๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
Entry tags:
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ โฃ 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 โ 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 ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 โ 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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 โ 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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
โ closed / cupid's arrow struck me (for jinx).
Bullet-hole scars stretch and contract across the narrow breadth of his chest as he runs, slipping into darkness and pressing his back to a tree as the first wave of the hunt passes by. Lucky, he thinks, his thoughts laced with bitterness, that he knows how to play this kind of game โ how to hide, how to use his speed and his size to his advantage.
But he doesn't account for what follows.
He's already seen a few prey claimed โ giggling and breathless as they're taken to the forest floor โ when he feels the first pang in his gut, as though someone had reached a hand into his stomach and formed a tight fist around everything inside. It flares like pain, like fear, and he can't help the gasp that escapes him, the sound only just barely lost in the sound of another hunt coming to a close (or to a beginning). He realizes that his footing has grown unsteady as he tries to go further into the woods, dread going head to head with a burning frustration as he hobbles further, furtherโ
โand for a moment, he thinks he's back in the water, that his scars have all torn open and his eye is rot rot rotting and that he'd been right when he'd first woken up here, that this is death, that he's just been dying for hours, hours, hoursโ
โbefore his knees buckle and he falls to the ground, his scrabbling hands carrying him just a foot further as dead leaves and torn blades of grass come loose under his fingers. It doesn't occur to him to think about the game, anymore, not when he feels so hollow, not when his very blood seems to be on fire. His frame curls into itself as he continues to gasp, carrying the edges of his voice into the void of the woods. ]
cw adopted family incest
A fucking jinx. A death curse in the form of a girl. A killer. She ignores the dying echo that names her perfect. The softer voice that promises her hands are for better things than this. Sanji was wrong, her fingers shaking against his wound, on Zoroโs chest.
She zeroes in on an elusive quarry, zig-zagging with the other prey animals, letting them take the fall. A girl, head thrown back against a tree, the smell of her tempting โ but not what she was after. The one she wants has disappeared into the thick of the trees, too many branches slung low to see clearly. Clever clever. She slinks through the gaps, too quick to be seen, too light on her feet to make a sound. ]
Uh-oh. [ Low and scratchy, as if she just took a drag. What a pity, that her target has fallen at the final hurdle, when she had such high hopes for a fight to the end. She flashes from her place behind him to stand before him.
And her heart stops, blood rushing with nowhere to go, limbs deadened by the sight of him. He looks the same as he had at the end, hair plastered to his forehead, gasping for air with holes in his lungs. The absence of him aches all the more for his unreal presence. She kissed him, and he left. She wanted him, and he denied her with his disappearance. Maybe he didnโt forgive her, maybe he didnโt want her, maybe โ ]
Silco, Silco. [ Both hands cradling his jaw, guiding his head up. She kneels before him, all her insecurities forgotten, with his obvious need at the forefront of her mind. She can smell it in the air, feel it under her fingers, a static shock everywhere they touch. Her eyes glow violet behind her mask, heavy-lidded. She canโt stop her hands from roving, one remaining at his cheek while the other trails down his chest, touching the very wounds she created, scar tissue rough against her fingertips. A miracle made flesh. ]
Are you really here? [ voice quavering, ] I thought you left me.
[ Like everyone does. Vander then Violet, Silco then Sanji. ]
no subject
I'mโ
[ Here. Burning up. Dying. Dead. A full-body flinch wracks his frame, bare as the day he was brought into the world, a groan replacing whatever words he means to speak aloud. For him, there's no disappearance, no denial โ just the memory, fresh as of mere hours ago, of her face fading from his vision. His hand shakes when he brings it up to her mask, stopping just short of touching her before finding his own, tearing it from his face as though it might allow him to see her more clearly. Even his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus, the slant of his eyebrows forming an apex rather than a divot, belying his desperation. ]
I'm here.
