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π–˜π–†π–‘π–™π–‡π–šπ–—π–“π–™ π–’π–”π–‰π–˜. ([personal profile] saltburnmods) wrote in [community profile] draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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πŒπ„π 𝐀𝐑𝐄 π’πŽ π‹πŽπ•π„π‹π˜ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 πƒπ‘π˜ β–£ MARCH TDM





MARCH 2025 TDM: RENEWAL


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 (THE REMIX)


CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs.

For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β€” the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.

Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.

Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.

There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.

For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.

Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.




CUPID'S ARROW STRUCK ME

CONTENT WARNINGS: possible sex, violence, a/b/o themes (pheromones, mating, heat/rut), breeding, body transformation/body horror, aphrodisiacs.

They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.

For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.

Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.

For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.

PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.

HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.

Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.

Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.






A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME


CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw (exhibitionism, ritual sex, orgy), dubious consent via magical compulsion.

After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.

Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.

As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.

To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.

Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.

More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.

If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.

As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.



DIRECTORY


dawn_is_breaking: (soft_down)

[personal profile] dawn_is_breaking 2025-03-06 05:53 am (UTC)(link)
It's not.

[She says, her lips lifting in a small smile at his joke as she shrugs off the robe she wore down. She is bare underneath but her heartbeat does not rise when she walks naked over to the water's edge, she's unaware of Matt's condition but doesn't really care either way. She's comfortable in her body and nudity isn't a shameful thing for her, bodies are bodies and right now hers wants to be submerged in the cool waters.]

Oh.

[The word escapes her lips and she stops in mid-wade, the water up to her hips and only now does her heartbeat quicken as something feels...different than before.]

I'm sorry but - [She starts to ask but then stops herself because she doesn't know exactly how to phrase her question.]

-does the water feel different to you?
viver: n (040)

[personal profile] viver 2025-03-06 06:25 am (UTC)(link)
It was torture.

[ Spoken with a dreamy sigh, he lets his eyes shut. He recalls the moment β€” the way he spoke to Iggy, how he showed him his hand, extending an invitation to Zephir's slaughter. He tells him where he was attacked and how. ]

I couldn't control how loud this body was. Every part of it screamed for my attention, but my voice was lost. My thoughts were infected with β€” instinct. Survival. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't move, I couldn't make it stop. I was being punished by my own body for allowing it to die.

... And then it embraced the inevitable. My thoughts were free from the flesh. They returned to you, my Death. [ After contemplating for another moment, he lifts his head and touches Sullivan's face, searching with his eyes. ] … Acceptance. Just like you told me.
morrer: (067)

[personal profile] morrer 2025-03-06 06:34 am (UTC)(link)
[It is every detail like he's ever dreamed it - how Sullivan knows the steps, yet it's applied to an unkillable force. Just like Sullivan will never blossom, Zephir should never die and yet he did. He became human, he faced down his mortality and took it into his own hands to experience what it was to expire.

And Sullivan felt none of it. Experienced not one second.

He breathes in deep, frustration in his veins as he looks into Zephir's eyes - far beyond the black of his pupils, into the abyss behind them. He submerges himself inside that space, hoping to pick paint chips off the wall with but a taste of what it was like. He can drink the feeling of death that clings to Zephir off of him, but he'll never know that moment. He still feels that's cruel. Not Zephir's doing, but - the universe's.]


I want to have been there. I want to have felt that. To take you, to cherish the impossible.
chokedout: (056)

[personal profile] chokedout 2025-03-06 06:51 am (UTC)(link)
[Theo doesn't know how to deal with trauma. He runs from it. Or to it. Or both? Don't follow his lead.]

Shit, you were a cool salmon mermaid? Ugh, I'm in love.
viver: n (129)

[personal profile] viver 2025-03-06 06:51 am (UTC)(link)
[ Others might have felt scared, seeing Sullivan like this. Not Zephir, though. His heart breaks for him, but it also swells with the selfish comfort of being reminded just how much his other half is devoted to him. There has never been any doubt β€” nor will there ever be β€” but even unquestionable facts are welcomed back over and over again when they're everything that Zephir wants. If only his precious Death could have everything he wanted, too. Zephir keeps him in an embrace. ]

I know, my Death, I know. [ Quiet, thinking further into the past, he lowers his voice. ] I brought you back to life. You should have been the one who showed me how to die.
dead_tongue: (fluffy)

[personal profile] dead_tongue 2025-03-06 07:03 am (UTC)(link)
Yeah! I was really pretty.

