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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
so, it's expected. not wrong of her. still, paul snaps a hand up and seizes her by the chin, the motion bold but his actual grip soft, holding her in place for him to lean down, kissing her cheek. pining her leg back to her chest, bending her in half. )
Wrong, ( his mouth moves, not entirely like a man, lips dragging around her cheek, tongue dipping to lick the salt of her sweat, the earthy taste of dirt smudged around her. he nips the lobe of her ear, tongue flicking against the shell. ) it's because you're my mother, and I'm your husband. You're my wife, and I'm your brother. There's no empty space between us βΒ how could you ever hope to get away? ( leaning back, his hand falls between the break in her collared antlers, a loose grip around her throat. he strokes the bite ont he side of her neck, the sensitive patch of her mating gland reverently, a look across his face of both unparalleled adoration, and brittle frustration, even anger. ) Because you're mine, yes, but I'm yours, equally so. You know it. You will bite me, even if I have to pry your jaw open and make it so, walk you through the steps with your little canines, tie myself to you as tightly as you're tied to me. Why?
( less rhetorical this time β he's aggravated, that much is obvious, as much from alina's poking as he is by his own homespun denial. his dick is actively debating annexing and finding someone better suited to the task of fucking its mate, when she's primed and ready and begging for it. it's a different dick than he's used to, anyway. so hard it's purpling, rounded at the base by a thick knot βΒ and bigger, longer, thicker than usual. it looks obscene pursed against alina's cunt, something so big propped against something so small, a brute at the door looking for entry.
and yet, he doesn't worry about it when he pushes into her, knowing it'll be a perfect fit. he means to go slow, but alina's soaked with slick and he can't stop once he starts, bottoming out inside of her, her tiny hole spread like a painting over his cock, barely stuffed by the beginnings of his knot βΒ beautiful, textured lines, the sweep of two perfect brushstrokes. )
Because β ( choked out, paul's breath rising and falling. it takes more effort than he's comfortable with admitting not to rut into her like a beast, to make her suffer for it, to have what she wants but not how she wants it. he doesn't move once he's in her, just occupying space, swollen to the point of pain. he teeth are sharp when he snaps at the air, drooling on her chest a little with the different occupancy in his mouth, a little miserable and pathetic when he bends down to nuzzle between her breasts, whining. ) If I think about βΒ about someone fucking you, cumming inside you, I want to kill them. Slowly. I'd punish anyone who'd touch my wife, I'd βΒ fuck.
( he rocks his hips βΒ he can't help it. if he's dangerously close to cumming it's because alina is so tight, so hot, so undeniably his that all he wants to do is give her what he said, a thousand orgasms in her cup until she runneth over, until every space of her is filled up with everything he has. ignoring his needs, he moves his hand down, squashed between their stomachs, thumbing at her clit. )
All those men who want you so desperately. I'd show them this, exactly this, I'd βΒ I'd fuck my mommy in front of all of them, so they know, they'd know no one else can have you. There's so many places on you I want to bite, and I'm going to bite them all, so no one else ever has the chance. You have no choice but to be mine βΒ I won't let it be any other way, Mommy, Mommy.