[ His mask clatters to the dirt, his fingers twitching in the empty air. He should bare his throat, he should surrender, let her tear him to pieces โ maybe it's just the fact that he already has that keeps him so tense, his muscles worked into knots that twitch under the pads of her fingers. ]
I'll alwaysโ
[ But that's not quite right. He had left her, even if it hadn't been by choice; it hadn't been his actions, not really, that had led her to him, now. Just her sheer determination. And now, he can barely move, whatever clarity he'd achieved after first waking here torn to shreds by the hunt, by the sight of her. Hadn't they been here, once? Him, clinging to her like a drowning man clings to a float โ but no, it'd been the other way around, her tiny form in his armsโ ]
You'll always find me.
no subject
Jinx lifts her hand from his cheek to remove her mask, alarmed to find it shaking all the while โ every muscle tensed and rigid with how she holds herself back. The mask hits the ground, clatter impossibly loud for how it interrupts Silcoโs uneven breaths and ratcheting heartbeat. Painted nails draw patterns along his side, trying to soothe, failing to (at least she imagines) when her nails dig into his hip. ]
I will. I will.
[ Eyes stinging, throat closing up. You have to take care of him now, the way he scooped her into his arms and dragged her back from the underworld. Having been here for months, she would be able to guess what this place wants of them, even if she werenโt wet and needful herself. ]
I found you. I have you.
[ Mad ramblings, desperation on her tongue. He doesnโt want you, he left you, youโll just hurt him โ ]
You just have to let me closer. [ As if she isnโt looming over him already, a shadow made tangible. Her braid falls to the curve of his shoulder below her. ] To let me โ [ push him back against the grass, uncaring of the flowers and weeds, her hand splayed at his sternum. To take his jaw in her dainty fingers and tip it up to meet her mouth, so she can steal the air from his lungs. Or return it. Share it, as theyโve shared nearly everything since he first held her. Itโll help. She knows it will, for how right it feels to taste him again. Properly, not chastely. ]
blanket cw for nsfw dubcon and adopted family incest โ
The moment her lips find his, the world starts to spin. He feels himself melting into the ground, need funneling directly into the warm hollow of her mouth, her soft lips. His cock twitches between his legs, growing harder as his hands find her waist, desperate to keep her close. He's hers, or so reads the blurry relief that blots through his mind like ink in water. He's her prize, caught and won, for her to do with as she pleases. Fitting recompense, for having ever let her doubt him. ]
Closer.
[ Part echo, part plea. He must have wanted this, before. For her to fill him up like so much water โ fill his mouth, his lungs, his heart, his very veins โ because they were meant for each other, meant to be one.
(Later, he'll see the magic for what it is, for what it had done โ but for all that he'll hate the way it turns him belly-up, he lacks the capacity to, or willingness for, regret. He thinks of her when he takes himself in hand, comes as he remembers the way she'd arched over him.)
The word that follows is one he's not sure he's ever spoken. Who else would he allow himself to beg? ]
Please.
no subject
Silco. [ Thatโs all there is for her. Maybe all thereโs ever been. An army of two, so close as to become one, especially now. Pulses syncing, sighs reverberating in her marrow. Feliciaโs girl, remade in his image. His attitude, his outrage, his brilliance. She cries without knowing why, grieving him despite having him. ]
Silco. I have to โ
[ Take more. One hand skids down his chest, quick to take his cock in hand with a deft twist of her wrist. Sheโs good with them; he knows that, and maybe heโs even wondered if sheโd use them like this. The thought makes her shiver, hips hitching in his lap. Itโs a wonder, besides, to have him like this, the heft and shape of him imprinted on her palm. Hard for her. Wet for her, thumb swiping over the tip. ]
I need you.
no subject
Spoken as if from another life (another death) as he leans up toward her, sheer will pulling him past the submissive instinct that the hunt places in his blood: ] Don't cry.
[ Then โ his breath shatters, shudders, when she touches him. His heart leaps into his throat, there for her to pry free and take and devour, the tender belly of the snake offered freely to the hunting fox. He doesn't need to bite her; they've both already drunk from the same poison, and besides, he'd made it clear when he'd bled out in her arms โ his empire, everything he'd built, every principle he'd allowed to guide his hand, all of it amounts to detritus in the current in comparison to her.
