𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐘 ▣ MARCH TDM

[saltburnmods]

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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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 — 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 — 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

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

saber tooth | original | ota (hunter) current character

[masticated]

𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 (𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔵)( cw: overeating??? idk he eats a lot )

[saber is frequent flier of breakfast, no matter the situation. he’s up early and always looking refreshed from a full night’s sleep, dressed in semi-casual but well-fitted clothing.

he lounges on the blankets, propped up on his elbow and munching on lobster sandwiches, then fruit cakes, several glasses of champagne, pause for a cigarette, and back to sandwiches again. watching saber eat is entrancing, only because he manages to put back so much with no hint at becoming full — he’s a bottomless pit.

sucking dessert crumbs from his finger, he glances at whoever is sitting across from him, brow arched, chin tipping toward their food.]

You gonna eat that?

➵ 𝔠𝔲𝔭𝔦𝔡'𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴( cw: nsfw, sex, heat/rut, breeding, aphro, violence, prompt-related dubcon )

option i:
[prone to gluttony and overindulgence, saber gets his hands on those pesky little eggs and snacks on as much as he desires, soon finding himself to be participating in the hunt. with his powers back in full swing, he’s got more than enough energy to outlast any woman he wants, and once he sets his eye on someone, they’re as good as caught. donning the mask of a clouded-leopard and a collar in his hand, saber doesn’t run, but walks into the forest instead.

the catch? he’s not hunting the prey first, he’s hunting the competition. he’s fast, relentless, and with a newfound wild heat in his belly that makes him even more violent than before. he doesn’t think twice about tackling an unsuspecting someone (and it could be anyone, man or woman) to the ground to overpower them, hands at their throat and insanity burning behind his eyes. men he’ll try to knock out or even kill and one thing for certain: his intent is absolutely malicious. for women it might turn into a fight of dominance, where their instincts override the need to win and he’s kissing them instead of killing them. he’ll want to fuck them into submission if the feeling is mutual.]

option ii:

[fights get his blood pumping, makes his dick hard. or maybe that’s the magic. saber acts on his instincts anyway, but never at this level of intensity. there’s a scent in the air that’s especially alluring, one that he follows and follows and follows. the need inside of him only grows stronger, he wants to find — has to find — a mate. he’ll chase until his prey is exhausted, used to pushing his own limits to get what he wants.

instead of beelining, he’ll cut through different paths and circle the woman who’s scent is so sweet he wants to swallow them up, finding her curled on the forest floor or perhaps cornered in a clearing. he’s panting and flushed, tipping his mask up to rest on his head. he grins, either crawling on top of his victim or pressing them up against a tree. his greedy tongue licks up their neck and his hands are everywhere over their soft skin, reaching down to cup their cunt, not yet pressing inside.]

Y’know, I’ve never really felt this way before. Have you? But you’re beautiful and I really wanna fuck you. I think I have to, sweetheart. Can I?

[his eyes are so dark it’s hard to tell how large his pupils are, but are they really paying attention to that when he’s massaging a finger over their clit and mouthing their neck?]

𝔞 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔟𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢 ( cw: nudity )

[much preferring a communal bath over writing letters or ruminating on the terrible things he's done. he holds no guilt or regret, and his motivations, as awful as they tend to be, are justified in his very reliable opinion. once waded into the water, people will notice that his body is free of scars, which might come to a surprise considering how he threw himself into every fight with the revenants that he could.

he'll tend to women as one would tend to someone holy, pouring water over exposed skin and combing hair away from their face. for hands prone to violence, they are gentle in these moments. his dimpled smile is reassuring, or what he's practiced to be reassuring. perhaps he spots an exposed scar, rubbing a thumb over the raised skin. he's close, has to be, voice lowered for intimacy. they could be alone for the way he's looking at her.]

Wanna tell me about it?

𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔡

( open for any prompts if none of these vibe, from gen to ritual sex to w/e suits ur fancy, also god forbid if anyone has him fall in love w them but go for it. his opt-out is here. hmu at melusine4300 on disco or turnt if you’d like a closed starter/want to plot something specific! also if you want to interact but want to avoid certain kinks/etc, let me know what to avoid and we can work something out! ♥ )

➵ ( closed ) alicent | cw: heat/rut, breeding, aphro, dubcon mention, maybe more we dont know

[masticated]

[it's her. he knows that it's her, been so close to remember how her cigarettes had stuck to her skin and caught the slightest grace of her warm hand to his face. she'd patched him up and left him wanting, excited for a new game of cat and mouse. whoever he'd been chasing in the forest is forgotten about once he catches wind of that scent. familiar yet unfamiliar, one that he'd like to be enveloped in and take over with his own all at once.

he feels wrong, like his insides are on fire and he has to get his dick wet or the world will end. even he can tell that's dramatic, but the unrelenting need that drives him further into the forest erases any rationality. he's as much as a force during the hunt as he was killing the revenants, seemingly not having a limit for how long he can run for. throughout the chase, depending on how much he decides to play with her to pretend she's got a chance, breathy laughter will bubble up from his throat, the wild ecstatic sound of someone who has their prey cornered.

the urge to take her down is strong - he wants to grab her, show her that he's more than worth her time whether she likes it or not. but those thoughts are not his own and give him pause, and fuck, he aches. his lungs aren't getting enough air, body all pumped up on what he thinks is fuckall; this is the most turned on he's been in his life. he wants to fill her up, wants to give her children, wants to make sure she can't walk.

when he finds alicent, he circles her, slow and deliberate. he's a little twitchy, shoulders stiff and hands flexing at his sides. his mask is pushed up over his head, brown curls messy, strands stuck to his forehead with sweat.]

Hiya. [taking in her naked body, wetting his lips in anticipation. he's always been more animal than human in mind, this just confirms it.] Chasin' you was fun, but I don't think either of us wanna keep that up. Do we?

[unapparent]

[ another game, she thinks, of wolves and sheep. alicent plays along in part to maintain favour with the balfours — to say nothing of the heat blossoming under her skin, the flush that rouges her breasts, neck, cheeks as she sheds her gowns and dons her mask. a doe, oft cornered by lords so that the king may shoot the killing arrow. pathetic, in truth, that her husband could not hunt such docile prey. he would never have had her, even, if not for her and her father’s efforts. viserys offered her neither seduction nor conquest. the indolence of a royal lot.

her hunter, however, does not languish. there may have been two or more contenders at the start, but the world narrows to the one, glimpsed between the trees. the scent of him overwhelms, at once familiar and revelatory — she recognises him as the boy — the man she sat beside twice, to bestow power upon him and save him from death. an absurd thought: was he hunting her then, eyes beseeching and tongue honeyed?

she uses everything furiosa taught her to evade capture, even as her legs grow wobbly and her breathing shortens, pitching low and ragged (to say nothing of her heart, taking flight behind her ribs). in her growing desperation, she cuts left, into a clearing — and thus finds herself both exposed and caught. relief floods her first, overriding the instinct to dart away. the fluttering in her gut, her chest, seem anticipatory rather than nervous, for the sight of a familiar face, who might have pursued anyone in the game and instead found her, seemingly rattling apart with the want. her big eyes catch on the divot of his hip, the curve of his cock, then the muscled planes of his back, as he passes behind her.

her mask stays in place, the only armour left to her, though she does not shy from his hungry assessment. instead, she sweeps her auburn curls over her shoulder to bare her breasts (as well as the flat of her stomach with its fain stretch mark; mother to four, even if she did not raise the last). ]

Hm. [ he speaks as though he knows what she wants, which irks and charms in equal measure. for she imagines fisting her hands in his curls so he can do nothing but please her with his mouth. no, even in her spiralling fantasies that leaves her wanting, when he should press her into the clearing floor, fill her up as her husband never could. a dream more unladylike and debaucherous than all she allowed her knight, in the dignity of her chambers. ]

Do you think a queen wishes to kneel, unconquered?

