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draino2025-05-03 08:30 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-05-03 08:30 am
Entry tags:
πππ ππππππππ ππ π π ππππππ ππ πππππππππππ ππππ β£ MAY TDM
MAY 2025 TDM: AMUSEMENT
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
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. 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 painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. 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 painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
WILLKOMMEN, BIENVENUE, WELCOME
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential nsfw, public indecency.
Making a peculiar appearance at the breakfast table is a violet-backed starling, flitting in above your heads and making several turns before landing atop a silver tray with a mechanical whir. Upon closer inspection, the bird isnβt actually alive at all β or at least isnβt composed of flesh and blood. Itβs an automaton of glittering parts, its amber gaze seemingly aimed directly at you, regardless of where you stand. Held in its tiny talons is a rolled up flyer, which the bird drops to the table, where it unfolds for the closest person to read at the chirping starlingβs behest.
The flyer advertises the BASKERVILLE FAMILY CIRCUS EMPORIUM, boasting the best traveling show in the world, complete with carousel rides, ferris wheels, animal attractions, boat rides, world class acrobatics, and a full market of classical antiquities and other merchandise. PORTIA comes in at that moment, takes one look at the gilded letters of the purple and gold advertisement, and snatches the paper away, the bird taking off through the manor with a loud chirp as it escapes through a window.
From then, the Balfours act cagey and whisper secrets among themselves, a tension gripping the odd family as the day passes with no sight of the bird. Once you return to your room, you will find a copy of the Circus Emporium flyer tucked by your pillow β this time with an additional section for you to fill out if youβd like to take control of a booth yourself to show off your own marketable skills or sell your own wares β singing, dancing, cooking, magic tricks, the skyβs the limit! The Baskervilles apparently accept talents of all kinds, though the matter of compensation seems to be conveniently tattered beyond legibility from all flyers. In addition to the flyer, nestled in your bed is a tiny heart locket in your preference of silver or gold. Opening the locket will reveal a glittering gem of a random color amidst clockwork gears, slowly turning.
There isnβt any time to heckle the Balfours for answers, because the next morning everyone wakes to the sounds of construction outside, where a crew clad in purple works to set up the huge traveling emporium β tents go up with the motif of glass hearts decorating every tent wall, ceiling, and doorframe, rides are built, booths line the gardens, a Ferris wheel lights up the maze. Everyone is confined indoors while animals are brought in, clowns cartwheel across the grounds, and the smell of sugary, fried fair food sizzles in the air. By nightfall, the manor is alight with music and performers, and the doors pop open for an invitation to traverse the Circus Emporium, the Baskerville Ringleader himself ushering all in with a smile. If youβve signed up for a booth, you will find one with your name on it along with any supplies you might need to be a successful entrepreneur for the long night β which certainly feels long. Almost unending, as the events go on and on and on. Some of you more vapid-headed types might not even notice that your newly acquired locket is now nestled around your neck and cannot be removed, regardless of how hard you try.
But never fear! Thereβs plenty to see and do. The lakes have been set up with romantic boat rides with a flowered archway with a wooden, very exaggeratedly drawn SANJI, lips pursed in a desiring kiss, surrounded by pink and red love hearts around his head like a crown. This, naturally, leads into the TUNNEL OF LOVE; once inside, your most hidden feelings sprout forth, both the good and the bad, unless you lock lips with your boat partner. The towering FERRIS WHEEL fits up to four in a car, and the higher you go, the more breathless you might feel, the air thinner and your body hotter, and you might need someone to quickly relieve that building pressure inside of you before you reach the ground. Plus, it has a reputation of getting stuck once you reach the top. The sweet MERRY-GO-ROUND, equipped with glimmering ponies, unicorns, seahorses, and dragons might give you more than you bargained for when the building euphoria causes you a personal (and public) moment of solo orgasmic bliss.
Too embarrassed to be yourself after all that? There are a number of shopping booths, including no shortage of clothing and styled looks as inspired by some of your very own β most mannequins on the lot seem to resemble SHADOWHEART or ASTARION in some way or another, from stylishly cut wigs, to decorative (see: cheap, mall quality) armor for your perusal. Alternatively, visit one of the DRESS-UP BOOTHS where a helpful Baskerville employee will provide you with a costume or makeup change, where you can wear as much or as little as you want. One particular booth hosts outfits ranging the gamut of stereotypical porn attire, from schoolteachers to handymen, and has an adjoining studio room for filming videos of a certain persuasion. Help me, step bro, I'm stuck in the washing machine!