The way he sees it โ in defiance of what anyone else might say โ she's never been his prey. ]
Jinx.
[ His lips part, his throat bobbing as he swallows her breath from the air. ]
Take me.
[ A step further than I need you, too. Not I love you, but close, for them. The forest hums, yawns, screams. ]
I'm yours.
no subject
She canโt think. Can only act, weight shifting to her knees so she can lift up and guide his cock inside her. Heโs big, or maybe sheโs just small. Whimpering already, at the tip, that first stretch that makes her pulse sing โ a track switch, take him take him take him โ mouth falling open as she takes him inch by inch, pleading little pushes, impossibly wet for him and still unbelievably tight. The pleasure overrides all, a rightness low in her belly that burns brighter, hotter, until she sits flush against him, and it consumes her. No voices in her head, no static, blank but for the satisfaction of performing her role. ]
Ah โ Silco. [ Thighs quivering, walls fluttering, hands scrabbling for purchase on his chest (nails catching on the scarred over bullet holes, palms settling there without knowing why). She lifts up until her cunt barely catches on the head of his cock, agony in the absence of him filling her, and then she eases down again. And back again. Again, faster this time, hard enough that the slap of skin-on-skin jolts her eyes open, screwed up in concentration until now. Seeing clearly, for the first time in an age.
She nods jerkily. Digs and drags her nails to mark. ]
Mine.
[ No more doubting him, when he would live for her, die for her, claw his way back to the surface. ]
no subject
Even her cunt is perfect.)
The hand he has on her face slips down, around, until his fingers find the rope of one of her braids, curling the length around the set of his knuckles though he doesn't yet pull. It's not for him to lead or demand, here โ when his hand settles over the round of her ass, it's to anchor himself as he arches up from the forest floor, matching her pace, moving with her as she begins to ride him in earnest.
He's empty without her, a vessel โ a void โ for all the excess of emotion she's always carried. The thought occurs to him, lancing through his head as her nails leave bright red marks on top of dull scars, that he should be protecting her, but how better to do that than like this? How better to be close to her? (And what other way is there, now, for him to prove his devotion, when he's already died for her?) ]
Jinxโ
[ Her name, a prayer. Then, his hand tugs, seeking the arch of her back, his gaze falling to her exposed skin, her pert breasts. Whatever he means to say next dissolves into a whine (unusually unguarded) the next time she lifts her frame, too desperate to be inside her again. ]
no subject
It makes her feel โ powerful, a hunter who could kill or ruin him, no, keep him like this forever. Joined together. Thereโs nothing macabre about the wanton angle of his mouth or the rounded set of his mismatched eyes. The man she knows better than any other, remade before her. For her.
She bounces faster, eager, finding a pace that suits her but still isnโt enough until he tugs her braid. ]
Fuckโ [ She arches for him, accidentally finding a deeper, better angle as she counterbalances the action, grappling for purchase. A fast learner, always. One hand smoothes down his stomach, searches for where theyโre connected, so she can feel exactly where he disappears inside her when she rocks forward, guided by the hand on her ass. A whimper tumbles from her lips before she can fight it, their synced rhythm pushing her higher, faster. ]
Again. [ breathless, ] Just like that. [ cock twitching inside her, her walls shuddering and thighs squeezing, pleading for him. ] I wonโt stop.
[ She doesnโt know if she could, with him panting beneath her, still unclaimed. ]
no subject
The world narrows, the way it always does when he's with her, winnowing down to the pale canvas of her lithe body, bowed prettily above him as though she were the moon (with him, the darkness, filling out her shadow). The soft sweep of her hand guides his attention to the part of her legs, a telltale ember sparking in his gut as he watches his cock glide in and out of her, the way she's stretched around him visible in flashes past the lattice of her deft fingers.