[Iggy's eyes tear up for a moment. He had never in his adult life felt ugly until ReSculpt. He'd only just been starting to feel better about himself, and now this. Nevermind that he'd had webbed hands and strange eyes and teeth like a shark - he'd felt beautiful. Now he was Just Iggy again.

He smiles.]


I always pretended to be a mermaid when I was little. Isn't that ironic, or something?

[He tries to hug Theo to him tightly.]
corporeity: (084)

[personal profile] corporeity 2025-03-06 07:21 am (UTC)(link)
[ Gale whips his head after Astarion as he tumbles, an apology dying on his tongue with the banter that zips past him. Shadowheart in true, when Orin couldn’t have bypassed his wards β€” and failed, before, to capture Shadowheart’s sharp edges. While they’re, well, sniping, Gale sits up, covers still caught on his legs, though Astarion’s tumble has deprived Shadowheart of that warmth, half the duvet sinking to the floor. He reaches out again, not to Shadowheart but the space where she lay moments earlier, still warm from her body, yes, and the faint buzz of magic. ]

[ with the air of a polite correction, not taking sides but also not not taking sides, ] This is Astarion’s room, I’m afraid. [ which doesn’t explain why he’s here (or the hen, clucking in the corner). For want of summarising any of that β€” or acknowledging that Shadowheart trails behind them both, in matters of memory, unease blooming behind his broken ribs β€” Gale opts for the most immediate assurance, voice sleep-soft: ]

You’ve not forgotten the night, Shadowheart. [ when he recalls dressing for bed with Astarion alone, lingering ever closer in the wake of the losses they suffered. ] I suspect you’ve not β€” [ interrupted by a yawn, hastily stifled by his palm. ] β€” been here long at all. [ Ahem. ] This place can magic us from our realm to this one in a heartbeat, body and mind transported.

[ It spirited him away and back in the night, too β€” providing the memories, no, the experience of Moonrise, the faint scar on his collarbone from their tangle with Ketheric, visible in the unbuttoned vee of his pyjamas, just above the mark of the orb. a proof of having gone and returned. ]
unapparent: (107)

[personal profile] unapparent 2025-03-06 08:47 am (UTC)(link)
[ in that moment, it feels like he knows her better than anyone, reflecting and refracting her every desire. she comes on his urging, nearly delirious with the bliss of giving her mate what he asks, the praise as galvanising as his continued attentions. he’s so good to her. perfect for her. stuffing her overfull, just to be sure. marking her, so the feeling of belonging soothes the pain in her limbs.

(it’s what she wants, even when wholly herself β€” though perhaps not with him, moonspun tresses haunting her mind.
to be desired, chosen, claimed instead of an afterthought.)

and he takes to guidance well, pupils blown wide, so she nips at his ear and hums approvingly. his hand feels so much bigger than her own, cupping her sex, fingers dragging along the seam of her. better even than his adoration, for him to brush the tender flesh stretched around him. her way of returning his words, proof of their unmatched fit: it’s just for you. no one else has had her so undone, filthy with their shared release on her thighs, in the auburn curls beneath his fingers. madly, she doubts anyone could but him. ]


I won’t. [ forget, tone assuring or pleading, so he never stops. she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing on the same spot that he tends with his tongue sweetly. urging him to apply his teeth to her already bruised mating bite. she wants it to hurt. ] No other could fill me so perfectly.

[ but him, meant to be hers. chosen by the gods. the wretched magic of the manor. fate. alicent couldn’t say how long they’ve been at this, arousal still lingering, close like humidity, a haze over her mind and body, no longer burning but simmering with continued need. this deep, slow grind works her up again, for it will surely get her with child.

she groans, then, moved by him vocalising his claim. it feels β€” impossibly right. unbelievably good. writhing on his cock, nuzzling into his cheek. debauched and tenderer for it, queenly armour discarded. ]


Yours. [ the new ache, not of emptiness but of being used so well, proves it. it almost stings, to near orgasm again, these heights of oversensitivity never before reached, squirming both away and towards. ] Yours. Say it β€” [ not just that, but β€” ] My name, Saber. [ hushed so low, he might think he imagined it, her lashes kissing his cheek. ] When you claim me again.

