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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
Stop flirting with me. [ Jake says it the way other men say You look so fucking pretty like this, baby. He noses into her throat, an almost affectionate sweep, so close that he catches at her jaw when he wets his bottom lip. He can't see anything except her skin, the pink swell of her gasp, the shine in her hair. He remembers what her gum tastes like. What the inside of her mouth tastes like. ]
You've already got me where you want.
[ The arc of her ass nestles just right over his cock, a burst of friction so sweet it makes Jake's hips buck, a harsh little snap as he groans. Forearm tensing tight, tighter, sharp hipbones pinning her right against the wall. Rhythm stuttering, for a single, uncontrolled second.
But he laughs then, too. His grin hidden in her hair, exhale harsh as his hips steady, grinding back with intention now, in time with his fingers, as if he's more than knuckle-deep inside of her. As if to ask if that's what she wanted to start. Fucking without his cock, sex without the audience. The reality of him inside of her and behind her. Strong and dirty and filthy, dragging against terrycloth and the cleft of her ass as his hips rock with a low noise, a choked, gritty sound right on the heels of it. Even like this β right in the open hallway, one hand playing with her tits, the other inside, the muscles of his back shifting with every forward thrust of his fingers, his hips, his body, caging her in entirely β Jake still has the sense to say it, smiling teeth to the nape of her neck:]
Don't make it easy for me, Ani.
[ Tunnel vision slows his hips, but not the pace of his hand. It's relief and torture and reward: all her noises he can't possibly swallow, the tension in her shaking thighs, the drag of his cock against her every time her hips twist, fabric that's simultaneously too rough and too soft and all of her, fluttering and hot and messy, right there, stuffed with three of his fingers.
More than anything, it's the way she says his name. You feel that? and his bicep tenses, flexes. Hammers against her harder, harsher, up and seeking, the rapid murmur of low, throaty encouragement, ]
C'mon. Take it.
[ Not take what I give you. But take it from me, take what you want, take it because it's yours. ]
no subject
diagnosis: temporary insanity. terminal, probably. )
God. ( exasperation, not prayer. it wrings out like sacrament he's pulled from the confessional of her cunt, anyway, breathless and blasphemous. some search for a deity she's never invested hope in. not for a rescue, not when your only savior is the cashflow in your bank account, the hard currency of stability. still β the way jake wraps around her, pins her there like if she gave up, he'd hold the ceiling in place β it feels too fucking close to safe. she focuses, instead, on harmlessly throwing her elbow back. misses. tragic. ) You're a dumbass.
( it's all toothless petulance, lips puffed out in a silky pout. there's spit on her lip, a smudged shadow of old mascara under one eye. no threat of tears on her lashes — ani never cries easy. just the building heat between her legs, behind her eyes, starstruck and liquid. ani slaps her hand to the wall, lets him crowd her cheek-first against it. call and response: the beach gravel of his moan, ani's punctured gasp. fuck if she can't feel it, anyway — his cock notching home every time he bucks forward, bruises her hips into the plaster. the imaginary glide, the slick ache of fullness that comes with every flick of his wrist, like he's fucking her open with nothing but muscle memory and friction. the perfect, filthy rhythm of it. tries even harder not to think of how fucking in sync they are when she moves, uses her leverage to bounce down onto his fingers.
not just needy. selfish. possessive. because he's said it's hers, and she believes him. she bites back on something mean, some bullshit about how he's three fingers deep and giving her a fucking peptalk. but there's a telling spasm in her cunt so tight it hurts a little, fucked-out and dazed on the sun-bleached hush of his voice, talking her through it. a full-bodied quake; a snap of her thighs squirming uselessly around his hand. a body that tattles on her. )
Yeah. ( agreement so breathy it's nothing but air and smoke and nicotine. pitched high, girlish, pretty, ruined. pretty ruined. ) It's mine, baby.
( she doesn't grip him like he's going to deny her, this time. her reach for him is fumbling, blind; lands somewhere on her hip, like she doesn't want to be lonely through falling apart. the entirety of her legs tremble, violent; the cry that works out of her throat claws it hoarse, cunt milking his fingers in slick pulses like he owes her. head bowed, mouth panting, eyes squeezed shut. the kind of brutal orgasm that only comes with trembling around the hand of a man who makes her feel like she exists. )
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It's the way the word Yeah drips from her mouth. A fish hook and an open eye; the glint of sun that's blinding; how his mouth hovers aside hers as he fucks her through it, like the strain in his body is from how badly he wants to kiss her, everything locked tight as a tripwire. The arm around her skipping right over skin, fumbling back until his fingertips press harsh into the spaces between her knuckles. Envelops the back of her hand, just as he drapes himself over her body. He fucks her through it with wet pushes of his fingers, some barely audible grunt when she clenches and flutters and shakes and the thought hits him like a bruise, what it would be like to feel her come this way on his cock, desperate to be deeper inside her — pushes past it to give her just a little more, just until it has to feel like too much.