[ nevermind that she doubts she could or would slip from his grasp again, with her whole body aching for him. once, desire was foreign to her, subsumed entirely by duty. now, she knows the shape of it, amorphous though it can be. difficult, still, to gauge whether she wants something simply because it has been asked of her, after a lifetime of obedience, but this feeling, this molten heat, could not be an act to fool her predators or herself. ]

[ tone arch, ] You might consider begging, if you think yourself incapable.

[ of capture and conquest, the name of the game. even if she no longer wishes to run (if her stomach cramps with need, if her whole body shivers when he faces her again), she is a prideful woman. and she spoke true to him, before, men have competed and warred for her hand. she’ll not be so easily won. ]

[masticated]

[distantly, in some realm of sanity in saber's mind, the story of adam and eve in the garden of eden reflects their situation perfectly. only saber is the snake offering temptation, and alicent is not so easily lured to bite the apple. she exposes herself for him, but it isn't her breasts that assault his senses - it's her neck. pheromones muted by her hair are twice as irresistible and make his jaw go slack and mouth water.]

No, [all he can think about is what she might taste like, the curve of each breast and how the sunlight makes her glow, how when his eyes trail down to her stomach and hips that she must take to growing a child well.] I don't want you to kneel, I never wanted you to.

[that, at least, is a truth, voice low and salacious. where most stumble he excels, closing in on her to remove the mask from her face himself. her heartbeat thrums in his ears - he's never wanted a woman more and now he can really look at her. she smells so good, and her lips are tempting and asking for him to kiss her. he leans down to breathe heat over her mouth, inhaling her exhales.]

I'll eat you up 'til you don't want me to beg for you.

[one hand trails down the center of her chest, a ghost of a touch beginning at the apex of her collarbone, slowing between her breasts to finally flatten at her belly. he pauses there to trace over smooth skin and graze along her stretch marks with a hum of approval. everything in him tells him to push forward, to take what's his anyway, but even in his haze of heat and want he falls into his habit of pleasing before taking and he lowers his hand to palm over her cunt. no entrance, only to apply a firm but gentle pressure. her warmth makes him shudder, traces of wetness reaching his skin.

their lips nearly touch when he speaks again,]

My mouth can be anywhere you want.

cw ref to forced marriage, marital rape

[unapparent]

[ surprisingly, saber doesn’t flinch at the evidence she’s done this before (or the marks of the beast that killed her, cut from between her breasts to the raised ridge of her collarbone, split across her torso, where it rended her open). and he answers correctly. no, rightly, honouring her station and inclinations both, though he’s only beginning to learn of the latter.

as a reward, she allows him to remove her mask, breath hitching at the reveal. like a veil, lifted before a husband younger and more deserving than the one that was forced upon her. she sees him more clearly without it (or simply more vividly, a wonder of flushed skin and firm muscle). she tilts her chin up in defiance, even as her eyes fix upon his pink mouth, thinking of how it might feel against her throat (a leftover fixation from her time as a vampire, or—) undaunted, she flutters a hand to his chest, smoothing over the swell of it to the strong curve of his shoulder. as strong as he seemed in the fights against the undead.

she parts her mouth under his, performative at first (the blushing maiden, liked best by all) though the gasp that follows at his touch is wholly genuine. she feels — aflame, liquid warmth flooding her from her legs to her throat, swirling low in her stomach, under his hand. she never wanted to be fucked and filled, in her marital bed, but this boy — this man — would do so much better than the perfunctory rutting of her king. she knows it. needs it. already wet from the exhilaration of the chase. ]

[ gently mocking, ] A pity I don’t yet know what it’s good for. Might it praise me — [ she slides her other hand to his nape, fingers twisting in the short hairs there. ] — kiss me —[ grip harsh to force him to bend closer as she leans up on her toes and into the cup of his hand, the heel of his palm flush against auburn curls. ] — please me?

[ without waiting for an answer, she kisses hard and hungry, licking into his mouth like a woman starved. perhaps she is, after denying herself for so long. ]

[masticated]

[alicent gasps from his touch, making his painfully hard cock twitch and precome leak from the head. ideas swarm for how he'll prepare her for his length and how many times she might let him come inside of her. he's so sensitive that the mere connection of her fingers on his body and in his hair elicits a soft groan. not enough, not enough, not enough. he starts a retort, the beginning of the name forbidden to his tongue.]