[ gods above, she needs to hear it. not aemma, rhaenyra, all the women who came before. alicent. ]
lightandjoy: (pic#17686061)

for Dorian

[personal profile] lightandjoy 2025-03-06 12:08 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Over the years, Halsin has learned to appreciate living in the moment, and the little things that come about. Good food after a long hard day. Finding a spot for quiet contemplation in the middle of chaos. Birds in the trees and flowers blooming deep in an old forest. A verse or two of song and a warm hand to hold. He treasures all of them, reminders of life and beauty even in the darkest times, and is always glad for an opportunity to pause and take in the present.

While breakfast might not be as fancy as it has previously been, it's still better than the scant supplies they'd been existing on at the end of February. Halsin refuses to allow the servants to attend him, telling them that they should also be taking some time to recover, and fetches out his own tray of coffee and sandwiches and fruit, setting it on one of the little wrought iron bistro tables in the shade of the house.

The morning is cold but bright, the snow and ice slowly melting into fog that lingers around the edges of the grounds. Sitting at the table with his breakfast, Halsin lingers in the dawn quiet, smoking his pipe and gazing down at the black stain of corrupted magic that's spread up from his fingertips to his knuckles. Since his stone was recovered from the lake, he's felt far more like himself, but the inky darkness on his skin is slow to fade.

Movement at the edge of his vision brings his attention up and a warm smile appears on his face as he watches Dorian approach.
]

There you are, my love. I managed to find one of the pastries you like, though it may be a little stale.
doped: (pic#17693447)

[personal profile] doped 2025-03-06 01:24 pm (UTC)(link)
( she gives a slightly animated shrug, arms extended while she looks to either side of her as if to say whoops, 21 people seem to have mysteriously teleported elsewhere. still, it's in good fun, and there's a slightly druggy nature to the smile she offers him β€” food might be scarce, but there are intoxicants aplenty in the house, and natalie is enjoying a buzz for the first time in nearly a year. probably the most sober she's been since she was born, or something. it's nice to get back to true form. )

Neither. Or both? ( with some obvious amount of teasing, ) Scared I'm gonna laugh at how bad you are? C'mon.
involuntary: (Default)

[personal profile] involuntary 2025-03-06 02:13 pm (UTC)(link)
I wasn't listening.

[ which is the truth, but also conveniently leaves out the long minutes that she spent staring at her own reflection in the mirror with blood rushing in her ears and her heart thudding in her chest, trying not to scream at the sights around her. that would have been a perfect moment to listen in at the adjoining door and try to detect if they were alone, but lottie had been busy fighting to stave off some horrible, all-consuming sense of impending doom, and hadn't really been thinking much about logistics.

now, though, she realises that it's a perfectly sensible suggestion. she chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment, brows furrowing in a slight frown, before she gestures at the closet up against the wall. ]


Let me get dressed, then we can look. We should go together, it might not be safe.
involuntary: (Default)

[personal profile] involuntary 2025-03-06 02:14 pm (UTC)(link)
Something like that.

[ a brief, huffed laugh accompanies her response, not because it's particularly funny, but because it's such a ludicrous conversation to be having in the first place. to wake up in a decrepit room with no memory of arriving would be strange enough, with a headache would be stranger still, with drugs on the table as the only means of alleviating that just straight-up bizarre, but having someone else just as confused is really just the icing on the cake.

she doesn't want to spend forever in a towel though, so lottie crosses the room to start carefully poking through drawers and cupboards in the hopes of finding something clean. really, her standards are very low. notably, or at least something that would probably stand out to sam, she doesn't seem to have any fears around turning her back to a stranger. ]


I'm Lottie. [ she offers, turning back around once she's found a shirt that at least fulfils the requirements of clean. ] I don't suppose you want to help me try and find something a little better than coke for these headaches?
involuntary: (012)

[personal profile] involuntary 2025-03-06 02:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Versez le sang.