Throughout all the circus, starling automatons circle overhead, perching on rooftops, in the corners of rooms, even on your head although they never bite. Delightful, isn't it? Their glassy gaze is strangely unsettling, almost like they're watching you, very closely.
Making a peculiar appearance at the breakfast table is a violet-backed starling, flitting in above your heads and making several turns before landing atop a silver tray with a mechanical whir. Upon closer inspection, the bird isnβt actually alive at all β or at least isnβt composed of flesh and blood. Itβs an automaton of glittering parts, its amber gaze seemingly aimed directly at you, regardless of where you stand. Held in its tiny talons is a rolled up flyer, which the bird drops to the table, where it unfolds for the closest person to read at the chirping starlingβs behest.
The flyer advertises the BASKERVILLE FAMILY CIRCUS EMPORIUM, boasting the best traveling show in the world, complete with carousel rides, ferris wheels, animal attractions, boat rides, world class acrobatics, and a full market of classical antiquities and other merchandise. PORTIA comes in at that moment, takes one look at the gilded letters of the purple and gold advertisement, and snatches the paper away, the bird taking off through the manor with a loud chirp as it escapes through a window.
From then, the Balfours act cagey and whisper secrets among themselves, a tension gripping the odd family as the day passes with no sight of the bird. Once you return to your room, you will find a copy of the Circus Emporium flyer tucked by your pillow β this time with an additional section for you to fill out if youβd like to take control of a booth yourself to show off your own marketable skills or sell your own wares β singing, dancing, cooking, magic tricks, the skyβs the limit! The Baskervilles apparently accept talents of all kinds, though the matter of compensation seems to be conveniently tattered beyond legibility from all flyers. In addition to the flyer, nestled in your bed is a tiny heart locket in your preference of silver or gold. Opening the locket will reveal a glittering gem of a random color amidst clockwork gears, slowly turning.
There isnβt any time to heckle the Balfours for answers, because the next morning everyone wakes to the sounds of construction outside, where a crew clad in purple works to set up the huge traveling emporium β tents go up with the motif of glass hearts decorating every tent wall, ceiling, and doorframe, rides are built, booths line the gardens, a Ferris wheel lights up the maze. Everyone is confined indoors while animals are brought in, clowns cartwheel across the grounds, and the smell of sugary, fried fair food sizzles in the air. By nightfall, the manor is alight with music and performers, and the doors pop open for an invitation to traverse the Circus Emporium, the Baskerville Ringleader himself ushering all in with a smile. If youβve signed up for a booth, you will find one with your name on it along with any supplies you might need to be a successful entrepreneur for the long night β which certainly feels long. Almost unending, as the events go on and on and on. Some of you more vapid-headed types might not even notice that your newly acquired locket is now nestled around your neck and cannot be removed, regardless of how hard you try.
But never fear! Thereβs plenty to see and do. The lakes have been set up with romantic boat rides with a flowered archway with a wooden, very exaggeratedly drawn SANJI, lips pursed in a desiring kiss, surrounded by pink and red love hearts around his head like a crown. This, naturally, leads into the TUNNEL OF LOVE; once inside, your most hidden feelings sprout forth, both the good and the bad, unless you lock lips with your boat partner. The towering FERRIS WHEEL fits up to four in a car, and the higher you go, the more breathless you might feel, the air thinner and your body hotter, and you might need someone to quickly relieve that building pressure inside of you before you reach the ground. Plus, it has a reputation of getting stuck once you reach the top. The sweet MERRY-GO-ROUND, equipped with glimmering ponies, unicorns, seahorses, and dragons might give you more than you bargained for when the building euphoria causes you a personal (and public) moment of solo orgasmic bliss.
Too embarrassed to be yourself after all that? There are a number of shopping booths, including no shortage of clothing and styled looks as inspired by some of your very own β most mannequins on the lot seem to resemble SHADOWHEART or ASTARION in some way or another, from stylishly cut wigs, to decorative (see: cheap, mall quality) armor for your perusal. Alternatively, visit one of the DRESS-UP BOOTHS where a helpful Baskerville employee will provide you with a costume or makeup change, where you can wear as much or as little as you want. One particular booth hosts outfits ranging the gamut of stereotypical porn attire, from schoolteachers to handymen, and has an adjoining studio room for filming videos of a certain persuasion. Help me, step bro, I'm stuck in the washing machine!
