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draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
Entry tags:
𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ▣ NOVEMBER TDM
NOVEMBER 2025 TDM: INDULGENCE
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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.
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 isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
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 — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t 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, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll 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 he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — 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, it’s 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. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
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 isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
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 — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t 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, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll 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 he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t 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 doesn’t dissipate, though — 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, it’s 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. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
TREAT YOURSELF
CONTENT WARNINGS: pressing of hard limits (examples including suffocation & drowning)
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
REDRUM
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
SHE THINKS SHE'S MADE OF CANDY
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw prompts (including lactation & a/b/o themes).
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
CANDIES OF THE MONTH
For an interactive game, feel free to click on whichever of the below candies appeals to your character, and reveal a (horny) side effect. Alternatively, click them all and find whichever side effect most appeals to you! Be warned — you are never going to get these stains out.
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
DIRECTORY
yeko – original – current character
[finally, she thinks. finally there is time for worship. yeko makes her way through the spa, enjoying (nearly) every accommodation it has to offer. it’s clear she isn’t a modest being, if anything she’s proud, movements smooth and languid when she takes off her silk slip and wades into the water. her long hair drapes over her shoulders and floats delicately, strands sticking to flushed skin. she’s got her elbows over the edge, chin resting on her folded arms while she admires the gardens outside, a champagne flute held loosely in one hand.
the commune is not forgotten, but her powers are back and the world doesn’t seem so grey anymore. strangely, her fingers don’t seem to prune no matter how long she soaks, and when she does eventually emerge and pull the slip over herself, thin fabric hugging her wet skin, nipples perking from the temperature change. she glances down to whomever had been sharing the jacuzzi with her.]
Hey. Did I say you could look at me?
[yeko makes an appearance in the otherworld in a nurse outfit, taking a handful of candies to choose from and hiding some away in her pocket for later use. she walks through the throws of people with a certain poise– she’s someone who can adapt to anything, be anywhere, her hand brushing over arms or shoulders, or even a cheek when she squeezes by with a wink, lips around her lollipop, tongue teasing the edge when she smiles.
she knows exactly what she’s doing, until she doesn’t. color stains her tongue, sticky glitter on her plush lips. the heat between her legs becomes so overwhelming she nearly doubles over, hand reaching out to grasp whoever is nearest, fingers clutching fabric or skin to steady herself, but she stumbles to her knees regardless, legs quaking and body shivering, eyes flashing a searing red in the dim light of the otherworld. come soaks her panties, drips down her thighs and wets the floor. ]
This is– no, don’t you dare say a word.
[it doesn’t matter who you are at this point, only that you are available. she takes your arm and brings you to a corner of a room with strength that doesn’t match her size. her hands brace either of your shoulders to push you into a seat, where she promptly plants herself on your thigh.]
You’re here for me, understand? [big demands coming from someone so greedy for release. she’s certainly making a mess of your pants (or skin), pussy dripping and clenching around nothing as she grinds helplessly.] Don’t– ah, I should have– nnn–known better than to eat those stupid candies–
[the ’s’ is drawn out around a moan, soft whimpers leaving her lips. yeko looks lost in her own pleasure, but there’s a glint in her gaze that signals she’s up to something, and perhaps you notice a bit too late. one second she’s a needy innocent victim of the otherworld, the next she’s taking a candy from her pocket and pushing it past your lips.]
You’ll join me here too, okay?
( or wildcard her! she can be found anywhere so u can rly do whatever u want bc the world is your oyster etc etc. kink list and opt-in/out. ping me on plurk at
she thinks she's made of candy.
He doesn't even seem to register Yeko until her hand is upon him, awareness clicking back on in his gaze like a light. Don't you dare say a word, she says, and so he doesn't, allowing himself to be pulled along — easily enough that she doesn't pull his arm straight from its socket, though he wonders for a moment if it might not happen anyway. But her strength becomes secondary within instants, any stray thought made irrelevant by the desperation with which she bears down upon his thigh, soaking through the fabric of his trousers.
Ironic, he thinks, that a month — no, two — spent with little autonomy over their bodies should be followed by yet another, albeit in a more easily overlooked form. Her body betrays her, under the influence of the candy, and his follows suit even before her fingers press to his mouth, heat pooling in his belly, his cock stiffening at her feverish chase of her release and the wet warmth of her cunt pressed against his leg. But he knows better than to touch her without permission when she's so clearly set the pace for this little tryst, and he's pliant — easy, accepting — as she slips the refresher into his mouth.
