πππππππππ ππππ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburntmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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
I β am, yes. Yeah. Iβm. [he exhales, shaky, tugs at the neck of his sweater, feeling sweat pool in the hollow of his throat as he does, as he swallows hard.] I think itβs β itβs the house. W-We shouldβve known better. [a note of regret, of anxious, wide-eyed apology when he looks up at theo again, pink-cheeked and doe-eyed.] Iβm sorry. I shouldβve realized weβd be, um. Put in a β a situation.
[koby squeezes his eyes shut, because if he looks at theoβs abs for one more minute heβs going to explode.] We probably need to β do something. To get down. Thatβs how things usually work.
no subject
Before I was here, I was in this city - that BDSM one I told you about?
[Finger point, like he's reminding Koby about a restaurant not a fucked up city dynamic.]
This kind of thing happened all the time. Which does mean I should've known better too, but - how do you wanna handle it? If we're being like, entirely honest right now? All I want to do is shove your hands... places, hoping they're cool again. But we can do whatever you're cool with.
[Haha. "Cool".]
Sorry, I get stupid when I'm horny.
no subject
[koby frowns deeply, absently tugging at the collar of his sweater again, before eventually just β pulling it off, leaving his hair fluffed up and his glasses slightly dislodged. heβs wearing a sleeveless shirt beneath it, even, one that reveals that despite the innocent-nerd persona, he works out. a lot. daily, by the looks of those biceps.]
Is that β something youβd want to do if we werenβt stuck? [innocently, reaching up to adjust his glasses. thereβs no anxiety in the question; if theo wouldnβt be interested in him on the ground, heβs not going to force it in the air. theyβll just wait until they pass out from heatstroke or something. then, ever-helpful:] Because β I think youβre very nice and very attractive and not stupid at all.
Soβ¦so yes.
no subject
[He is aware of his personality, the vapid exterior only so far shaken these past months. He still gets a little too excited, a little too slutty and a little too short-sighted sometimes. But he does light up like a very dumb, very pretty lamp when talking about hooking up and now all he can think about are those cool hands of Koby's again, spinning around his brain like a very speedy hamster in a wheel.]
I'm gonna kiss you now. Deal?
no subject
[but right now, koby's much, much more interested in theo doing something else with his mouth, with his hands, because maybe the solution for that unbearable heated want is simply to surrender to it. if there's anything saltburnt has taught koby, it's that. so he smiles, still red-cheeked, nodding and rolling his shoulders back a couple times.] Deal. And -- we'll just go from there, right?
no subject
It feels good and right to Theo - so 'going from there' doesn't require any more planning in his head. His free hand smooths up Koby's thigh, fingers curling along the inner edge with a kneading squeeze.]
no subject
so, while koby is usually very much the careful, slow, gentle first kiss type, today he lurches forward, nearly into theoβs lap, rising up on his knees and reaching to rake his fingers through the other young manβs (very nice) fluffy hair, hands more callused than his sweet-eyed face might suggest. his mouth is half-open, tongue curling out, hungrily,
skillfully, heβs kissed before, heβs kissed a lot by now, and thereβs no hesitation in how he kisses, because it does feel good, it feels right, it feels cosmically ordained in the way only saltburnt makes things.
still, even when the strange magic fades a bit, satiated momentarily by the heated press of lips and tongue and teeth, thereβs a fondness on kobyβs face as he sits back on his heels again. heβs a little hazy-eyed, laughing, raking his fingers back through his cotton candy hair and making it stick out everywhere.] Sorry. I β that was. Iβll be calmer now.
no subject
[Theo says with a bright grin on his face, eyes glittering with a mix of allure and amusement as he looks Koby over. They only just parted for a second and he feels an impulse to close in again, reaching for Koby - stroking up his arm, looking to coax him properly into his lap (settling for a straddle if he can,) so he can have a turn playing with those pastel strands while he waits a few beats of his heart to see if it'll calm.