A kiss. Chaste, almost an apology to the underside of her jaw, as he exhales loudly. Bull-like. He slows, gently, but keeps his fingers tucked inside of her, letting her stay full. Works for the aftershocks and the shudders. The details, earned. Every tremble locked away — no renegotiating. No taking it back.
Quiet, strangely, after.
Softly, slowly, he slips his fingers out of her. His palm spreads over her lower belly, blunt fingertips tracing nonsensical circles, as if he's not quite ready to pull away yet. It's messy, impractical. Leaves the trace of how well she'd taken him just a minute ago.
Jake huffs a laugh. Not a bite, not a bark. In her peripheral, he mouths at the pad of his thumb. Flashes a real grin, wide, pearly-white, unabashed at how he enjoys how she tastes, how he blatantly tents the towel, the knot at his hip dangerously close to being entirely undone. Slipping enough to show off the darker dust of hair from navel to groin when he shifts his weight to his other foot; a tactical move so his hips aren't slotted so neatly against hers anymore, but not a full retreat. ]
You know, it really hurt my feelings when you called me a dumbass.
[ Whispered. A little kinder, somehow. Pleased. Muted, even when his face goes through all the motions, the overexaggerated push of his brows, the wink in the corners of his eyes.
But he doesn't say much of anything else. Just stays there, his arm keeping her up, chest a warm wall at her back. Thumb lightly crossing back and forth at her pinky finger, now — not knitting their fingers together, not taking her hand in his, but alongside.
Waiting. ]
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it's the dirty fold of cash in her palm, forgotten before she's even hit the door. it's vanya's attention glued to his stupid fucking games the instant he's gotten one fix, already onto the next. one more distraction to grow tired of. one more toy he never learned to take care of. it's ani, trying to prove her worth with the real estate of her body, the only currency she's ever had to bargain with. a silent plea: look at me, look at me, look at me. don't look away yet.
there's a hollow ache in her thighs, a passing clench as his fingers leave her, like a bruise already throbbing yellow. a pre-emptive, empty one in her chest drawn by an inevitable, routine conclusion: he'll be gone in five minutes, some soldier who's survived her shrapnel and lived long enough to show off the victory-won scar. on a shaky exhale, ani's eyes close instinctively. racing him to the end. pretend it was her choice to disappear first, before he shrugs her off like an overstayed welcome. always the girl you're happy to have in the moment before the fantasy expires.
better that way, anyway. gives her time to pick up each brick and find her walls again, build them back up higher, barbed wire fences and unbroken windows, fix the glass so no one can peek in. not the fumbling of a girl left naked on the cold slab of a wall like a decoration he got tired of admiring. a shiver whispers through her, a prickling rise of goosebumps. expectant, or just —
the tingle of warmth where he drapes over her with the weight of a good coat β the kind she couldn't afford growing up, the kind she'd steal if she had to, the kind that's the only protection between you and a cold-ass brooklyn winter. something to cushion the comedown, let her shrink into its shadow, until her vulnerability shines less raw in the light. she's not stupid — she knows it just has to be leftover heat. the cling of static charge.
her breath hitches in winged flutters, anyway, every time he makes butterfly passes over her skin. orgasm-sensitive, nerve-endings pinging like faulty neon. twitchy, live-wired and tender. aftershock sweetness, the kind that wants to kill her body softly.
her pinky stretches out. another allowance. she pirouettes slow, a squirmy spin in his arms. no space but to melt into his front, caramel and candlewax pooling, sharp edges softened by the burn. a hand clasps on his bicep, squeezes. )
You know, ( she says, quiet. wispy, like the plume of cigarette, and dead-serious: ) They say the truth hurts.
( the threat of a dimple emerging at her mouth. the glint behind her eyes. not a knife in the dark, but diamond bright. she bracelets his wrist, urges it down, drags it to her pillowed lip. a reprise: the shine of her arousal, painted across her mouth like gloss, like the spit of strawberry-gum. looks at him through it, like it's due to kiss it off.
then, like it isn't a loaded fucking gun of a question for her, suspended in the air, ) You want me to kiss it better?
( a question, bones stripped of a dare. his move, no halfway bullshit if he wants it. )
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Has probably never wanted to say when. ]
Don't rush me. I'm thinking about it.
