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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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πππ πππ ππ ππππππ πππ πππ 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs 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.
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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs 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.
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.
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
no subject
Unsettled and wanting, he runs his tongue over his fangs and doesn't move, not until she does, opening her arms and making room for him in the blankets, a disarmingly childish gesture. After a moment, he takes her invitation, wondering in the back of his mind which part of him wants this. Ever since he came back from death, his past seems very present; he's cutting himself all over again on the edges of old memories. Did Arun climb like this into someone's bed? Did Amadeo seek comfort in someone's arms? For the first time, he wants to know the answers.
He reaches Lauralae and pauses to reach down and pull off his slippers, dropping them onto the floor, then lies down carefully alongside her, slipping beneath the blankets still fully clothed. He keeps his hands to himself for the moment, gathered up on the pillow while he looks at her.
Without meaning to, the confession comes to him and demands to be spoken. Softly, he says: ]
I don't know how to be alone.
no subject
[ Turning her body, she tilts her head to look at him. Even with his vampirism returned, even with the knowledge that he could slide close to her and bite her, steal her blood and rob her of her life, she is not afraid of him. If that is what he wished, she could not fault him for it; it is his nature, as much as the craving for flesh is in her own, learning to accept it as part of who she is. It was easier, when Matthew was here, but now...
Lifting her hand, she reaches to touch his face, then hesitates. She sleeps with her gloves on, there is no way that her touch would harm him, but she is not sure of her welcome, and would wait for him to draw her close and seek her, if that is his wish. She is here to provide whatever comfort he might desire, her heart on her sleeve for a man who means so much to her. It is strange to think that it happened so swiftly, but...
They understand one another.
Voice quiet, she tilts her head up to gaze at him. ]
You have been loved for so long, and they have been taken from you. But you do not have to be alone as I was.
[ When her mother had died. When she had been abandoned, alone, to rot in a forest. When her life had been ripped from her small, fragile hands. ]
I would not let you be alone, Armand. Whenever you feel it, I will be here. I do not know if it helps.
[ Lauralae cannot erase the feelings inside of him, cannot help him adjust to loneliness and isolation - but she can do something to ease the heartache of it, as best she can. ]
no subject
She wants, very badly, to help him. To offer comfort. It's his own instinct to obey. She's his sister in spirit if not in body, the closest thing he has to a coven-sibling in this place. Shrouded in shadows and forged by trauma, like him. Vampires and wolves are not truly meant to be alone. ]
Thank you. It helps. [ He bridges the gap between them, reaching out carefully to touch her face with his fingertips, drifting up over her cheek and temple to brush back her hair, lightly touching the point of her ear. ]
Little bird. Do you remember what I said to you, when we first met? Your queen may have owned you, but she could not change you. They may think they own us here, but they cannot truly change what we are. [ He says the words firmly, hoping that by speaking them he can make it true, that he can believe them. ]
no subject
She is happier here than she has been anywhere else, and she cannot even try to deny it, not when her heart is so warm and filled with tenderness. She is a wolf, and Armand is her pack, and she would bare her neck to him and offer her beating heart if she thought it would ease the aches within him. There is adoration that is flourishing inside of her, a warmth and desire to please and care that she cannot deny, because that is what he means to her.
Perhaps he understands it, even if her words are hoarse and lost in her throat.
Leaning in, she sighs softly. The touch to her ears makes them twitch, a soft flush to her cheeks, but she does not chase it; instead, her dark eyes focus on him and nothing else. ]
I remember. She owns my soul, but not my heart, nor my spirit. I am more myself here, and I would take that strength with me.
[ Turning her head, she presses her face against his hand, his wrist. ]
We are who and what we are, and that is a choice that we can make. If you had me help you remember, then tell me what you would wish me know. What words would anchor your heart?
no subject
The blood flushing her cheeks makes his fangs ache. He watches her in silence, entranced by the soft breath against the inside of his wrist. Softly, into their private shadows, he admits to the both of them what he wants. ]
Tell me you love me. [ He could force her -- he could take over her body and make her mouth the words, could convince her that she feels that way, but he wants to hear the truth. ]
no subject
Lauralae had thought she had known love, once. She had fallen into the trap of affection and tenderness, the promise of a future held in the arms of a lover. She had felt the embrace of a mother and been safe, secure, comforted for all her ills and pains. It had been torn from her, ripped from her, a knife to the stomach and a wound in the mind, and she had thought herself strange and broken.
What is love, she wonders, a soft voice in the back of her mind, claws digging into her heart. Is it this trust, this tenderness, the knowledge that she can offer herself and share herself without shame nor hesitation? Does it have to be more than that, does it have to require any further definition? If she were to love, she thinks it would feel like this: comfort, warmth, sweetness, the tang of blood in the air, the knowledge that she could offer him all she has, and he would be gentle with it.