Throughout all the circus, starling automatons circle overhead, perching on rooftops, in the corners of rooms, even on your head although they never bite. Delightful, isn't it? Their glassy gaze is strangely unsettling, almost like they're watching you, very closely.
PICK A CARD, ANY CARD
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential nsfw, various kinks.
Not everything at the circus is cotton candy, however. If you visit the HOUSE OF MIRRORS, donβt be surprised if your reflection goes rogue and whispers a private shame back at you, maybe even within earshot of the person standing beside you. The ANIMAL SHOWS boast ferocious beasts who are part lion, tiger, and bear (oh my), and people locked in cages, dressed and painted as animals, performing mesmerizing dances that compel you to volunteer for a cage yourself if you watch for too long. Maybe youβd like to put on a sexy show for your friends? In the ACROBATICS TENT, watch world class performers contort their bodies into magical shapes, floating high above your head. Thereβs even a practice area outfitted with aerial ropes and silks, harnesses, and more intimate objects that seem like theyβve been pilfered from the Otherworld if youβd like to engage in a little acrobatic bondage play.
Additionally there is a TAROT CARD BOOTH, as displayed by one MADAME PATCHOULI, a withered old woman who loves to talk about her grandkids. Come get your fortune foretold in either a 3-card or single card spread, watching the matron's gnarled hands shuffle and deal the cards, outlining your fate. Of course, there is more to the cards than meets the eye, and they are foretelling, expressing some interesting bodily and emotional changes depending on what you draw.
for three card spreads, characters will transition from one effect into the other on a timeline dictated by the player (i.e., in one day, in a week, over the course a month). for a single card pull, just grab your PRESENT card and have fun! all effects wrap up at the latest by month end.
Not everything at the circus is cotton candy, however. If you visit the HOUSE OF MIRRORS, donβt be surprised if your reflection goes rogue and whispers a private shame back at you, maybe even within earshot of the person standing beside you. The ANIMAL SHOWS boast ferocious beasts who are part lion, tiger, and bear (oh my), and people locked in cages, dressed and painted as animals, performing mesmerizing dances that compel you to volunteer for a cage yourself if you watch for too long. Maybe youβd like to put on a sexy show for your friends? In the ACROBATICS TENT, watch world class performers contort their bodies into magical shapes, floating high above your head. Thereβs even a practice area outfitted with aerial ropes and silks, harnesses, and more intimate objects that seem like theyβve been pilfered from the Otherworld if youβd like to engage in a little acrobatic bondage play.
Additionally there is a TAROT CARD BOOTH, as displayed by one MADAME PATCHOULI, a withered old woman who loves to talk about her grandkids. Come get your fortune foretold in either a 3-card or single card spread, watching the matron's gnarled hands shuffle and deal the cards, outlining your fate. Of course, there is more to the cards than meets the eye, and they are foretelling, expressing some interesting bodily and emotional changes depending on what you draw.
for three card spreads, characters will transition from one effect into the other on a timeline dictated by the player (i.e., in one day, in a week, over the course a month). for a single card pull, just grab your PRESENT card and have fun! all effects wrap up at the latest by month end.
SHARING IS CARING
CONTENT WARNINGS: sexual black mail, nonconsensual sex tape making, snuff films, potential character death.
The Circus Emporium hosts a large film festival at the end of their stay, a large projector screen set out inside the main tent, firstly displaying some art house cheesy films, before the mood in the room shifts as more people gather. The nature of the film shifts too, from intentional to candid, where you might catch glimpses of a person you know caught in frame, cotton candy between their fingers, enjoying the circus. Sweet, right? It seems those starling automatons were not only observing you, but actively filming you and β well, as you're reflecting on your time spent in the circus, the visual changes again. It wasn't all giggles and sugary treats, was it? The camera cuts, to flashes of bare skin and throaty moans, and oh god, is that you up there?
Even as an observer, you can feel your body heating up as if the flames of second or firsthand embarrassment are caressing your own skin. As the show goes on, these strange heat symptoms slowly start to get worse β specifically, they move to your chest, where your heart begins to beat erratically and then struggles to beat at all. In fact, your heart feels like a heavy, agonizing weight in your chest, somehow growing more fragile by the moment. A constant cadence echoes through your skull until you abruptly realize the locket hanging around your neck, now burning hot, is ticking like a clock β or a bomb? β and the gem inside has cracked, tiny shards falling into your palm, slowly draining of color.