Simply, before he takes it between his teeth, one hand settling tentatively at her hips: ] Okay.
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Y-you– [her mouth breaks open into an elated grin, a wave of an ecstasy punching out a laugh. overwhelmed from release and head tipping forward to bury her face in his neck, she sighs out a shaky breath over his skin.] you Wolf.
[there's no shame in her whimpering, in the absolution her body has set out for her with her hips stuttering over his thigh. he's letting her do what she likes, his hand a ghost of a touch on her hip. her tongue licks straight up to his ear, and when she nuzzles against his scalp, she reaches a hand to caress his cheek as she whispers,]
I can smell your sex. Do you want to be inside of me?
[she inches closer, gliding her hand down his chest tantalizingly slow. when she hovers over his belt buckle, she needn't lift a finger for it to unclasp itself.]
Or maybe I should just, [she grinds down, a simple languid motion that makes her lashes flutter.] use you however I want until this wears off?
[yeko is a lucky creature, but god knows how that luck is serving her now. lucky enough to have a man so willing, unlucky enough to eat the candies in the first place. nothing can be done about that now, so she's left with her thighs squeezing his, knees knocking the booth and skirt hiking higher and higher.]
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Perhaps they're both unlucky.) ]
Would you let a wolf in? [ he murmurs, the low burr of his voice mirroring the chill the track of her tongue leaves on his skin. In anyone else's voice, it might be a threat — a boast — but in his, it's— simple. Acknowledgment of a still-healing wound, where the guests of the manor are concerned, when he'd taken three lives during the killing games and only gotten caught when it had all already come to an end, though he tries to shake that vulnerability off with a grunt, his head lolling into her hand. His breath shudders, now, as simple need overtakes him, his hands straying under her skirt and over the round of her ass. It's easier to think about her (about filling her cunt, about the clench of her orgasm around the length of him) than it is to think about want, when wanting had had so little to do with what happened, when wanting hadn't factored into the game at all.
Instinct guides his mouth to her neck, his tongue traveling over her pulse as his hips buck, grinding into nothing but her weight and the too-tight fabric of his trousers. Even her sweat tastes sweet, like this. For once, when he speaks next, his words are a mumble, mounting need grinding his usual diction into dust. ]
Would you let me fuck you?
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his mouth has her eliciting a new sound where words lose meaning, and she's leaning into him for more, swift magic undoing his pants and revealing his cock, which she eagerly grabs hold of to pump a few times, his precum slicking her hands, his musk reaching her nostrils and awakening a much deeper animal need.]
Nnn–ah– [the blood on his hands makes her more wild, piled on the unpredictable nature of the house that ignites a streak of what she thinks might be insanity in her bones. her mind is on fire, no– her body, her fluttering cunt soaking her thighs, and she must, must satiate herself.]
I'll let you.
[she straddles him properly, gripping the base of his cock and bullying the head past her panties to tease her entrance, lowering herself enough to swallow the first inch. it seems like she might stay there, hovering with a shivering need, but she can't wait. he slips in nicely with how wet she is and she takes him even better, arms winding around his neck as she lowers herself to the hilt in one motion with a satisfied cry.]
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treat yourself
She's shut her eyes but opens them as Yeko finally moves, watching her hazily as she draws herself up out of the water, naked, retrieving her slip with what feels like infinite slowness. It does nothing at all to hide the perfect shape of her.
There's heat in her belly. She doesn't avert her eyes when Yeko turns to look down.)
No, (she answers, honest.) But I couldn't help it.
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Couldn't or wouldn't?
[her bare feet hardly make a sound when she circles around the tub to kneel down beside her and place a warm hand on her already warmed shoulder. the slip is already wet from her skin and she isn't bothered (and barely notices) how it sticks to her curves, hugging around her breasts and hips.]
How are you? [her voice nearly a singsong, soft and relaxed from her time in the water.] You made it out alive just like I said. Enjoying yourself?
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Yeah.
(She's so much better than she has been. This is a level of pampering she's never experienced before. The drinks, the food, massages and care — people were right about the house, turns out. The house is pretty fucking great actually.
She doesn't think before she says it, it just slips out. Everything is loose inside of her, easy, relaxed. Her skin is pink from the heat of the water and Yeko, when she lets go of her hair to touch her wrist and arm with two fingers, is surprisingly cool.) Come back in. Enjoy it with me.
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[but yeko is delighted, threading her fingers through ptolemais' wet hair in turn. she takes a moment to case the tattoos, even the ones submerged and made distorted from beneath the water.]