[ the way that lottie says it, it sounds like she's quoting something β€” not that he would know the reference, how could he possibly know the whispers passed onto her by the wilderness, the lessons that It gave to her because she was the only one that knew how to listen. her head tilts as she watches him, something like a morbid fascination caught up in her confusion as she edges closer. it just seems like too much of a coincidence, to wake up in this strange new place only to hear a strange new person preaching of death and blood again.

lottie wants too badly to hear again, to connect again, to ignore what strikes her as such an obvious sign. so she walks, until she's right by the side of the bed, and she knows that she's staring too much. if this is real, she'll probably be mortified later. she's being too intense, bordering on invasive, but at her heart lottie is a believer, and she wants to believe that this is important. that it means something. ]


Blood. It'll save you?
involuntary: (005)

[personal profile] involuntary 2025-03-06 02:15 pm (UTC)(link)
[ the curved deer antlers of lottie's mask are awfully sharp and threatening for someone designated as prey, but the way that it dangles loose and almost abandoned from her hand diminishes the effect greatly. so does the way that she sprawls back against the tree trunk behind her, open and waiting as this new stranger makes her presence known. she's an interesting creature, all bright blue hair and brighter eyes, and lottie is distracted enough at the visual of her approaching that she must miss the part where she steps right in front of her, between one blink and the next.

it's sudden enough to catch her off guard momentarily. she opens her mouth and closes it again, eyes flicking between jinx and the collar in her hand. her experience with hunts haven't exactly been fun after all, but they haven't been anything like this either. for one, she's never been naked before, and although she's not particularly self-conscious about that fact, the proximity does bring a flush of colour to her cheeks all the same. ]


Do you want me to run again then? [ she finds her words after a moment, and a hint of amusement tugs at the corner of her lips. this is the point of the hunt after all, to be caught, she just can't quite predict what comes next.

but she drops the mask in her hand, landing on the ground beside them with a soft thud, and tips her head back slightly to meet the tree trunk too. a surrender, that much is plain to see. ]
Or have you won?
involuntary: (005)

[personal profile] involuntary 2025-03-06 02:16 pm (UTC)(link)
None of that interests you?

[ it's not like lottie is particularly keen on the drugs on offer, particularly under the current circumstances, but she thinks that if there was ever a moment where she could be forgiven for indulging in something it would be now. still, she focuses more on the current predicament, i.e. the towel that she's still clinging to, and replacing it with something that actually looks like clothing. she crosses the room β€” carefully, the place is a state β€” hoping for some kind of spoils in the ornate closet on one side of the room.Β 

if she has to put her filthy wilderness dress back on she will, but after her first real shower in months, lottie really hopes she can follow that up with some actual laundered clothing. ]


I don't remember how I got here. So I guess, not being real makes as much sense as anything else.
doped: (pic#17693448)

[personal profile] doped 2025-03-06 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)
( perhaps not at all shockingly, the knowledge that this is his room does very little to soothe the burgeoning panic in her. she hadn't really entertained the thought that this might be a dream, but it feels less and less falsified with each tense breath. so she's just β€” here. out of the woods, into the rich people house.

she does draw the curtains, though that moment of listening is quickly followed up by rudely tossing open the doors of sullivan's wardrobe, picking out a shirt big enough to rest mid thigh on her. she undoes the buttons of her sleep shirt, as if she's ever owned a matching pair of pajamas, and exchanges the clothes easily. she doesn't imagine she'll find a bra in his closet, and so just crosses her arms over her chest before facing him, banding her boobs down.
)

"Showed up"? I don't know β€”Β last night, I guess. You mean this happens a lot? Random people waking up in your bed?
Edited 2025-03-06 14:21 (UTC)
dictator: (pic#17216832)

cw: mommy kink

[personal profile] dictator 2025-03-06 03:58 pm (UTC)(link)
( it'd be nice to say he goes willingly, but really, alina moves with too much determination for paul to even recognize where they're going until they're both taken to the ground, skull rattling against the dirt. it's not a bad pain. the layers of grass and leaves beneath him serve as generous a bed as any, and the true perk of it is seeing alina over top him, kissed by moonlight in a silvery outline. he's neither shy or subtle about taking her all in, the pouty peaks of her tipped breasts, the generous curve of her hips straddling on top of him. he'd love to feel a bit ashamed about how easily he was taken to the ground, but really he just feels fortunate β€” for alina's strength, for her cleverness, for her ferocity. for the way moonbeams dapple her dark eyes like little stars, the glitter of her doe freckles standing out in the shawl of nighttime.

funny, the chase felt so loud in his ears. now, without the whipping of branches or crunching of dry foliage, there's just a calm silence, their breaths filling up the forest. the blood on alina's throat is stark, like an arrow through the neck of a stag. paul is β€”Β not disturbed, which makes him wonder if something is wrong with him. all he can think, is that he hopes it scars. he hopes alina is his forever.
)

You've fought well, Alina Atreides.