It does, and then it doesn't, because the car sways ever so gently with movement - they're higher, maybe nearing the highest point, but he can't take his eyes off Koby to see for certain. He just knows that it feels like if they stay apart any longer, some unspoken timer's ticking away and they're going to... to what? If they don't finish this by the time they're back on the ground?
Theo swallows thickly, and then rests his hand on Koby's hip, smoothing up and down his outer thigh.]
How are you on tolerating hickies?
no subject
Careful what you wish for. [teasing, pushing his glasses up into his overgrown hair to hold it back, out of his face, eyes bright and warm and intense. heβs held back, before, but now the soft thrumming blushing pink of his psychic energy bleeds outward, an intangible, unseen warmth that wraps around theoβs mind like a blanket, like a sunrise.
at the question, koby looks mildly bemused, tilting his head to one side and pulling the strap of his sleeveless shirt down. thereβs a cascade of marks over his collarbone, his neck, the place where his shoulder starts, some old, some fresh. he has a boyfriend who likes to mark him up, okay.] Thatβs okay. Itβs β all okay, okay? [softer, sweeter, settling into theoβs lap, fingers toying with the ends of his hair, where it hits the nape of his neck, another pulse of that unseen warm light.] You donβt have to worry about anything.
no subject
Heat continues to boil in his belly, seeping up through his chest - his touch is a little firmer, before he's moving to loosen Koby's waistband - fingers worming into it as his lips capture Koby's in another round of liplock.]
no subject
thereβs no shock or displeasure in the warm thrum of theoβs bright sunspot of a mind, though, and that moment of anxious anticipation passes as easy as water flowing out of his open palms. koby smiles, shifts forward onto his knees so he can rock up into theoβs hand as it steals past the (sensible) waist of his (sensible) jeans. and he finally, finally lets himself touch, palms roughened by sea life, grazing over the contour of pectoral and clavicle, one settling at the back of theoβs neck, tugging him closer for a messier, hungrier, deeper kiss, while the other drags slow down over his chest, his stomach.
heβs not even sure if the ferris wheel is moving anymore, lost in the heated haze of hands on him, of his heart pulsing and throbbing beneath his ribs, pushing him forward β more, more, moremoremore.]
no subject
I'm gonna - die, like this.
[Said as he peels back a bit, looking down between them to the tenting in his pants, which he tries to fumble with to free himself one-handedly. His fingers are clumsy in their haste, and he loathes the delay it feels like it puts between them, even if it is only a matter of seconds. The only thing he can think of is a suddenly peaking desire to-]
God, I want - I need to fuck you.
no subject
and he laughs because he doesnβt care. because he knows theo means every word, because theoβs hand is shaky where he tries to free the hardness trapped in his pants, because kobyβs isnβt when he reaches down, gently bats the fumbling fingers aside and takes over.] Donβt die. [chiding, sweet, flicking open buttons and dragging down zippers effortlessly, like the same desperation that has theo clumsy has made koby especially skilled.] Iβm not going anywhere, see?
[a deliberate, slow grind down, the damp heat of his cunt soaking through his underwear, pressed into theoβs palm, flushed and slick, before koby wiggles away and rises up on his knees to work down his (dumb, sensible) jeans.] Itβs all right. [the sort of calming, soothing reassurance heβd give anywhere, because kobyβs so damn helpful, sweetly solicitous even when heβs slipping his pants down his thighs, off one leg, off the other, leaving him in the sleeveless, clinging white top and the (equally sensible) white underwear.
and he smiles like heβs helping someone find a library book, pushing up his glasses and settling back into theoβs lap, reaching to curl his callused hand over his freed dick, stroking slow, slow, base to tip.] See? Iβm right here. [right there, not leaving, flushed and smiling and sweet and theoβs, for the moment, for this tiny, heated microworld theyβve found themselves in.]
no subject
I'm gonna die might not have been an overstatement - that feels so good, he groans. And then he's cupping Koby's cheek, kissing into his mouth again, squirming against his seat with hips that want to buck already. But first he needs to yank the crotch of those (sensible) underwear to the side, fingers slipping to hook into the heat of his cunt, feeling the wetness with an approving hum.]