Ali—

[names mean so much, he knows that. women want to be seen, paid attention to and known, but she doesn't let him finish and swallows his words instead. their lips crush together and all senses overwhelm him. he returns the intensity, open mouthed and feverish to relish in the wet heat of her mouth. his tongue slides over hers, fights to push past her teeth to taste more of her.

gluttony rules him, has him bending even lower to scoop beneath her thigh with his free arm and lifting her up to press flush against him, cock sliding against her stomach. he's dropping to his knees with her, refusing to break the kiss or remove his hand from its rightful place.

he keeps her settled on his thighs, sat back on his haunches, hand gliding up to the small of her back for support. here he'll be able to manipulate her body the way he likes, encouraging her to open her legs for him while he plays his fingers between her soft folds, unable to resist sliding one inside of her. that makes him moan too, low and guttural. he wants to fuck her, consume her, claim her until there's nothing left.]

[unapparent]

[ perhaps she’ll allow him to say her name, if he begs. or if he gasps it so sweetly, desperately, as he threatens to do before she recaptures his mouth. there’s so much in a name, aemma whispered in her ear more often than alicent, while her knight said nothing at all, my lady choking out the specifics of her person (because ser criston fucked her girlhood companion in that room first, spoiling her years before alicent ever parted her legs for him). ever the second choice, the consolation prize, the young wife chosen for her womb and not her person. alicent does not doubt saber has eyes for others — likely for whoever looks upon him, greed evident in his beseeching gaze, his insistent mouth. it matters not because he must want her more than anything, in this moment, for she feels as though she’ll die, if she doesn’t have him. if he doesn’t claim her, the prize of the hunt.

she grasps him tightly in turn, nails biting into his back as he lowers them to the ground, then pushing at his shoulders to hold herself above him, stealing all the air she can as she looks down at him through her lashes. would a knight have bed her like this, if she had more time?

her thighs part instinctively, spreading that bit wider under his broad palm. she hovers in his hand, above his mouth, for agonising seconds before she meets him again, hips hitching and tongue seeking. pliant, no, eager because it will win her all she desires, too, curved hot and heavy against her stomach. pearling white and wasted, she realises with a shudder, when it should be inside her. she whimpers, then, as he presses a single finger into her, sudden and sure and not at all enough.

her hands wind into his curls, kiss glancing off the corner of his mouth as she talks. ]

Saber. [ his name riding on an exhale. ] Another, Saber. [ plaintive, coyness drowned out by need. she grinds into his hand, cunt fluttering around his finger. ] I’m no summer maiden.

[ her thoughts beyond this place — of the men who came before, upon her, inside her — splinter and scatter. impossible to be anywhere but here, to go away inside (as she did in her youth), with his overwhelming presence. ]

[masticated]

[so caught up in the very essence of her, he barely needs a suggestion to act on her desires. they're his desires, too. a second finger is pushed easily inside of her dripping cunt, curving up to reach that sweet spot that she's in the perfect position for him to reach. she's so wet already, tight and hot and welcoming around him. everything feels urgent, like he's running out of time when all he wants is to prolong the moment and have her a trembling mess in his hands.]

You are, you are. I want you ready, sweetheart, you're - [vocal and without shame he speaks to her, dips his fingers in and out of her in tortuous motions, and god how he wishes his mouth were there instead. those cute little sounds that escape her - his tongue can do so much more, he just wants a taste, one taste.]

so good, you're doing so good.

[she radiates the energy of a mother, one who craves and needs for more, he'd like to give her another child, but more importantly see how well she takes him. he leans into her for another kiss, forces her to trust the support of his hand on her back until she's on the ground and he's kneeling between her legs.

he breaks away from her, tongues along her neck and sinks his teeth into her skin. no one else can have her, everyone will know that he's tended to her, taken her. if the obvious scent of him isn't enough, the love bites will send the message. his hips grind into the air and he whines, needy and frustrated. as much as he wants to prepare her, eat her, lick between her folds- ]

I can't, [can't what? but he can, taking her nipple into his mouth to suck gently, wet illicit sounds between her legs when he dares for a third finger inside of her,] you're perfect.