( pinching her clit on the side of too mean, he tilts his head up, sneaking under her chin on the opposite side of her throat, and digging his fangs back into her β moaning, fucking euphoric as he accidentally cums deep inside her cunt, with little more than a grind against her. )
no subject
I love you. ( choked up, on the wings of a splintered cry — an intermission in their game, a small truce between hunter and prey. because the last man she loved gave her a collar the minute she denied him, and spurred the hold she placed on him. because the last man she loved set her on fire to keep himself warm. because the last man she loved never cared if her teeth were in his throat, so long as he could embed his canines in her soft parts, suck from the marrow until she was depleted. when alina's nails shred down his back, it's a gift, not an admonishment — my blood is your blood and your blood is my blood. ) Mine. My Paul. My —
( it's a cosmic event, like planets aligning once in a milennia — her body leaves no void between his orgasm and her own. her tiny fists yank at fistfuls of his hair as she comes in spasming pulses, milking him, wringing dry the warm spill of his cum — needy, desperate, biological. a vice-grip on his dick all the better for breeding her, all the better for keeping him here, saying see? a perfect fit, tight as a lock sliding home in a key. the slick bend of her thighs quake around his hips, fawn-legged, as alina shakily fucks herself upward — every muscle in her body quivering from the strain of effort. )
Already? You like forcing your cum inside of your Mommy that much? ( a teasing giggle accidentally slips, smokily, free of her. ) It feels good, doesn't it? Making me take it? You're so big, it's too much for my — for my small cunt. It hurts. Please — please don't make me take anymore. ( whiny, played up — her cunt drools around the thick split of him too eagerly, left with only the cramping, aching need in her stomach for more, more, more. through hiccuping breahts, she pushes at his chest, all big wet eyes and feebly helpless shoves, even as she tries to work herself on his dick in small, squirmy shifts. ) Please? You already came.
no subject
he loves her giggle. it makes him smile, stupid and dopey, face pressed into her sweet scented hair, nosing around until he can find her jaw to nip at. he sighs, drunkenly. he doesn't pull out. )
Shush, love. I won't cum, just let me fuck you, just a little bit. I'll pull out.
( whatever beast is inside him is very much unimpressed by its pleasure so far β itβs still hungry, still clawing at the back of his throat with that hunger, satiable only by alina. he maybe puts forward a slight effort in not indulging himself. he tries to be slow, tries to fuck her teasingly, tries not to cum immediately and turn himself into a liar. but he steadily gets hotter, breaths heavier, gripping her tightly and moaning into her throat, more than half delirious with the intoxicating heat of her body, how good she makes him feel.
choked out: ) I canβt β Iβm sorry, feels too good, Alina. I canβt. I have to β Iβm sorry, sorry.
( heβs not sure if his knot would let him pull away because paul doesnβt even try, giving alina a few rough pumps until heβs cumming inside her again, worshipping her mating bite with his tongue, sucking until itβs just one big, bloody bruise. )
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only paul is still coming, and coming, and coming. incomprehensibly, alina think he might die from it, pour every last drop of water into her, evaporate to dust and desert. incomprehensibly, she thinks she might die if he doesn't — if she can't have him used up until there's nothing she can wring from him, nothing he hasn't given her, nothing that isn't hers. sloppily, his cum fucks back into her where they're joined, a messy spill of white alina collects around the swollen, split pink of her pussy. presses it back inside where they're joined, like fixing a ruined, artless painting — this is the missing touch it needs, see, to transform into a masterpiece. her snapping teeth in the meat of his shoulder is only the mark of her signature on the canvas, laving her tongue against the tattooed ink that says alina. )
Is it? ( beast or not — alina perks, like a doe hearing a twig snap underfoot, only the danger is his praise in her skin, the tight clutch of her cunt in delight. she licks the pinpricks of blood from her little canines, too small to tear as his do, too blunt not to hurt twice as much when she noses into his mating gland. the first attempt doesn't so much as break skin, despite the damp, eager puffs of breath against his pulse. she whines, suckles uselessly. ) Is it too good? You'll cum again?
( am i too good. like she isn't a terrible fit for a mate, toying with the idea of not knowing her place. like she isn't full of contradictions, latched onto his flesh even as she wriggles beneath him, tries to squirm away to escape the flood of his cum, leaves and bramble wound through her hair — kept under his shadow, persephone returned to fertile spring, only for hades' shadow to hunt her down. she moans at the catch of his knot, cunt throbbing, burrowing herself into his neck with a half-hearted headshake. )
You shouldn't. You can't. 'S too much. Too full. You need to — ah. ( her dainty ankles lock around him, forcing him to stay, empty himself deeper. beneath him, her hips can't stop circling — back, forth, whining every time his knot traps her. her teeth nip at his mating gland again, getting no further than a determined indent of teeth, speckles of blood among his freckles. not enough, yet. ) Stop. Please. Don't cum inside me again, or I'll — you'll get Mommy pregnant. Please, Paul.