The horror of whatβs happening seems to come to you as naturally as the locketβs presence around your throat β your heart is slowly and painfully glassifying in the burning, shameful heat of your body, and when the gem fully deteriorates and the clockwork locket ceases to tick, your heart will become a beautiful, glittering stone inside your chest, effectively killing you. The Baskerville employees look devilishly pleased at this turn of events, because apparently the idea of all the guests of the manor succumbing to their literal broken hearts fills them with a wicked joy.
If you run outside to escape the terrible voyeurism, Portia and Jonty can be caught having a rather heated tiff with the Ringleader, Portia clutching the locket wrapped around her own neck with a pained expression. After a moment of back and forth insults, you might catch Portia and Jonty exchanging words of their own before sharing a rare and surprisingly passionate kiss, cheeks flaring and hands wandering, before they both disappear into a tent in a tangle of limbs and lavish clothing. It would be rude to time them, but upon emerging, their lockets are broken off their necks, wearing expressions of relief, Portia with a slight limp to her step.
Your own symptoms worsen the longer the night goes on, the pain in your chest dizzying, your throat growing raw and bloodied as you begin to cough up fragments of glass. If you stayed in the movie tent, the videos change to live performances of people βΒ your friends, your enemies, the people you have yet to meet βΒ choking and dying on screen. The ticking sound pierces your mind like a lance, again and again. The only solution? it seems you must snub out some sliver of purity within yourself and give a significant first to a partner βΒ be it a few meaningful words you haven't yet shared, or a raunchy sex act you've never considered before. Your locket canβt be removed until you de-virgin some part of yourself. And if you donβt? Well, at least you know your heart will be a beautiful trinket.
The Circus Emporium hosts a large film festival at the end of their stay, a large projector screen set out inside the main tent, firstly displaying some art house cheesy films, before the mood in the room shifts as more people gather. The nature of the film shifts too, from intentional to candid, where you might catch glimpses of a person you know caught in frame, cotton candy between their fingers, enjoying the circus. Sweet, right? It seems those starling automatons were not only observing you, but actively filming you and β well, as you're reflecting on your time spent in the circus, the visual changes again. It wasn't all giggles and sugary treats, was it? The camera cuts, to flashes of bare skin and throaty moans, and oh god, is that you up there?
Even as an observer, you can feel your body heating up as if the flames of second or firsthand embarrassment are caressing your own skin. As the show goes on, these strange heat symptoms slowly start to get worse β specifically, they move to your chest, where your heart begins to beat erratically and then struggles to beat at all. In fact, your heart feels like a heavy, agonizing weight in your chest, somehow growing more fragile by the moment. A constant cadence echoes through your skull until you abruptly realize the locket hanging around your neck, now burning hot, is ticking like a clock β or a bomb? β and the gem inside has cracked, tiny shards falling into your palm, slowly draining of color.
The horror of whatβs happening seems to come to you as naturally as the locketβs presence around your throat β your heart is slowly and painfully glassifying in the burning, shameful heat of your body, and when the gem fully deteriorates and the clockwork locket ceases to tick, your heart will become a beautiful, glittering stone inside your chest, effectively killing you. The Baskerville employees look devilishly pleased at this turn of events, because apparently the idea of all the guests of the manor succumbing to their literal broken hearts fills them with a wicked joy.
If you run outside to escape the terrible voyeurism, Portia and Jonty can be caught having a rather heated tiff with the Ringleader, Portia clutching the locket wrapped around her own neck with a pained expression. After a moment of back and forth insults, you might catch Portia and Jonty exchanging words of their own before sharing a rare and surprisingly passionate kiss, cheeks flaring and hands wandering, before they both disappear into a tent in a tangle of limbs and lavish clothing. It would be rude to time them, but upon emerging, their lockets are broken off their necks, wearing expressions of relief, Portia with a slight limp to her step.