[unapparent]

[ one wanton moan and then another, first at the bright fullness two fingers bring her — second at the praise, when she’s had so little of it, in her life. you are, he lies so prettily. she’s wretched, cruel, cold — no, impossibly warm, flush rouging the peaks of her breasts, where they drag against his chest as she rides his fingers. accustomed, perhaps, to doing the work required to find her release.

but he lays her down, fucking into her with a fervour men reserve only for their cocks. she turns her head into her shoulder, nowhere to truly hide her panting mouth. the bared length of her neck is entirely intentional, hands urging him to fit into the hollow of her throat. fantasy made reality as he bites into that tender flesh, soothing some animal part of her, so she keens low in her throat. she wants him to do it again, to teeth his way down her chest, where other men have merely kissed her, to decorate her thighs with red crescents as proof of her belonging.

three fingers gets her closer, on the edge of too much too fast if not for the obscene sounds that prove otherwise. and the chasm inside her that yawns ever wider. ]

[ breatheless, smearing a kiss at his temple as he mouths down her chest, ] Then don’t.

[ what? don’t wait, perhaps, or resist whatever has delayed him so, all her propriety and restraint lost. alicent hooks her legs around his waist, urging him nearer. every push of her hips into his hand is a pale imitation of what she needs, even as she nears her first peak. three fingers gets her closer, on the edge of too much too fast if not for the obscene sounds that prove otherwise. ]

It’s not enough. [ undignified in her yearning, ] Darling, I need you inside me.

[ she reaches for his cock, hot and heavy in her delicate fingers, swiping along the vein to the leaking tip. she wants it in her mouth, no, her cunt, spilling inside her until she’s stuffed full. and again after that, until it takes. he’s young, he can keep going, can give her everything. ]

option ii

[longlegs]

[ Her skin is flushed, too warm, sweat making her glow from all the running, the tussling, and now the arousal in Saber's hand, that first touch enough to make her whine and tremble all over, holding onto his shoulders instead of pushing him away. It's not the first time she's felt this out of control, but it's never felt like a hunger, a need to keep him there now that he's started.

That's Saber, she'd know that voice even if he hadn't lifted his mask, but the expected sense of wrongness (the voice that always goes we're not like that) is nowhere to be found when his mouth finds her neck and his hand massages her dick. Would it even matter at this point—? ]

F-fuck, I — how did you even find me?

[masticated]

[he's caught someone valuable. cellar, who he's fantasized about enough to make him think a them really exists, who's said that she loves him, who he now has weak from his touch. he's alert to all of her: how her breath hitches in her throat, the taste of her sweat on his tongue, the delicious scent that permeates from her body. she's not resisting, which means he can keep going. has to keep going.

he's trapped her between himself and a tree, using his leg to nudge hers further apart. the question has a delayed answer, mouth too busy with exposed skin until he pulls away to meet her gaze, lips wet and darkened with saliva.]

I'm always gonna find you, Cellar, just like I told you I would. I promised.

[his body is so hot, even the smallest graze of skin against skin makes him wild. leaning his face close to hers and nudging their noses together, whispering,]

I've waited a long time for this. Kiss me.

[longlegs]

[ The press of his leg between her thighs makes her weak, hips twitching a little, then rolling into the curve of his skin, a soft noise in her throat at the surge of pleasure, the pang of pain in her stomach, and the absence of his mouth from her neck. She asked the question that demanded it, yet she looks at him like he just dared to take away the last drop of water on Earth.

I'm always gonna find you, Cellar. Her heart sinks at that, jolted by the reminder of what he is to her — and what she is to him — in this game, a hunter who made good on a promise — a threat. Her mind screams that he was made to devour her; her body insists that this is how the torture ends.

