindsight didn't matter now, and Oberyn wasn't going to be some fool from the old stories that sat lamenting choices that could have prevented the outcome. He had not been that man in life, nor would he allow himself to be in death. ]
It is indeed.