( returned in fremen. it's difficult, because the wolf in him is humiliated or feral, the caged animal paul has always tried to prove he isn't. he can endure, can overcome β€” the reverend mother taught him that. his hands find her wrists where they pin his shoulders, squeezing, then pulling her closer, her hands flat on the forest floor. animalistically, paul's neck sways side to side, an internal argument that he inevitably wins when, with gritted teeth, he exposes his neck to her in a sign of blatant submission. alina's blood drips on his chest like little petals, making his breath catch in his throat. )

I'll celebrate when your teeth are in my throat, ( a scar again, he hopes. he hopes he is alina's forever. ) Mommy.

( only easy to say in the dark light of the forest, with his eyes screwed shut, his heart aching, his grip tight around her wrists. he's been father and mother and brother and husband to alina β€”Β he didn't think he might be son, too. )
breeding: (pic#17404295)

homelander, the boys | current player/character

[personal profile] breeding 2025-03-06 05:25 pm (UTC)(link)
[ currently closed starters only, holler if you want one of your own and i'll make it happen! ]
breeding: (pic#17403712)

β€” closed / cupid's arrow (for mia), cw refs to coercion/dubcon.

[personal profile] breeding 2025-03-06 05:48 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Homelander doesn't go into the hunt with the explicit intention of shirking the given instructions β€” hunter, prey, simple as anything β€” but any inclination to stick to the rules goes out the window as soon as he spots a familiar, lithe frame darting through the woods, inky-black hair rippling over the pale breadth of her shoulders. And besides, he is still playing the game, to an extent; there's nothing to say that hunters can't be hunted, too.

He owes her one, is the thing. After their first little run-in β€” any sense of will lost in the red of her lips, transformed into compulsion, helplessness β€” it's been like a splinter in his palm. A dull, unhappy ache that flares up if he dares to move the wrong way. (Some part of him thinks he ought to let it go, that it's pointless to let it get to him when he has Alicent to rely on, but he's never been the type not to take things really fucking personally.) He feels it even as he sets off in pursuit, something like anger (like ravenous hunger) stirring in his gut as he runs, gaze piercing through trees and underbrush, even through her flesh to the shifting skeleton underneath.

Sure, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, but that doesn't take into consideration that taking out an eye, squashing it to jelly under your heel, is satisfying in a way that nothing else is.

As he draws close, appearing as though out of thin air, his hand reaching out to grab her arm:
] Hey there, honey. You miss me?

[ And, with a jerk of his wrist, he moves to throw her back onto the forest floor. His features are obscured by a mask β€” an approximation of an eagle, white feathers flowing backward out of a high beak β€” but there's no mistaking the icy blue eyes that gaze through it, nor the shark-like smile underneath. ]

Been a while.
corporeity: (102)

🧜🏾 β€” mermand, a

[personal profile] corporeity 2025-03-06 06:11 pm (UTC)(link)
[ The return of the sun is altogether lovely, even if the breeze stays cool. The thawed lakeside reminds him of the harbour view from his tower, ever farther from his memory. He tries to conjure it now: Waterdeep in spring. In the end, the air isn’t salty enough, the breeze too meek. He walks the shallows, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled to his elbows, dress shoes in hand, skipping the occasional stone across the blue-green water. Over the course of his morning wander, he pockets an egg or two that will likely be gifted to Astarion later, magpie that he is.

Gale hears Armand before he sees him, naught but a glint of scales in the corner of his eye. Enchanting echoes in foreign languages β€” he recognises the Italian that Caroline’s been practicing, studious even in this exile β€” and decides then that he ought learn the tongues of this world. Without realising it, he follows the sounds along the shoreline until he stands within reach of Armand, gaze sliding along the length of him, dreamy expression turning quizzical. Any number of creatures take such forms, but not vampires. However the House has seen fit to warp its inhabitants a great deal recently, between the ReSculpt and Emmrich’s ill-advised experimentation, so it’s not surprising, exactly β€” merely intriguing. ]


Armand? [ They’d not spoken much while he was human, but he’d looked poorly. Now, well, Gale can’t be certain this makes for an improvement. Ever intrepid, he’s quick to crouch near Armand, ignoring both his nudity and the slight prickle of his own skin, hairs standing on end. ]

[ gently, ] You’ve a lovely voice, my friend.

[ He’d like to ask: Are you all right? Instead, to start β€” ]

What language was that? [ A vague gesture, free hand settling at his jaw. ] Long in the vowels.