Like it's been conditioned, written into her, Saber nears in and her hand grabs the back of his neck. Her lips are parted, her eyes on his mouth before they make contact; brows drawn together, lashes wet when pain shoots through her like a whip, Cellar closes the distance with a sob, kissing him desperately. ]

It fucking hurts, [ She speaks into the embrace, voice weak, pleading for a cure. ] Can you make it stop?

[masticated]

[the tears forming at the corners of her eyes make his cock twitch, mostly for the primal need to ease her pain, to fuck and fill her until she's satisfied and content. the manor's power seems to be giving everyone a trip where saber continues to enjoy his luck. kissing her with a hunger he's held on to for too long, slipping tongue past teeth to taste her and moan into her mouth.

touching her, thumb gliding over the head to feel liquid drip onto his skin isn't enough. he knows that won't be enough for her. it's not enough for him, his cock aches to be inside her, her scent is everywhere and he wants to make her his. teeth want to bite, hands want to tear apart, tear into. reassuring, he shushes her,]

That's why I'm here— I'll make it right. I'll take care of you. Here, c'mon, you wanna lie down for me?

[he's making suggestions but pulling away from him may prove difficult. he's latching on to her neck with mouth once more, teeth digging into soft flesh (are they longer, sharper? or perhaps it's the forest's magic making him want to show everyone that this - cellar - is his, that he's captured her, pinned her and made her beg for the hunter to take his final bite).]

[longlegs]

[ Her kiss is sloppy, wanting too much, hurting too much. Any training she's had to withstand pain never included the other factor at play here, destabilizing her mind, weakening every defense, welcoming his touch no matter how painful or unbearably good. Cellar twitches against his fingers, too, thoughts scattered and frantic, a wild bird in a cage after a beast swats at the bars keeping it safe. (Keeping it trapped.) ]

Will that help?

[ She knows and she wants it to, yet the side that sought guidance from Saber last month — the man forbidden from being her mentor because Great stepped in first — floats right back up to the surface, making her sound pathetic and sweet. Her reaction to his bite follows, a sound that never quite makes it past her lips, cut short with a gasp. Legs weak, fingers tense, Cellar starts to make herself limp, biting her lower lip to endure what he's giving her as she tries to drag them both down, where he can have her on her back or on her stomach. She can do this — she's been through worse. Saber has rescued her from worse. That's what he's doing now. That's what he always does when she calls. He makes it all better. ]

[masticated]

It'll help, I promise - I promise.

[and he keeps promising with his lips on her skin, on her mouth, leaning in as she drags him down. dreams of dreams of dreams come to fruition. he doesn't think about how none of this would happen if not because of the forest. this is fate, this is exactly what he wants. she's asking for him, begging for him to take her pain away.

her pale skin flushed from heat, her breathy whispers and needy touches. how much until she's useless beneath him, until her mind is swept blank with only thoughts of him. he marks her with his hands and his teeth (fuck you theo), leaves his scent anywhere he can. he's thought so much about how he wants to take her. there isn't time to linger on his fantasies with her trembling in his hands. he wants to look at her, to see her eyes get wide, as much as he wants to shove her into the dirt and see how it reddens her face.

panting, spit trailing from the corner of his mouth because he wasn't able to lick it up fast enough, heart so loud in his ears. he's hungry, god he's hungry, laying her down on her back because he can always turn her over later. gentle, he reminds himself. he has to be gentle, crawling on top of her and palming hair away from her face with one hand while the other presses two fingers into her mouth.]

Open up, baby. [baby. his. his. his.] Make them wet.

[longlegs]

[ Every time she feels him on her she forgets everything else; every time he stops she's cruelly reawakened to the pain of not being his. He seems so large then, getting on top of her, mouth slick from all that time spent leaving his mark on her skin, from the softer curves to where it's most sensitive near the bones. She's slick too, fluid running between her legs, palms flat and fingers clawing at the ground underneath, both a comfort and a prison of the forest that's spinning her thoughts and twisting her insides.