Leaning in, unable to resist, she presses her lips to his jaw, curling herself against him as best she can. ]
I do. I love you. [ Perhaps not with the depth of romance that is inspired by others, perhaps it is different, but she is sure of it. The warmth she feels cannot be denied, the hope and joy that captivates her in his company. ] I feel it, Armand.
no subject
He makes a soft noise of surrender as she leans in to kiss him, his arm sliding out around her body to hold her close, almost convulsively. He rubs his fingertips along the curve of her spine, intoxicated by the warmth of her mortal body and the words she offers him, careless with everything she wants to be for him, with everything he wants to be for her. The little bird who flew into his hands; his sister in pain and loneliness. ]
Yes. I love you, Lauralae. [ Saying the useless words, feeling the useless feelings. He shifts his weight, leaning up above her to look down into her eyes for a long moment, as if searching them, before he tilts down again to kiss her, deep and slow, letting it be full of hunger and gratitude. ]
no subject
She knows it is not.
Lauralae thinks of it; she can recall the moment she had bared her heart, the sweetness of a mouth on her cheek, fingers against her arms. A girl, a scrap of a child, falling into adoration, childish wonder overcoming her and betraying her true preservation instincts. The touch of a soft hand on her skin, the brush of a mouth against her jaw, her neck, a smile against her skin, an I love you, and then...
And then a dagger in her stomach, blood on her hands, cracked and damaged from her curse, a bitterness on the tongue of someone who claimed to have her heart, who claimed to wish for nothing but her joy and safety.
Armand's kiss against her mouth is a real anchor, drawn to him as if he has his own gravitational pull, and Lauralae sinks into him. There is no hesitation, no pause, her own adoration, her own need for his embrace, her own desire to fight loneliness fuelling her want.
She will love him, for as long as she is able, as long as she can, and she will prove it with her touch and her thoughts. ]
cw: idk the vibes are weird
He moves against her in the bed, lowering himself down alongside and on top of her, using his knees to part her legs so he can settle between them. His hand drifts to her hair as he kisses her, glass-sharp nails tangling in her curls. She's so sweet and soft, so innocent. Is this what it had been like for Marius' patrons, claiming Amadeo?
His fangs ache in his mouth. He drifts his kisses away from her lips, over her cheek, listening to the flutter of her heart and breaths as he seeks her throat. ]
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Her limbs move on instinct, no hesitation as her legs encircle Armand, sharp, bony knees nudging into his body as she tilts herself up to chase him. Each kiss feels like benediction in the echoes of their confessions, ambrosia of love given between them; this is what it means to be cherished. This is what it means to be accepted, to be embraced in spite of all the sadness and loneliness that there is in the world.
Armand in her kin in this. Her body clamours for him, opens to him like an offering, and she does not even second-guess turning her head to bare her neck, to permit his teeth to go where they please. Submission from a wolf, a sign of surrender, a sign of respect, a sign of adoration; Armand can drink from her as he pleases. She gives it freely, but for him, it feels different.
It feels as if she belongs here, somehow, under his touch, under his bite, to be tender, to be willing, to be wanton. He will accept her, surely, no matter what she asks? For all the darkness in her, Armand sees her for more. ]
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I love you.
[ He says it, soft and breathless, to say it, to hear himself say it, to hear what her heart does when he says it. Like a child practicing at his prayers, learning it by rote. Lauralae knows him and understands him and adores him anyway, despite it all (though not all, not all of the secrets, not the ghosts that linger -- he tries not to think about those). They are the same, he and Lauralae. She can help him and he can help her; together, they can be better than they were supposed to be. ]
I love you. [ Again, as he pushes his trousers down onto his thighs and slides between her bare thighs, finding her bare beneath her nightgown. ] I love you.
[ He moves against her, rolling his hips, then into her, into that warm tight wetness in the same moment his teeth pierce her throat and her bright sparkling blood begins to flow into his mouth. ]
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To an outsider, sheβs sure this would seem nonsensical, strange, to give devotion with nothing but the faith of her heart. To allow her legs to open and hitch, curling around him as he sinks into her - to moan his name, breathless and content and happy, overwhelmed by the sheer joy of being wanted. To her, in her mind, nothing could be more natural, nothing could be more perfect than this.
The sound of delight and relief she makes at Armand pressing into her is mirrored by the sting of pain at his bite, and she groans aloud and tilts herself, baring her neck and giving him all that she has. She hopes he can see into her mind, feel the racing pulse of her heart, can recognise the adoration and love inside her, tamed and angled towards him. Armand, as dear to her as anyone can be, Armand, the closest she has to kin, Armand.