[ In the hymn that called him close, so like the sounds of the temples across Waterdeep. Praise for Mystra, Sune, Lathander. ]
breeding: (pic#17403777)

welcome.

[personal profile] breeding 2025-03-06 06:32 pm (UTC)(link)
[ The ball comes to a stop by Homelander's feet, and he looks down at it, then up at Nat, and then down again, the slight slant of his mouth speaking volumes as to his thought process β€” namely, the childish impulse not to do as he's told, though the exact variables (sending it shooting it into space, crushing it completely) likely aren't yet on Nat's radar. But the expression's there and then gone, dissipating fully as he kicks the ball back with a carefully regulated normal degree of strength.

(He's dressed normally, too β€” in a white tee and jeans, nondescript but the best he can do without any outside assistance.)
]

You get a lot of mileage practicing on your own?

[ For what it's worth, he soundsβ€” not derisive, if also not entirely genuinely curious. She's good, from what he'd managed to observe on his way over β€” well, on his way by. He knows better than to fuck around with a teenage girl without being invited to, first. ]

Always thought solo drills were fucking boring.
maoa: (sc17670799)

cw: death/violence/killing/hints at parental neglect and abuse/drug use

[personal profile] maoa 2025-03-06 06:41 pm (UTC)(link)
[ so much of her life lately has involved death, whether she’s had something to do with it or not. it’s tainted her life since before she was born, a shameful secret she’s carried with her for over a decade, because her mother had decided to blame her child instead of accepting any responsibility for her lie finally being exposed. so had her father. the only one who hadn’t, at any point, was tara, when she’d learned the truth.

in the time between she’d buried the pain with drugs and sex, whatever could simutaneously numb her and make her feel more alive. this feels akin to that even though she hasn’t taken anything intentionally, some way to cope with the stress of the past year of nearly everyone she’d met thinking she was a murderer, of the target of another plot to kill her and the people in her life that meant something to her.

she’d survived, again. so had tara. it feels good to have that reminder, the rush of heat and blood through her veins with someone else warm and as alive as she is helping it along. he seems to need the reminder, too.

he presses against her, shifting against her and letting her feel how hard he’s gotten between what they’ve been doing. she groans and her hips rock against his before she starts working her jeans over her hips, down enough to work over and off one leg after toeing one of her boots off. she reaches for his hand and directs it between her legs, where he can feel the scant remainder of fabric that keeps her decent and thrusts against his hand; a hint that he can help her take it off, shift it aside, or tear it off of her. ]
masticated: (pic#17630212)

[personal profile] masticated 2025-03-06 07:01 pm (UTC)(link)
[saber has dreamed of moments like this, of powerful women smothering him or being smothered by him. raΓ­z is unattainable and he never received his mother's approval, but he's delusional and fills the emptiness inside of him with the influence that raΓ­z holds over him, now muddled with images of alicent's face, the stretchmarks on her belly, and the intoxicating cycle of his dick disappearing inside of her over and over again. he can do right by alicent, can be the perfect mate for her and provide what she needs. craves. has.

she has him. nothing else but him.

his jaw yearns for another mouthful, to latch on to the spot that alicent is pulling him into. canines sink past bruising and hyper-sensitive skin to draw blood and leave the imprint of his teeth. even the tiny droplets of blood that surface are taken up on his tongue without hesitation. devours as she absorbs him, eat as she eats, and she's eating well. he's only able to give her this much because it's her.

the way her body reacts, all the shivers and trembling gasps, alerts saber of a terrible hint. a woman awfully neglected of pleasure, and how right it is that he's the one to take her for himself, regardless of the forest's heated magic coursing through their veins.
]

No β€” no, they can't. They never will.

[warmth pools in his abdomen when she tells him she's his. to him that means forever, and forever he'll make it. dick swelled and pumping inside of her, each roll of his hips building him closer. if his first or second orgasm didn't take, this will. his fingers still messy with their sex, slick and sticky skin eliciting wet sounds for every thrust, he keeps his hands in her soft curls, fingers playing with the flesh that swallows him so well, circling over her clit. the slower rhythm allows him more control, but the stimulation isn't anything more than that.]

Alicent β€” Alicent, Alicent, Alicent.