[ His thumb swipes over her lower lip. They've shared spit and sugar and dares and a hello and a promise, now, all sealed in her trembles and clenches, her taste. Jake Seresin has never lived a life where the truth has hurt him — only kept him alive, kept him sharp, aching and hungry for more, not aching and bereft from less — so the pad of his thumb drags down. Takes her chin, gently, tipping it upward. Angles in close.
Hovers, just for a beat. Catches her eye.
Winks at her, right before they're both in danger of turning cross-eyed.
It's a thorough kiss. Not gentle or affectionate, either; not slow, the way strangers kiss, newly learning their way around each other's bodies. Jake kisses easy — reactive, course-correcting, intent on nothing else but mapping out her mouth with the pressure of his. Letting his other palm anchor first at her hip, then smoothing around to her lower back. His thumb swipes a soft circle there, too, a little softness between her back and the wall, a little invitation for her to press closer. Like she wasn't impossibly close just a second ago, all lined up against his chest.
He pulls away so quietly that there's barely an exhale, barely an inhale. Just the tacky noise of lips and spit. No quip, just a tiny, threadbare moment of looking at her — one he stops, the minute he thinks she's looking back at him, dropping his gaze back down her body.
Not to linger on. Broad hands rearrange and smooth the waistband of her shorts, carefully recentering the way they fit on her hips, even though they both know they're beyond ruined. ]
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because dear old mom raised her to believe a man's love doesn't wait around, and ani learned fast that neither will the world.
this one lingers. not like the cold-shoulder silence of a husband who didn't love her. like a first she might actually want to remember; like breaking her ribs to pretend it wasn't memorable. the sigh she pours into his mouth is heavy, rich, the relief of sinking into warmth after bearing the cold outside; the satisfaction after going hungry. finally, spelled out in the way she parts her mouth for him. lets his tongue explore like he might find something worth remembering.
pathetic, that she chases the ghost of him when he slips away. a pull of her string in her gut leading directly to his mouth, a wilted flower searching for scraps of sunlight. a woman who knows better, but still wants. an exhale punches out of her, skirts along his sharp-edged jaw, dislodging the hook caught in her chest. a whiplash blink of her eyelashes, eyes darting like sheβs reading a subway map sheβs already missed the stop on. a what the fuck are you doing frown furling her mouth.
confusion, not anger. questioning if he's fucking with her as he tidies her back up. always looking for the trick.
but he's neat, careful. tucking her back into the world. reordering her, and not what she'd expected: sucking off his ego with the soaked-through stain on her shorts, the drying slick on her thighs. her mess hidden from the rest of a sharp world. she almost wants to bait him into some shit line that gives her an excuse to like him less, in the moment. rubs her cheek into his shoulder, instead, the soft nip of her teeth angling up into the sun-kissed skin of his jawline.
demanding attention. not knowing the gentle way to ask for it. a language she shies from, same as the russian in her blood — too full of ghosts too easily roll off the tongue. )
Military make you a tidy soldier, huh? Got your neat lines and tight corners down. ( that's his mark on her; ani's is her fingers in his hair, now, nudging it out of its neat groom, nails on his scalp. annoyingly playful. a coy tease that comes out half-burnt away, as if she's not weighing the answer: ) You clean up all your messes like that, Lieutenant?
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Intones, seriously, like saying these words aloud is tantamount to treason, scandalous, the house's lucky charm: ]
Sometimes I even use my tongue.
[ He pauses, then. The texture of it hangs differently. Ani's fingers card into his hair and Jake is very, very still, looking back at her. Coming around for a second lock on target. Caring less, now, if she can see that he's doing it, up close and tucked underneath his chin. Reaching for his hand isn't the same as reaching towards him, as folding her body snug against his — he's half-hard now but he's thinking, silently, about the way she'd flicked her ashes at him, and the way she'd spat her gum at him. It pushes him back to a little past half-hard.
Jake kisses her again. Lingering, over her mouth. Then chaste, fleeting, right across the tip of her nose. Attention and affection, doled out so unhurried, shimmering and gold, like there's an endless supply of it. His smile splits through the way he'd been looking at her, an open sign that the conclusion's a given: that he likes everything that he sees. ]
Navy. I fly combat aircraft.
[ A piece that doesn't have a barb on it. None of the down-home southern charm over his consonants, fact rather than flaunt. He keeps one palm at her lower back and drags the backs of his knuckles up her spine, detouring only to smooth the way her shirt drapes over her back, too. ]
You know, I am going to need another shower.
[ A little too casual. A little too light, heartbeat just as loud and steady in his chest as it's been before. ]
Stall's big enough for two.
