𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒

[saltburntmods]

MISFIRES

a rambunctious duo in salt has stuck their nose where they shouldn't and now you can all reap the rewards! this is a MISFIRES meme. post a header for your character, and receive accidental texts from your local saltburntian guests. nudes, nasties, confessions of a certain persuasion? things you'd otherwise never write or send? they're all on the table. (meme threads aren't game canon, but they're not not game canon either, right)

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[achilles]

( roza. not a name unfamiliar to him — embry's little lost girl, the one he's blackmailing. well. serendipity is alive and well, and roza can hear the soft, pleased exhale of her mystery man before the line goes dead, not a word spoken. was it really pleased, though? was her name somehow disappointing? is he leaving her, high strung, alone, rejected?

in truth, ash uses her name like a password, murmured in the ear of a mousey maid, flushing under the attention of the president. she guides him to the right room and he thanks her, before asking her not to let anyone else disturb miss roza tonight, not offering a reason why. it's fairly obvious — he's pulling off his tie with a cocky smile, entering the door like he has any right to be there. in his mind, he does. )

No, ( is the first thing he says, shutting the door, engaging the lock. ) don't look up. Stay like that.

( it's a perfect sight, to him — legs spread, ass in the air, cunt leaking like a drooling mouth in a little puddle beneath her. waiting for him, he likes to imagine, every line of her body taunt and ready. ash doesn't rush, coming up behind her, cinching his tie with deft hands around her head to cover her eyes, no peeking murmured under his breath. he takes a longer moment to look around her room, tidy but with the kind of sweet mess that comes from spoiled rich girls, scattered makeup on a dresser, perfume laid on its side. he finds an armani scarf, silk and thin enough to fit around her wrists once he pushes her deeper to the ground, back arched, hands behind her. prone. at the end of it, ash lets out another pleased sigh, definitely pleased, positioned behind her. )

There you go. I bet you think you've been very good, today. ( reaching around her, he pulls off the clothespin on her nipple, making sure she feels the way it tugs and snaps off. he takes the second one off her clit in a similar fashion, maximum pain, maximum suffering, though the slip and slide of her pussy makes it easier. he's careful then, using each to pin the inner folds of her cunt to the outer on either side, opening up her sex, bright, beautiful pink inside. avoiding brushing her clit at all costs. ) Luckily, I happen to agree, little Roza. And I don't think you could wait much longer — isn't that right? Just look at you.

[temporicide]

[ Huh, she thinks, strangely calm for the exact span of the subsequent sentence. I've never physically felt my brain chemistry change before.

Their preceding exchange and the healthy application of sexualized pain have put her in a frame of mind for docility. Obedience has no fragility here: it is red and pink and violet like a bruise valentine, and it comes with discipline. The surge of arousal that just comes from the sound of his voice has a physical component in the gush and rush of tender-pink cunt, the tunnel of muscle twitching against the persistent ache of her clit and the conscious need for fulfillment. Sometimes when she's really turned on that happens, like an elevator drop through her pelvis. It feels good. It feels impossible.

So she doesn't look. She closes her eyes against the material of his tie, lash against fabric. Roza is in no state to play guessing games, but she knows this voice. Doesn't she? She's heard him. Or maybe she's thinking wishfully. The curve of her spine dips to keep herself in line, and there is a shiver down it when he sighs, as though all of her craves that sound chief among all: knowledge of his pleasure, satisfaction made whole through the instrument of her body. Roza doesn't know if she'll ever dance again, and much of her life is categorically a mess, but to give this stranger that gives her purpose, even if only for the time being.

Her head dips forward, blindly. She does want to be good, and hopes she is. Mind half-clouded from the kind of oncoming ego reduction that comes from tactical application of pain and need that can split her raw in two, she has no composure with which to prevent the sound that tears slow and sob-like from her throat at the removal of the first pin. It bites at the tip of her nipple. Unwilling to move without bidding, she settles for flexing her feet, toes curling.

This exacerbates with what comes net. She can feel her pulse in her clit, which is remarkably visceral. He pins her open, spread in ways she has actually never thought to do or have done, and now her hands, flex, too. She is unsuccessful in choking back a throaty gasp. Surging energy flows through her, river undammed. Roza knows at this angle it is impossible to touch him, and that she must not take liberties and try to touch him —

Him, actually, Him with the capital-H, her mystery. She assigns to Him this deference. ]

Nuh — [ She swallows mid-word, tries again, ] No, I can't. I can't wait. Please. I need —

[ Helplessly, her voice gone airy and faint: ] I don't know what I need. But you — you do. Don't you?