[each time with more urgency, breathless and hungry. watching her squirm, he's an animal bent over eager prey. teeth on her skin gets replaced with lips, with softness, until the undeniable falter of his hand on her cunt and the hitch of his breath that gives him away. saber's muscles tense almost painfully, body worked up on animal natural to fulfill his duty as he buries himself as deep as he can and holds himself there, cock pulsing with each spurt of come. only when he's finished does he begin to rock into her again to urge her into another with him.]
peasant: (alina14461)

cw: mommy kink (cont. forever), blood play if u squint .... breeding kink, cnc vibes

[personal profile] peasant 2025-03-06 07:50 pm (UTC)(link)
Yes, ( she sighs, the humid wind of her exhale caressing his cheek. easy acceptance to give — paul needs a fixture that won't leave, won't be swayed from him; alina grows roots for him, planting slim fingers into the conception bed of dirt beneath them, fertile as the swollen pink between her thighs. fitting for it to be here, where he can repay the favor — seed life into her until she's flowering with it, the vibrant garden-bed of children he'd promised her. ) I made you. I gave you life. My beautiful boy.

( his mother, his maker, his savior, his patron saint — parent to all orphaned, abandoned things. jessica could never be such a loving hand to hold. what is paul, anyway, if not one of her own? what is paul, if not conceived by the womb of her power, eve plucked from her rib? she can smell it on him, maddeningly, where she noses along the hidden alcove of his throat. sunlight, woven through the storms of salty caladan sea breeze. suckling, she drinks the taste into her mouth with a throaty hum, like she's sampling the explosion of flavor on her tongue — considering a sip of what's on market, before she's ready to drain the glass.

she releases him with a pop, unmarked and unscarred. there's no furious rush, suddenly, to take what's already been yielded to her, pawing at it like a hopeless thief in the night — alina nips, teasing and testing. a mouse playing with a cat's tail, just to see what it can get away with. not much, if his grip is anything to go by, holding her like the steel mouth of a trap. a reminder of possession, even as he submits. a reminder that, inevitably, he'll win. nonsensically, alina needs him to take it, conquered like a battle, a spoil of war pinned on his cock. a keening cry wrings from her at the thought, bearing her hips down on him, sticky folds parting around his twitching dick like a warm embrace.

when her teeth break skin, it's deliberately in the wrong spot, just shy of his mating gland — a bullet that barely grazes. alina smiles, blood on her teeth, licking the stream of his, hers, their blood that collects in his collarbone.
)

I won't give it to you. ( she will. even as she whines it, her clit kisses the leaky head of his cock, a needful grind, using him as a toy before he can change the rules, force her to only take what he gives. ) But I don't think you care. It's your turn to give me life. You decided you were going to fuck a baby into me the moment this started, whether I wanted it or not. You're going to come inside my little cunt until it takes. Because I can fight it all I want, but you know it's yours, and you're mine, and I'll never belong to anyone else. You'll make me see it. You'll make me understand, if you have to.

( alina's eyeflashes flutter, kissing his neck where she hides away, little puffing moans buried in his pulse. it doesn't feel repulsive to get off to the fantasy, for once, of being a kept, owned thing, having paul decide what she needs, making all of her choices for her, taking away her right to resist — it just feels freeing, her overwrought mind and her damaged soul and her aching cunt blissfully quiet beyond paul, paul, paul. )
corvere: (pic#15772577)

[personal profile] corvere 2025-03-06 08:58 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Even as his hand seizes hold of her arm, it's not terror she feels: it's excitement, natural-born and mask-exacerbated.

Petite as she is, no muscle-bound predator suits her. Nothing that surges and courses and tears apart its prey with raw might represents the simmering danger within her; not when patience, opportunity and cleverness has won her every life she's taken before. Mia goes with the throw, her muscles softening like a drunken soul, leaving her able to tumble and roll over herself without taking too much pain unto her little figure. She writhes like a serpent, her face half-hidden by a black domino-style mask that might look plenty "superheroic" to a guy like Homelander, and lands herself on all fours. Toes tucked below her shins, fingers splayed on the ground.

An eagle, against an ermine. Both predators, but the fact that he'd be feasting on her in the wilds does not escape her. ( It excites her, actually. ) ]


β€” of course I did. You're great to look at. Tasted just as good, too.

[ There's little reason to lie, in this place. She really did miss him, even if she'd played him a fool and twisted him to her will with a kiss. Hide a few things, yeah. But lie? It's not like she's pursuing someone's life for her dark, murderous goddess and having to pull out all the stops. Slowly, she begins to rise from the ground, and briefly, the shadows beneath her tremble like plucked strings. ]

Are you mad at me? Or do you want to make this round two?

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