[ If you want. Words Jake hasn't said out-loud since he was still Seresin and Phoenix was Trace and Rooster was Bradshaw. ]
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maybe it's her lodged tongue, like bubblegum wadded up in her throat, when she thinks about telling him anything real. shifts her jaw around, a clear stressor of overthinking, of knowing better. considers the inevitable tactical retreat, the reason no guy has stayed long enough, what she knows they decide about her soon as they hear it: a woman you touch in the dark, but wouldn't introduce to your mother in daylight. like they can't see past the shame of her body to see the fucking fight in her. can't understand the warzones she's weathered. as if she should ever be fucking sorry for being good at it. fuck that.
fancy, she doesn't say, even though it is. too close to sounding impressed, or envious, or both — even though she is. a rabbit-y twitch of her nose under his mouth, instead; magically, the pinch between her brows eases. a frown softens. another novel, jake seresin special she pretends not to think about.
so she huffs a laugh, dirty and dry and deflective, throat unclogged by her need to say more. her eyes spark like matchheads. wonders, silently, if he only likes her the way he likes steering a bullet through the sky: learn the controls, or you'll be signing your death certificate. )
Explains why you saluted this pussy, hotshot. ( an emerging dimple. the closest he'll get to praise: ) God fucking bless America.
( her lips skim his jawline this time. softer, like a thank-you note issued. )
Y'know, ( casual, cryptic as classified intel. a single crumb. ) I've got some aerial maneuvers. Between us, we got the whole goddamn vertical axis covered.
Just don't cry like a bitch when you realize I got you outmaneuvered.
( the closest she'll ever come to flight: the top of a pole, bootcamp-trained into deceptive core and arm strength. no safety net. just her, and gravity. she doesn't elaborate — just lets it sit between them like a corpse that doesn't need digging up. lets her fingers wedge into his towel, tug threateningly. the bite of her teeth into her lip gives her away, before the heavy weight of her stare. a single nudge between walking away, and giving in. it's the lightness of it, in the end. like he cares a little too much about her answer without giving himself away.
it's what ani chooses to believe, anyway. a loosening breath, the kind you take right before freefall, then: )
Stall had better be big β I'm gonna need room to bend over if you start sayin' too much stupid shit again.
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Luxuriates, the minute they both anticipate the turn. Jake's head tips to the right as both hands slowly follow down over her hips, then knead right back over her ass. ]
Because I'm a dumbass?
[ His palms go further. Hitch underneath her thighs. More invitation than tug until it's easy to read what he's aiming for: the sudden lift, her knees pressing into his sides, almost a little too high, the front of her shorts bunched up over his stomach than pressed firm against his hips. All of her, securely carried, Jake takes a few steps down the hall. Around the fucking minefield of plush carpet and ill-gotten breakfast goods. It's not even that far — five, six doors down. Doesn't seem to give a single thought to how well that towel holds up, or what it looks like, or what it is. Like of course he knows what it is. ]
Because you really, really want me to shut up?
[ He nudges open the door with his foot. Tips backwards into it, pushing it open with his own back, not hers. The door smoothly widens and his room is the same as everyone else's, too much and gilded and intentionally tidy — bed made, tight corners, neat and organized, the only burst of color a tight row of ribbon bars on top of a dresser.
He loses the towel somewhere on the floor between bed and bathroom. Snags it on the corner of a chair where it rapidly unspools, the warm rub of cloth over strong thighs until all that's left is a used towel, half-draped over plush red upholstery.
Jake grins at her. Fate's favored, golden warrior. ]
Do I have that right, Ani?
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even carried, she makes it look like it was her idea. owns the little platform he's placed her on, boosted by his hands.
it's instinctual to lean into the need to keep herself upright. to count solely on the endurance of her own limbs. a default setting, a point of pride. and unnecessary, in the moment — jake makes her look featherlight, weightless, like gravity works differently around him. like he's never nosedived. like he'd never let her. her own little cockpit seat, her own little fighter pilot jet. god, he doesn't even manhandle her around like a fucking idiot who has no idea how to load precious cargo. unfairly fucking hot. kind of like that towel trick, dropped like a red flag.
she laughs. spotlight-bright. a softness to her voice, when she's not punching it out. if only because he has the fucking audacity to look so proud of himself. )
Oh my god. Poor dumbass doesn't even realize he's a dumbass. He's gotta ask. ( she hushes, the faux-sympathy of a pout. her thumb traces a cheekbone, tilts his head to the side, like she has to check the quality of the merchandise. make an investigative decision. ) Mm. Yeah. Sorry, honey. You got the classic symptoms of advanced dumbfuck syndrome. Big fuckin' mouth, bigger fuckin' ego, and walkin' around like God himself gave you that dick.