He wants to taste her, to kneel at her feet and lick into her cunt, sweet and warm, more of a home than he's had anywhere else. He wants her on her back, to see how well she takes him, to watch her lips form a pink circle around his cock โ though even the most minute thought of claiming sends a spike of dizziness through him, moaning in re-acceptance of his role here as her prey, to be devoured for her pleasure. ]
You feelโ [ he rocks up into her, desperate to please her, to stay close, so close ] โmore, I needโ
[ His breaths stutter. ]
Jinx, I'm going toโ
[ And this time, his, ] Please, [ is a question, his features twisting in pleasure (pain) and the sheer effort of keeping himself in check, hovering before one final line they have left to cross. ]
no subject
Her entire body burns with need, the muscles of her thighs twitching and chest heaving. She squeezes around him, encouraging him to spill inside her. To stain her, in some irrevocable way. ]
Do it.
[ A challenge. An order. Softened by the way she cries in relief at the thought of it. Hasnโt she always egged him on? Pushed him to be bolder โ more reactive โ more like her. The same way he pushed Vander in his youth.
Jinx leans forward, rocking into a deep drag, and anchors both hands on his chest, nails making crescent moons in his skin. ]
Do it. Inside, Silco. [ Her mouth falls open on a groan, teeth aching from the need to bite. ] I told you โ I need you.
[ Always has, though never quite like this. She feels certain she canโt let go until he does โ until she has him. ]
no subject
He couldn't say whether he reacts or loses control as soon as she speaks. Even as his name leaves her lips, the sharp pain that had brought him to the ground is unfurling into a blinding haze of relief, his hands holding in her place on top of him as he comes, his head falling back to bare his neck โ for her, whether he realizes it or not, his softest parts meant for her and her alone. His frame tenses and shudders, the whole of him arching up to fill her (as if he could claim a place inside of her that way, claw his way to the proof that they're carved from the same cursed stone) with a moan that cuts through his throat like a knife.
Bliss crashes over him in waves, heightened only by the anticipation of feeling her climax, of being fully claimed. He loses one second, maybe two, in that fall over the edge, each crest sending a shiver through him, another rock up into her, his cock pulsing in the tight heat of her cunt. Even the sharp press of her nails feels sweet, a point of focus as the rest of him threatens to float away. ]
My darling.
[ The word, uncharacteristic, spooled out of him, too soft and yet spoken as though it were the most natural thing in the world, dreamy at the thought of his seed inside of her, the faint echo of her voice โ do it โ and the thought that he would again and again and againโ ]
no subject
And last.
She comes on his cock, her walls clamping down on him as if to keep him there evermore. A wounded animal sound torn from her throat. She folds over him, into him, half-riding him through the aftershocks with her twitching hips. With his throat barred for her, thereโs only one thing to do. Her head fits into the hollow of his throat, like a bullet in the barrel of a gun, and she bites down on the tender flesh, canines sinking deep enough to bleed. Not cruel, though, never cruel โ merely impulsive, tongue laving over the wound. Mouth forming a seal, marks upon marks.
My darling soothes the beast within, though all she manages is his name in response. No longer crying but still whimpering. Her hands cup his cheek, thread through his hair, keep him close. Finally, all her needs met. The hunt, won. ]
Yours.
[ The same way heโs hers, a deal inked in blood. ]
๐
It'd be a ways off the mark to say that the forest's magic begins to dissipate once the intended ritual is complete. There's no longer that clench in his stomach, nor the sense that his legs would buckle if he tried to get to his feet, but there's still a slight daze in his eyes each time their gazes meet, in between breaths that fall and collect like the leaves at his back. It's all new โ tenderness of a different timbre than what he's given her before.
Her hands pull him close โ his roam, slow, hushing each whimper, the occasional press of his fingers marking a last, ebbing rush of sensation. She chose him when no one else would.
(He thinks of it as a debt, a contract, where anyone else would term it love. Yours, mine, always, amounting to the same burning thing.) ]