Your own symptoms worsen the longer the night goes on, the pain in your chest dizzying, your throat growing raw and bloodied as you begin to cough up fragments of glass. If you stayed in the movie tent, the videos change to live performances of people βΒ your friends, your enemies, the people you have yet to meet βΒ choking and dying on screen. The ticking sound pierces your mind like a lance, again and again. The only solution? it seems you must snub out some sliver of purity within yourself and give a significant first to a partner βΒ be it a few meaningful words you haven't yet shared, or a raunchy sex act you've never considered before. Your locket canβt be removed until you de-virgin some part of yourself. And if you donβt? Well, at least you know your heart will be a beautiful trinket.
DIRECTORY
no subject
( Or, maybe the black tie request was what's mandatory. He has a lot to learn, doesn't he. But, it's easy to lose yourself in this house if you want to. If Damon were still dead, swallowed up by a collapsing Other Side. Stefan could lost himself here, easily.
Shit, he might be about to. )
What do you mean transform the body?
( Her touch feels grounding and spirals him further as he steps closer. )
Not here.
( Without asking, he holds her hand in his and leads them past a few stalls and down a lit path to - the public bathrooms. Well, it's more private at least as he finds a shadowed spot and turns back. He doesn't wait for permission before cupping her face in his hands and pressing a bruising kiss against her lips.
Nice to meet you, indeed.
Maybe this will curb what he really wants. )
no subject
[ Any other words are lost as sheβs pulled along, and she does not try to break free from his grip.
Itβs not the first time the strangeness of this place had pushed her towards someone, stranger or friend or otherwise, and she does not imagine it will be the last. The earlier of her weeks had been frightening, until she had learned that it was acceptable. Celebrated. That it was not something worthy of shame.
She misses the man who taught her that fiercely.
Lauralae doesnβt expect to be pulled into a dark room and kissed, but despite a moment of initial hesitance she tilts her head to return it, to let a gloved hand grip at his clothes. Perhaps her own cards are urging her forward, but she hums against his mouth, content enough to kiss him.
Stranger things have happened.
When she pauses to lean back and breathe, sheβs almost pouting. ]
I have been told it is custom to ask.
no subject
( He loses himself in her until she breaks the kiss, her expression paining him. )
I... usually do.
( He catches what would be his breath as he leans his forehead against hers, nuzzling nose to nose. )
May... ( He runs his teeth along her lip, hands running up both arms, not trying to remove her overings, but encouraging her, baiting himself. ) I.
( He waits for her answer, captures her lower lip and tugs, letting it fall back out of his mouth as he lets go. )
I'm - ( His grip tightens on her arms and he turns them around pulling her close and pressing her against the wall. ) hungry.
( In the glint of a flickering fluorescent or in the mirror across from them, she might catch a glimpse of his black veins protruding from his eyes, the blood pooling into them as his species is made more apparent. She may not be familiar with his kind of vampire, but he is one. He is entirely too preoccupied to know he's shifted, blood coursing through her veins. He can hardly think of anything else.
A lightbulb does go off now as he kisses along her neck. )
The strength card.
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[ The kiss comes again and she leans into it, only twitching a little at the touch of his fingers to her arms. Yes, she is covered, but the moment of intimacy would be ruined if his fingers touched bare skin and was jolted from the pain of her curse. So much to think about, even as she loses herself to a stranger and permits herself to enjoy it.
That is what Matthew had taught her. That there was nothing wrong with her desires, her wants, that she was allowed to listen to her body as well as her heart and mind and enjoy herself. It has been so many months since then, and she is still learning, but she does not forget.
Instead, she focuses on the moment, the flickers of light, and then - there.
Something familiar.
Her lips curl, just a little, even as she tilts her head and bares her neck, without hesitation and without pause. It seems as if she doesnβt care whatsoever about what he is - if anything, judging from the shift of her body and dark gaze, she rather enjoys the thrill of it. ]
You are a vampire, or something like it? You should have only asked.
[ She hums softly, cheeks red even in the dark of the room. ]
I have fed others before. If you are in need, then drink. I have been informed my blood tastes pleasant.
[ Like lightning, or candy that pops on the tongue. ]
cw. blood drinking, nswf after
I don't do this.
( But his words betray his actions as he fights his urge, fangs dropping down. She opened the door.
Stefan sinks his fangs into her neck, having not drank straight from the vein like this in a long while. It's always better from the vein, even if he refuses to under normal circumstances. His left hand keeps her arm gripped, but his right runs along her front, grazing her chest. Fingers drag down her top, bunching it up at the bottom and curling his fist around it.
He draws back, blood dripping from the sides of his mouth, primal, eyes dialed in as he kisses her again.
