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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
84 years later
look, she won't say it's aspirational but. that's only because no one has asked.
she's heard whispers of a bear, but people were also whispering about a dragon and she's pretty sure that's straight bullshit so she gives neither idea much thought while she's tipsily trying to find an empty room to snooze in because she does not sleep in her own bed.
she opens one door, finds the bed empty, closes the door and walks over to it. she peels off her sweater and awkwardly hops out of her converse as she goes. one shoe goes wide and she hears a soft grunt. ]
Oh, shit, sorry, I didn't think anyone was inβ ohmygodbear.
[ grace doesn't usually have the fight instinct, flight is more common. now... now she is frozen. it's a bear! terrifying!
it's a bear snoozing in front of the slowly dying fire in the fireplace inside a chintzy fucking manor and the absurdity of the juxtaposition has broken her fucking brain. ]
no subject
At least there are plenty of places to rest between excursions. Halsin had only intended to warm himself by the fire for a short while, but he'd found it all too tempting to lie down and stretch out on the rug, and had slipped into a deep green dream of hibernation -- so perhaps it's not surprising when he wakes in the bear's form.
The bear doesn't rouse all the way, still heat-soaked and sleepy. He yawns widely, unrolling a pink tongue and showing long yellow teeth, then shifts heavily onto his side. One paw lifts, as if to beckon her closer. Want a cuddle? ]
no subject
even after werewolf and being literally consumed by someone she considered a dear friend. (and is considered so still despite this.)
the bear yawns and gestures her closer, unmistakable. she shuffles forward automatically, bourbon-drenched body accepting this even if grace is still trying to figure it out it. ]
...did the library do this?
[ is he... a present? ]
no subject
If she's bold enough to lie down with him on the rug in front of the fire, he won't hesitate to drape his paw carefully over her, like a lover spooning her in a bed. That done, sleep rises up to claim him once more. ]
no subject
and then she abruptly decides she is dreaming and just goes with it, cuddling up next to a huge ass bear in just her bra and pajama shorts and falling into the deliciously easy sleep of the exactly right amount of drinking to be blissfully dead to the world.
she dreams about richie's lightly furred arms holding her. ]
no subject
And so, while they sleep, Halsin's natural form reasserts itself and the bear melts away in ripples of golden light, leaving him curled around Grace on the rug, one arm her pillow, the other draped over her sleeping body. It's not an uncommon position for the archdruid; he's always delighted to be allowed to rest next to someone, either in the deep meditative state of his elven kin, or in something less refreshing but more fun and closer to human sleep. As it is, he snuffles a little, pleased to find someone else there, instinctively moving closer around her. Awareness filters through slowly -- a scent he doesn't recognise, soft and warm, light florals and the bass notes of alcohol.
He hums softly, nose nudged into her hair. ]
Mm. A fine way to wake.
no subject
she was dreaming of... a sigh gusts out of her and the intensity of her gaze softens before her eyebrows knit together. what a strange as fucking dream, a bear! but she doesn't remember this guy and she usually remembers her one night standsβ though she's still wearing her shorts so how much of a one night stand was it really?
she needs to stop drinking. ]
Hi. Sorry.
no subject
He raises his eyebrows at her a little. ]
No need to apologise. No doubt you thought this was a very comfortable place to sleep, and so it was. Should I leave you to it?
no subject
[ so he doesn't have to leave. once she gets over being startled, she seems pretty at ease all things considered. still, she sounds increasingly more awkward trying to piece together what happened last night. ]
This is gonna sound insane, but um, do you know how I got here? 'cause I thought, um, I was, god this is the insane part. I thought I was invited in by a bear. And like I went, which is also insane, but you're not a bear. Wellβ [ focus up, le domas. ] I kinda feel bad I don't remember your name. Or meeting you in the first place.
no subject
Yes, I might have been the bear. I seem to have fallen into the habit of hibernating in that form without meaning to. It happens in cold weather. But I hope I didn't scare you. I mean no harm in that form. Or now. My name is Halsin. It's good to meet you.
no subject
[ her hand lifts to pinch the bridge of her nose, expression scrunching up as she slots things into place in her mind. maybe he's a druid like lauralae. he probably is. he better be because she doesn't have room for more fantasy shit in her head. she doesn't ask in case she has to learn a new thing upon waking up. no time for that!
with another gusty sigh, her hand falls to jut between them, as if to shake in their impossible to shake position. ]
I'm Grace. You're very comfortable to sleep with. Next to.
no subject
So I've been told. On both counts. [ His smile widens a little as his thumb passes back and forth over her knuckles. ]
I've also enjoyed sleeping with you.
no subject
[ still a dream. her mind concocting that this bear she probably ran into a breakfast or lunch sometime is a literal bear.
still when in rome. ]
With that said... wanna fool around in my dream?
no subject
It already sounds like a good dream. [ His voice is a low rumble, a promise. ] But.. I think we can make it better.