Breathless, her voice comes out a shuddering gasp, sweet and soft into the quiet of the room. ]
I love you. Allow me to⦠Let me love you, as long as I can.
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He groans against her neck, drinking, rocking with her to slide into her body and back again, feeling her wet and willing and open to him. Without hesitation, he gives the feeling back again, pouring his own pleasure into her mind and body, letting her experience it as a heightening of her own responsiveness.
Still moving, he pulls himself off of her neck with a gasp, licking blood from his fangs -- not sated, but wanting to lean in and kiss those words from her lips, coppery and tasting of her. Then, after, pressing his brow to hers as he fucks her in languid rolls of his hips, body throbbing with the blood he's taken from her. ]
Eternity. [ For she has it, the immortality in her blood and magic, given the curse of forever along with the gifts of her people. He doesn't need to kill her to imagine her at his side.
He groans softly, chasing the edge of release as it builds inside him, letting it flow into Lauralae through their connection. Moving faster, faster. Again, pressed to her lips: ]
Eternity, eternity.
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It is primal, and wonderful, and she does not think she has ever felt more herself than in moments like this.
The kiss draws her in, twinned with the shared experience, the ease with which they slip into one another and offer it without pause. She trusts him, she loves him, she desires him, a craving that fills some strange void in her, and it feels so perfectly right to do this. They are kin, they are together, they are warmth in each other's arms, and she would do anything in her power to please him.
Armand has her love. She wants to see his joy, wants to taste her blood on his tongue and let her own flick over his fangs to chase the sensation of it.
It's impossible not to lose herself to it then, to bask in the sensation, arching as she rocks against him and lets herself sink into the enjoyment. The sparks of pleasure are only heightened by the way he leans into her, whispers to her, and she nods, breathless as she comes around him, lost in it all.
They can be together for as long as she breathes, and after that, still. Even if she lost her immortality, she can live here. She can live with him, and love him as he deserves. ]
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His orgasm crashes through his body like a wave breaking against a shore, coming in long shuddering pulses as she tenses and shivers underneath him. He moans into her mouth, fingernails puncturing through her sheets and into the mattress, pleasure flooding from him, into her, endlessly.
For a long moment he stays with it, lost in it. Then he takes a breath he doesn't need and he's Armand again, breaking off to nuzzle her cheek, soft and affectionate and still throbbing inside her. ]
Petit oiseau. [ He hums softly. ] Ya hayati.
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Turning her head, she kisses him so sweetly, so tenderly, nipping at his mouth and smiling into each press of their lips. She doesn't want him to move, doesn't want to lose this moment, doesn't want it to slip away. She's content, and shifts to curl into him with all the gentleness she possesses. ]
I love you.
[ She switches to elven, mirroring his own shift in language, kissing the edge of his jaw, the snarl of his mouth, smiling. ]
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Here.
[ The puncture wounds have bled onto the pillows; they're already healing, but Armand lifts his hand anyway, bringing his thumb briefly to his mouth, sharp fangs piercing the skin and bringing his own blood forth. Gently, he touches it to her throat, circling his thumb over the holes to close them, his gifts joining with hers to speed the healing. Vampire courtesy.
That done, he dips back down to kiss her again, a teasing brush of his lips across hers, then touches the tip of her nose with his own. So delicate and sweet, his love. Her blood in his veins warms him. ]
You have improved in finding your pleasure since the first time we met. [ He moves into her again, a slow rocking thrust. ] Will you show me what you have learned?
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[ Lauralae would not have minded terribly if he had let her bleed, allowed her to stain her own sheets with the life that pulses inside of her. She likes the smell of it, the reminder of it, the way that it brings flushes to her skin and the warmth that their closeness inspires in her. All of it feels good - the bites to her skin, the feel of him inside of her, the mess they're making.
Noses brush, fingers touch, and she warms herself against him as her hips rock again, seeking more pleasure. ]
What would you have me show you? The sharing of minds? My enjoyment at being the master, the rider? Or the magic that Matthew taught me, that I make take others as men do?
[ She would do it all for him, her sweet friend, dear brother, her darling love. ]
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[ Still moving, slow and steady, he reaches for her hand, bringing it across her body and down between them. He leans down to kiss her again, letting his mind touch hers, riding the throb of her heart, the tidal surges of her blood. Waves of awareness through both of their bodies. ]
Touch yourself for me. [ This time he speaks into her mind as he kisses her, using his own gift to strum her nerve endings in the same way he did at their first meeting, all those months ago. Drenching her in pleasure to drown out the grief, the loneliness. ] My sweet girl, beloved sister.