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too early to tell, of course. the egg isn't fertilized, the cells aren't growing. but the thought of it β it really could make him cum again, if he wasn't still leaking out cum from two? three? orgasms prior. he's lost count, and they're all bleeding together, not one finishing before the other starts. he feels water flush, spoiled rotten with wet, cumming in alina, drooling on her shoulder, tears rolling down his cheeks from the sensation of orgasm after orgasm, of alina's teasing, of her perfect, necessary body beneath his. it's not a waste. like anything, it's a sacrifice β it's the whole lake of him, caladan salty oceans, it's his green paradise emptied out of him and poured into her. every dream he has, a hope for the future. watering alina until she springs new life.
he just βΒ he has to do something, because he feels insane, rutting into her despite the lock, pushing his knot further, further into her. he pushes back, away from her mouth. a hand captures each of her wrists and pins them above her head, body forced into an arch, his free hand angling her chin away so he can nip, tease, suck, bruise her bloody bite, worshiping it with his tongue. )
But, Mommy βΒ but I want you pregnant. I want a baby. That's what I want.
( the hand at her jaw slips, trailing down her sweaty body, back to the split of her sex, her squashed, swollen clit. bright pink from abuse, from arousal βΒ he has to imagine his dick looks the same, though he can only see it from the slight distension of her flat, toned belly. paul whines, rubbing at her blushing cunt, purposely avoiding her clit. )
Just because you're done doesn't mean I am. If I keep going, you'll like it again. Promise. ( true to his word, he doesn't stop. he looks her in the eyes while he continues to fuck her, his knot βΒ struggling, impossible, too tight, too tight βΒ eventually slipping almost entirely inside her. ) 'lina. Can't be too much when you feel βΒ this good. Feel how much of my cum you've earned already? It's exactly right. I get to have it, you get to take it.
( pointedly, he lays his throat back across her mouth, cooing ) Don't fight me. Be a good girl and have Daddy's babies. You don't have a choice. You don't get to tell me no. ( before meanly, aggressively, pinching at her clit with a shake, hoping the orgasm he pulls out of her is enough to break the skin on his mating gland. enough to claim him, the way he's claimed her. )
cw: somno ??? if u squint
and still — she tightens her walls around the flared swell of him, bears down like it's an affront of nature to feel his cum dribble down, a personal failing rectified each time paul fucks it back inside of her. like she still needs to conquer impossible odds; like she has something to prove. the right choice for ravka, the right choice for paul. it's not even a question of whether she'll obey — it's the when, the inevitability of a solar implosion, no preventing a cosmic event, no time to prepare for its arrival. she comes with a burst of soaking wet — her drenched cunt, his blood pouring on her tongue, a shine of starry tears staining her cheeks.
it isn't a clean kill, lacking the necessary violence that both is and isn't in alina's nature, better left to things who don't have to merely pretend to have sharp teeth like paul, like alia, fanged as shai-hulud. it makes her effort worse, makes it bloodier, makes it brutish as she teeths and tears at paul's neck. not an expert butcher, not a hunter with a single arrow to take down prey, but death by a thousand cuts, before she manages to break the skin on his mating gland — nursing the trickle of red that leaks from it with kitten flicks of her tongue, licking the wound clean. )
You're going to fill me up again? ( a wrecked gasp, like she doesn't know, like she can't feel him pulsing inside of her, like she isn't begging for it, urging him along — the storyteller of a twisted fantasy, weaving the threads with her panting words. her fingers twist, nails biting into the ridges of his knuckles, desperate to be unbound, just to touch him. she giggles, breathless. ) Poor Daddy. I thought you could control yourself, but you can't stop, can you? Can't keep yourself from coming in me for even a minute. I bet you would keep fucking me even if I wasn't awake to take it anymore. That's so — mean. You're so greedy, Paul.