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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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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
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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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Matt isn't sure how long they go on like this. Time is a slippery concept at the moment. Seconds pass slickly over Matt's tongue, Oberyn's thick cock a pitiless metronome. His hand jerking sloppily at his own erection, thumb skimming the bead of wet at the tip. Deep in Matt's belly, the minutes throb yes, yes; he moans to match, and gasps for scraps of breath in between.
Oberyn hisses, and Matt's pleasure at drawing the reaction from him is immediate and intoxicating. He has to have more of it. His free hand slides to Oberyn's thigh, then between his legs, fingertips rubbing at the other man's balls. ]
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So, while his hips are in some ways unforgiving he stills to allow Matt time to adjust, and doesn't aim to harm but rather to further himself along in the midst of what they're doing. The further he goes, the slicker he is, and that drool happens down Matthew's jaw whether he means for it to or not, his tongue, the moisture there does elicit a bead of precum out of Oberyn who groans while trying to maintain to chase the feeling a while longer.
The addition of Matt's palm upon his taint, though, evokes a thrill fo arousal and white-hot ecstasy to course up his spine, He drops his head back at the jolt, and his hips stutter to accommodate the two sensations without tipping him over completely. ]
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Matt's mouth keeps sinking to engulf Oberyn, then sliding wetly off. Spit glistens down his chin, and tear tracks shine on his cheeks. His fingers rub at Oberyn's balls now and then, stroking or cupping them, but Matt's lost all thought of showing off, of making Oberyn feel anything. He's only here to follow his lead, to let yes slide down his throat with each thrust. ]
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His thighs tighten, the only indicator he gives outside of a sharp intake of breath more of a hiss really, as he spills over just slightly but can reign himself in for something slower, more purposeful and precise as his stomach pitches and his hold in Matt's hair tightens. ]
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The hot, wet slide exhilarates him, sparks the emptiness in his brain into consuming fire. It feels like completion. Like communion. Matt whimpers as Oberyn's fingers tighten in his hair; his own fingers tighten in turn, pumping his cock with firm, quickening strokes. It only takes a few passes before he's following him, spurting onto the floor.
(Around them, the golden sigils of the invisibility charm shimmer and heat, before dimming to their original gentle glow.) ]
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Oberyn's fingers loosen their grip on his chocolate hair, and the touch there becomes almost sentimental as he drops his fingers down from the crown of his head to his ear and pushes out of his mouth with one hand on his shoulder and a slick pop as the head of his cock passes through his lips.
An easy grin finds his face, his eyes scanning the magics around them as they maintain their structure. Crafts like these were hard to find at home, more legend than practice. Those bronze eyes fall from their boundaries to Matt on his hands and knees before him and the view is almost as good as the experience, swollen lips, wet hair, the mess between his legs, and his heaving chest. ]
For the record, a date is a fruit, but as far as 'dates,' go this has been a good one.
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Matt smiles back. He's a fucking mess--eyes glassy with tears, lips wet, chin spit-streaked--and his brain still feels like it's floating several yards above his head. But the smile looks genuine. Even sweet. When Oberyn speaks, Matt's expression clouds briefly with confusion (is he saying "fruit" like ...?) before he huffs a laugh. ]
Glad to hear it. [ Matt's voice is a little hoarse. ] 'Sgood for me too.
And I don't think we got caught ...
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[ Oberyn leans forward to wipe some of the residue off of Matt's chin when their clothes make manifest once more. The only clear indicators they'd done anything were the sweat in their hair and the dampness hidden beneath the garments. ]
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Maybe another time. [ Matt smiles faintly as he hauls himself to his feet. ] You might be getting this sense already, but the manor's not exactly short on opportunities to display, uh, the fun you get up to.
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[ Unlike much of his family, his scholarly affairs have led him to a pragmatic and realistic idea of what might await a person in death. None of those theories came quite so close to anything like this, however. ]