No, he doesn't ask and no, he doesn't even wipe his mouth. His tongue enters her mouth as he tries to establish his dominance. No matter than she's letting this happen, he still has power. And her blood indeed sets his heart alight. It electrifies his entire nervous system, fighting the urge to go back for the second time.
Again, without asking, he breaks their kiss again and uses both hands to tug his t-shirt over his head, dropping it down to the side.
So, this is happening. )
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She has magic enough to summon ice and fire, to call upon the power of her arts to cause him pain, to give her time to leave. Lauralae could become a wolf or a bird and slip from the room before he could take note of what sheβd done, or she could simply do her best to hit him with her meagre physical strength. At worst, she could peel her gloves off and harm them both.
She does not.
When he bites her, drinks from her, the sound she makes is decadent. Itβs different to how it is with Armand, who claims enough of her affection that thereβs a depth of intimacy, different from Lestat who made it part of their game together. Itβs closer to deadly for the fact that he is more stranger than friend, losing control because of the magic of this place. That, too, she knows very well.
The kiss, however⦠If Sfefan is expecting her to wilt or show disgust at the taste, he would be denied. The taste of blood had her almost clawing at him, sharp nails digging into whatever skin she can reach through her gloves, sharp and hard. She groans against him and chases more, wanting - almost, it seems, craving it.
When she speaks, her voice is hoarse. ]
No more?
[ Blood, she means, even as she leans in to press her mouth to his collarbone, leaving a drop of blood as if to brand his skin with her own blood. ]
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No more?
All bets are off as Stefan uses his vampire speed to back her up to the sinks, hoisting her up onto the edge, crashing their lips together as his fingers attempt to work whatever she's wearing. The gloves can come later, unless she wants them on, he really doesn't care, what he wants is bare skin to touch. Warmth.
And when her top comes undone, to drink more. He fondles her breasts, one and then the other, rolling them in his hand, pinching her nipples lightly, taking what he wants without asking as blood seeps down her shoulder. He is not the ripper, he is not looking to drain her, but her blood sates him.
That damn card. )
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She wants this, more than she wants to escape from the embrace; the taste of blood, metallic and dangerous on her tongue, the sting of teeth in her throat and the promise of it. She enjoys giving herself over to someone else, to feel devoured, the devotion of it all - and unless he stops her, she will keep chasing the taste of his mouth and the touch of his fingers.
Her small body angles into him, pushing into his touch, even as she grasps at him and digs herself in. It's impossible to reach for him in return, to grab at the fabric blocking her from his touch and demanding more - a much as she can possibly take.
Give it to her, she thinks, let her have it, she's earned it. ]
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Those sensibilities take a big old backseat as they do what comes naturally, except bloodier. He knows better than to completely drain her until her head rips. He has standards and practices, thanks. And eventually focuses on just fucking her.
After releasing, and getting one more fill of her taste and her lips, his senses return to him. He can imagine that somewhere that tarot card dissipates in the wind after coming true. Or, compelling him to -- do it?
He leans back, breaking the kiss again, the smack of lips echoing in the -- bathroom he spirited them away to. He gives her a sensible and polite berth to do what she needs to do as he also does what he needs. He bends over, collecting his pants and underwear and pulling them up from his ankles in one movement. Turning around, he finds his shirt back by the wall. He holds it in his hand limply, looks down at the ground and then decides to not put it back on just yet.
Finally, he turns back to the stranger. Who, he has to make sure is FINE and not mad at him.
Had he even gotten her name? What does he even say from here? )
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When it is over, and Stefan has moved away from her, she adjusts her skirts and her dress, tugs at her gloves to make sure she is safe, and casts a little healing magic over the marks on her skin. It's not enough to make it all go away, but at least it will stop bleeding for now.
She doesn't mind if it hurts for a bit longer.
Lifting her head, she almost smiles at him. ]
Thank you.
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He nods, happy she isn't going to run screaming or become the town crier. Apologizing also feels wrong now, too, like it negates the pleasure she felt. Or the pleasure he'd felt. Him two years ago would be off the rails. Or, enough, anyway. But, this just feels like veering off course slightly.
Her blood was interesting, but asking her about it feels rude as well. )
Thank you.
( It's all he can manage before opening the door for her, doing the gentlemanly thing after debasing the both of them. After claiming something that wasn't his. )