Grabbing his hand, needy and anxious, Cellar sucks two fingers into an obedient mouth. There's a muffled whimper as they slide deep, as soft as a flicker of light, eyes shutting slowly. Saber wants them wet, so she'll get them wet — she'll suck, in and out, studying every detail with an indulgent tongue. Legs part slightly, hips moving from one side to another and arching back, seeking relief before another terrible spasm hits. ]

cw dubcon(??) ish mentions?

[masticated]

[her hands get smudged with dirt and grass and sweat and he hopes she'll hurry up and give in completely, to dirty him as much as he plans on dirtying her. cellar is so passionate in how she grips at his hand, it's hypnotizing seeing his fingers disappear inside her mouth. dazed and salivating for her as he imagines that mouth around his dick and what sounds she'd make when she gags on it.]

There we go, that's my girl.

[too filled to protest his claims until he pulls his fingers away to bring them low, slick and dripping, pressing at her tight hole to slip inside. he's not waiting for a yes or a no when he knows it's a yes with how her hips roll up for attention and her back arches. he eases her into it, fucks her with one finger to open her up and press a second inside. he's just as needy. he has a role he needs to fulfill and he's hot for it, cock dripping precome and pressing painfully against his pants. he distracts himself by kissing her, sloppy, licking up saliva that his fingers couldn't hold.]

rose

[nightsung]

[ Shadowheart's body aches after the hunt, sweat-slick and filthy. Though she's reluctant to venture too deep, the lake calls to her, as it seems to call everyone else; she takes careful steps along sand and silt, wading up to her navel. Others swim and float, dive out further, but Shadowheart won't let her feet leave the bottom.

She isn't shy about her nakedness, nor is she shy about looking at others. The boy who comes to tend to her is handsome, so she allows his touch, lets him loosen her braid and wet her hair. The water is cool, sweet on warm skin, and for just a moment, she feels--lighter. Like she could float without floating, a strange thought to have.

Until the boy takes her hand, brushes over the dark wound on the back of it. It twinges, and Shadowheart yanks her hand away, holding it close to her chest. ]

No, I don't.

[ Any goodwill he's earned seems to vanish in an instant, her expression closed and displeased as she looks up at him through wet bangs. ]

It's none of your concern.

[masticated]

[pretty woman with her hair so dark and sleek, she reminds him of a song. she has that sort of poetic look about her, the kind that makes people want to know more. all thoughts that could be formed if he had a mind that could be made sense of, but instead he's excited at the challenge she presents. she hadn't fought his gentle advance, her soft hair like silk between his fingers, or minded the newfound intimacy.

it's the prying she minds. his lips pull into a pout, brows knitting in practiced concern.]

Bad memory? I'm sorry. I can't get scars, so I like lookin' at them.

[and he likes making them. he holds his hands above the water, palms up first, then turns them over again.]

See? Clean. [getting her mind off his screw up is the goal, to steer the train completely off the tracks so she can't keep up.] It's different for you, though, isn't it?

[nightsung]

[ It's not a scar, Shadowheart thinks, though she won't share that with this stranger. He might come to that conclusion on his own, if he looks closely enough, or manages to touch it again: black and unhealed, a deep gouge on the back of her hand. A guidepost from her goddess, pain to show her the path forward.

For now, Shadowheart cups it close to her heart, arms covering her breasts. It's not that she's shied, and her body language largely says the opposite--she doesn't fold in on herself or avert her eyes. Her spine straightens instead, chin lifting to hold his gaze. She can handle this boy, whoever he is.

There's another scar, faded and shallow, that sweeps from the bridge of her nose across her cheek. Water drips down it and over her brow, onto her lashes. ]

There's still soap in my hair. Perhaps I should have washed myself.

[ Deflecting, as she turns her back: offering him the chance to make up for it, by doing a better job this time. ]

Do you heal quickly, then?

[masticated]

[a deeper, more sinister and vile shape inside of saber brightens up his features. got her. he gives her the upper hand, not looking down on but upon her as a holy being, mouth parting into an easy smile. not daring to encroach the way he'd like to, his hungry eyes admire her glistening skin and how the scar enhances her features.]

Don't you dare.