[ With that, he'll lean down to kiss her like he's been wanting to ever since he woke up -- and maybe before that. ]
no subject
grace isn't here to make good choices.
the hand between them presses her fingertips to his chest, no other leverage available, and her now free hand skims across his side to curl around his broad back fabric bunching between her fingers. he's so warm and solid, the fire is still spilling warmth into the room, the rug beneath them is plush. she sighs against his mouth, a pleasant sound. already a better dream. ]
no subject
His own hand slips down between their bodies, his broad palm drifting over her chest until he can cup one of her breasts through the fabric of her bra. As their kiss becomes more heated, he weighs the soft warmth in his hand, gives it a gentle squeeze, thumbs a circle around her nipple. The cotton trousers he's wearing don't leave much to the imagination and he's already growing hard, filling out the front as he shifts his weight to more thoroughly cover her. ]
no subject
her hands sweep down his back, slip under his loose mr. darcy in the rain shirt, back up to traverse the impossibly broad mountain range of his shoulders. it is a cartography of touch that is taking a while because there is just so much of him and her greedy hands are eager to explore the hard planes of muscles giving way to bits of softness, divots and bumps of scars and nicks hiding beneath the downy soft hair. eventually her hands find their way out of his shirt and further down, hands (much smaller in comparison to the fucking catcher mitts feeling her up so goodβ how can a paw so huge be so delicate?) following the curve of his ass until her fingers trace as the very tops of his thighs and she can reach no further.
she breaks with a gasp, a filthy groan as she feels the press of his cock against her thigh, a peel of delighted laughter. her head falls back against the rug with a soft thunk, grin as bright as sunlight in the golden wash of the fire. ]
Would you mind very much taking your clothes off so I can see you?
no subject
Anything my lady desires.
[ It takes a little work for a man as big and broad as Halsin to wriggle out of his clothes, but thankfully they're not all that securely fastened to begin with. He shrugs out of his shirt and pushes his trousers down without getting up, just rolling away a little to get them down and kick them off. The fact that he's not wearing any underwear might not be much of a surprise.
He's as comfortable naked as he is any other way, pleased to let her take a look at him in all of his fur and scars. His own gaze slides down her body and back up again, more than a little eager to see more, judging by the way his thick cock already curves up from his body. ]
Will you be joining me, dream maiden?
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I want you to know it's faster when I'm upright. I do know how to get my own clothes off.
[ but she doesn't seem willing to sit up. if she does, he might have the insane thought of her riding him or literally anything other than fucking her missionary, face to face, so she can see his pretty fire-lit face and get crushed by the weight of him ] Aha! [ she crows a delighted noise when the clasp gives and she hastily drags the straps down to fling the bra away, slumping down again.
her hand reaches out to paw at his shoulder. ]
Come back here.
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Grinning and delighted by the entire experience, he contributes a murmur of congratulations that's not quite a laugh when she manages to get the troublesome item off. ]
Gladly. [ He affirms as he leans down to kiss her again, more thoroughly this time, not holding back on the soft groans the contact draws from him. His hand returns to her body, big warm palm cupping her now naked tit before it travels downwards, eager for the chance to explore. He thumbs briefly over her naval piercing, then slides broad fingertips lower still. ]
I should like to taste you here. [ He slips his hand between her thighs, a low pleased sound in his throat. ] Next time perhaps I'll remove your clothes with my teeth.
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If I ever say no to you between my legs, rest assured I have been possessed. By, like, a huge fucking loser.
[ she gestures magnanimously, as if to say: please sir, go to town. despite this, despite how much she really would like for him to eat her like a man starving, her mouth slants in the ghost of a pout that his beautiful, thick fingers won't be buried inside of her in the next ten seconds.
what a hardship. how will she bear it? ]
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He hums softly, pleased, his hard cock throbbing against her bare thigh as he circles a warm fingertip over her clit. ]
Mm. Then we have the opportunity to explore. [ He rubs her gently but firmly, slipping his fingers down to her cunt to gather her wetness and smear it upwards, teasing. His voice is a low rumble, gold spark shivering in his eyes, perhaps just the reflection of the fire. ]
Tell me how much you like this. [ Leaning down, he kisses her cheek, her throat, his hand still moving. ] Tell me what you desire, so I can make it come true.
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I'd like it more if you weren't teasing, [ she whines, a low, greedy noise.
sometimes she does like foreplay, she loves a fingerbang at the dinner table! right now is not really one of those sometimes. right now she wants to get dicked down so good she sleeps for a week. but also his fingers... and his mouth... fuck, she can't be so greedy and impatient. ]
I want, oh that's nice. I want you to make me come with your fingers and then again when you lick me clean and then I want you to fuck me with that cock until I scream. And then... Then I want to choke on your cock until you come down my throat still tasting like me.
[ she turns her head slightly to nose at his temple while his lips map her throat, a rumble of a groan vibrating against his mouth.
turns out she can be impatient and greedy. ]
Sound good?
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Very good, my dream goddess.
[ He rewards her with what she wants, slipping his fingers down and pushing into her with two of them -- bold, but he believes she can take it, willing to see how she reacts to the size and stretch of him. If she likes it enough, he'll keep fucking her like that, enjoying the wet noises and the sounds of her pleasure. ]
I can't wait to taste you. [ He kisses her jaw, her cheek. His hard cock drags over her thigh as he moves against her, rocking his hips a little in time with the movements of his hand inside her, as if already imagining how he'll fuck her. ] And I can't wait for you to taste yourself when I slide into your mouth.
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a sigh, indulgent, draws out a moan as she turns her head to find his mouth, as if she can lick the filthy words right off his tongue and taste the sweetness of anticipation. another groan, the writhe of her body forcing their lips to part too soon. ]
Fuck, your hands are nice. That's nice.
[ maybe one day soon he'll hear her say something different than how nice this all is. ]
(no subject)