( she wriggles, with purpose. sets her hands against his sternum and pushes, tips herself back like she's about to do a fucking acrobatic trick, full back-bend in the air, if he doesn't stop her. not aggressive, not resisting, not rejecting — just play-fighting, trying to trip him up. grins, like she knows exactly what she's doing. telltale symptoms of a little shit, all coiled abs and mischief. )
Hear that shit can be fatal. ( she sucks her teeth, as if to say: tragic. ) Lucky for you I'm the cure, huh?
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They crowd into the fucking bathroom with gold taps and marble countertops and he sets her ass right there, laughing smoke bright as he puts his palms exactly where they want to be. The breadth of his hands, covering soft skin as they run up her sides, tugs her shirt over her head — tossing it somewhere behind him with an honest to God waggle of his brows. ]
What can I say? [ Jake clicks his tongue against his teeth like it's something that hurts to admit. ] Just can't seem to lose.
[ And the rest. Her sleep shorts, fingers hooking in, skimming them down her legs; panties, too, the cut of his mouth growing sharper, all bullshit flash and smug smirk, when he sees exactly how damp they are.
Passes without commentary, by some miraculous act of heaven. Implied, more like, when his palms cup her knees and he leans in, the same way he'd said Two months, and I don't quit: ]
And you are going to love what I can do with what God gave me.
[ He walks her back into the stall. The spray turns on, cool turning to warm in the span of seconds. Perfect temp and pressure against the side of his chest. Beads of water stick to the spike of his lashes as he leans in, cupping her jaw with a soft inhale— ]
Wait.
[ His eyes go wide. Cartoonish. ]
What's 1+1?
[ She did say it was fatal. ]
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it's how effortless he makes it feel to just — float, for a single second, perched on the countertop, feet idly swinging. how smooth the current feels when she's riding it, instead of fighting against it. how this isn't a prelude to pawing them off like his hour with her is about to expire, but an epilogue. no one gets her clothes off when they've already cheated their way into getting her to come for free. no one gets her clothes off, period — ani's rules, ani's terms. like if she controls the moment she gets bare, it somehow makes her fucking bulletproof. the one small shred of ownership over a body on a loan for the right price.
she lets him, still. allowance after allowance after allowance. she's lost track of how many she's handed out when she steps over the puddle of her forgotten clothes, flows into him. gets crowded behind the marble door, already threatening foggy steam and condensation. she tips her face up into his big palm like she sensed the incoming landing, waited for it. water hits her back in a sharp spray, raising pebbles along her skin, nipples drawing tight. altitude adjustment from cold marble to the clinging warmth that has something to do with the heat of the shower, but mostly everything to do with how he's touching her.
a scoffing snort, immediate. a twitch in her mouth, fought against. ani's fingers swirls through the beaded water collecting on his chest, like some fucking episode of baywatch. shapes a 2 figure. jabs her nail into his chest, like she's pinning there answer there. homework stapled and graded. )
It's how many seconds you got left 'til I drown your sorry ass. ( blisteringly immediate, a return volley spike over his net. ) It's a fucking mercy killin' at this point.
( looping her arms around his neck forces herself onto the tips of her toes, a strain in her calves, until she can get him to bend like a flower down to her height, a sunflower toward heat. she doesn't wait — licks a slow, obscene stripe from his jaw to cheekbone. laps the water right off of his skin like it belongs to her. like he does. )
Hate to break it to you, babe, but you're dyin'. Got any last wishes? Final words? Better make 'em good. Better make 'em count.
that's a π!
Her tongue laps at his face. The hand at her jaw skips, twists; fingers catch in her hair, half-wet and half-dry. He laughs again, laughs all the time, but there's something thicker in it — the warm air getting warmer, maybe. The flush of his cock, jumping against the clench of his abs. Rivulets beading into his hairline, his throat, down the sharp cuts of his hips.
A turn of his head, and his mouth is right by her ear. Everytime he opens it, he swallows down a little bit of the spray. He keeps fucking talking anyway: ]
When you tell everyone how many times I made you come, [ offered lowly, all faux humility and understanding and empathy, ] tell them it was twice.
[ He hums. Lands the last shot, just as he smooths a hand down her thigh, silk-soft skin, hitching one knee over his hips, grinding into the core of her, ]
Three just sounds like a brag.
[ Two months. Jake doesn't quit.
In the steam of the shower, he'll kiss her as many times as she lets him. ]