[teasing, right where he wants to be and where she wants him, cupping water to carefully pour over her hair. hands, as violent as they can be, offer an experienced delicateness when running through her hair. not too soft, not too hard. he lingers at her scalp, long fingers combing strands away from her face.]

I do, [cheerful, like she's got something on him.] not on my own, though. Gotta take from someone else.

[nightsung]

[ Shadowheart tips her head back, eyes falling closed as cool water and gentle hands run through her hair. There's an instinct in her that prickles at this, turning her back on and exposing her throat to a stranger, but there's an odd, quiet thrill in it, too. There's wanting in the way he looks at her, and there are a number of people pairing off, indiscreet about where their hands are roaming beneath the surface of the water, the press of their bodies against each other.

She's not opposed to that, as a rule--wouldn't be opposed to it with him, either, with his broad hands and muscular build, but Shadowheart also knows it will be satisfying to make him wait. ]

Take? [ She slicks her hair from her eyes, then, looking back at him over her shoulder. ] In what way?

[masticated]

[saber has a nice view of her back, the silhouette of her body reflected in the water. he wants to touch her, finds excuses for his hand to graze her spine. so smooth and warm, addicting for each touch he steals. could be an accident - he's only threading through her lovely hair, gentle to untangle any pesky tiny knots that might stick near the ends.]

What way?

[echoed back to her, head tilting as he looks down to meet her eyes.]

Kinda hard to explain. [no it's not, but he's here for the theatrics, the suspense. leaning down, he nearly swallows her up. hands trace over each of her arms 'til they find her wrists, chin resting on her head. if she pulls away, he'll back off, but if not -]

I touch them, [bringing her hands up above the water as he'd displayed his own to her, thumb pressing into each palm. he dips his head lower, lips close to her ear, chest flush to her shoulders, voice a sultry whisper for the words that follow.] and they rot. Not a pretty sight, definitely not like you. You're a real sight for sore eyes, you know that?

cw: dubcon fantasy??

[nightsung]

[ It's been a long time since Shadowheart let anyone touch her like this. He's presumptuous in a way that she rarely allows, the sweep of his hands down her arms and fingers circling her wrists. If she resisted, she imagines he'd let her go; if he didn't, she knows so many ways to overpower him.

But as his chest presses to her back, Shadowheart wonders what would happen if she let him overpower her. If she struggled, but not enough to throw him off, if his grip tightened and she arched into him, wanting.

She leans back against him for now, expression cool on the surface but pulse quickened beneath her skin, tipping her head to look up at him beneath her lashes. ]

Aren't you lucky to be looking at me, then?

[ Shadowheart imagines there are those who would be repulsed by his admission. Frightened, even. There is something in her that recoils from the image, even though it's not so different from her own capabilities, walking in darkness as she does. ]

I know something about rot, [ she says mildly, closing her fingers over his, ] and healing.

cw nsfw

[masticated]

[heart a steadily growing pace under his thumbs, intermingling with his own. if he focuses hard enough, he can imagine how they'd sound at the same pace, if they'd ever meet that pace to begin with. he does a lot of imagining: what she'd let him do to her (especially as she welcomes the embrace), what sounds would leave her mouth, what she tastes like. skin to skin, water droplets trailing down his face from his hair and trickling onto her shoulder, he thinks she'd let him take her.]

Who wouldn't be lucky to look at you?

[because shadowheart looks to be someone who knows how beautiful she is. his hands linger around hers. this time it's his heart that does an excited jump in his chest. usually no one is familiar with his particular set of skills, or magic - he doesn't know what to call it these days. just is. gingerly, he pulls one hand away from hers (she can keep hold of the other one, he likes how she feels) and wraps his arm around her waist, entrapping her.]

You didn't wanna tell me about your scar, or, well - it wasn't a scar, was it? [casual talk while his free hand roams her belly, snaking up to palm over a breast, catching her nipple between his fingers.] What about what you know? Tell me while I touch you.

[not a question anymore with her kept in his arms, but his tone remains the same. enticing, challenging. he wants to get as much information out of her as he can.]