Hmm, are you sure? You humans get very sensitive when it comes to hot water.
[a fox as smooth as a snake slithering into the tub beside her, yeko tucks one leg beneath herself and leans her elbow on the tile, propping her head up with her fist. she just– watches ptolemais for a long second, nipples hard through soaked fabric, then reaches to trace her hand down her chest and stomach, two deft fingers circling her clit when she finds it with slow, teasing motions.]
Want more?
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made of candy
I'm super happy to see you too, Yekos.
( he slides his hands up the sheer material of her dress, grabbing two handfuls of her ass and sliding her back down his thigh, lifting his hips up to rock into her, smug look going a little glassy while he looks down between them. it's been awhile, for adrian — kind of. with another person — kind of. there was a Lot of cumming in the village, largely from ani's power over him, but that didn't necessarily involve her. so.
adrian goes a little pink across his nose, sliding his hand around her hip to rub a thumb against her clit through the flimsy material of her panties, leaning in to lick the sweat off her throat. )
You can use me however you wanna. All yours.
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Oh–
[he's familiar, he's touching her, happy to please her. she remembers how he'd bathed her and catered to everything she said in the commune, how his large, strong hands smoothed over muscles and eased the pain away. those same hands are gripping her in the right places and she's wet, soaking through her silly costume to his pants, cunt craving more. her lower lip quivers, another pleasured sound leaving her mouth, and she's chasing his touch, hips rocking forward and lifting, hoping wishing praying he'd just fill her up.]
Adrian– Adrian, [the urgency betrays how much she'd like to dominate the situation. impossible, when he's only just taken the lollipop and she's several candies deep. all hers? the thought has her melting in his lap. her fingers rake through his hair, shaky touches from overstimulation.] Rip– mm, them off.
[her underwear, she means, but does she really need to be that obvious?]
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( not a hint of irony in the nickname — yeko gets what she wants. she signs his proverbial paycheck. fingers sink into the sleazy material, soaked wet by her cunt. it doesn't take any effort for adrian to rip them open, clenched between his thumbs, ripping it like paper off her hipbones. all hers and he means it, crunching the lollipop to get the stick out of the way (spat, very unhappily, onto the floor), while he takes yeko up in his arms, finding a spare bit of wall to pin her up against, balancing her bent knees on his forearms. it might seem like adrian has his wits about him, like he's some dommy freak show with superhero strength and roid rage, but really it's her — he knows where they stand.
for right now, it's up against a wall, fumbling with his belt under her, loosening and freeing his erection, with one rough stroke. )
Fuck you're hot.
( he's back at her throat once he fucks his hips into her, cock filling out the empty space, snatched up tight in her little cunt. he ruts, not unlike an eager animal, fucking her hard against the wall for a few short thrusts. )
Fuck, I'm —
( not gonna last, but too embarrassed to admit that to yeko of all people who will absolutely not let him live it down. he just stops moving. to try and fend off his orgasm. fuck fuck. )
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Yes, I'm– I'm beautiful, but you're not–
[and then he does at last. he's got her, and his cock is finally filling her up, her dripping pussy swallowing his cock like he was meant to be there, but the urgency continues when his rhythm stumbles and she's panting, head tilting back as a soft whine escapes her. she can't help how she clenches around him, her own body betraying her with another wave of an orgasm.]
I can't control– [she shudders, a desperate whimper of his name buried in his hair as her hips jerk uncontrollably in his grasp.] it. I don't care if you come, but if you can't stay– hard– I'll destroy you.
[she forces him to look at her, kisses him sloppily with an open mouth and tongue searching for any remaining candy to be swapped back.]
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treat yourself
[Still in the jacuzzi. Head back, eyes closed.]
Which is perfectly fine, as I wasn't. Nor do I have any intention to.
[Sweet, affable Harry Goodsir can, it turns out, sound dryly sardonic when the mood suits him. He's been shaved and trimmed up but something about him always manages to feel just a bit out of place.]
I assume you are well, Yeko.
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No?
[she reaches out to tap his cheek gently.]
I'm doing very well now that the Shepherd is dead and my powers are back. You look more alive than you did at the commune.
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[He cracks an eye open and sees her peering at him, upside down from his vantage point. He snorts softly and sinks further into the water.]
I wasn't aware you were missing any.
Thank you. I've been sleeping more. [Depression naps count, right?]
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made of candy - cw: xeno cock
You're going to clean that, I hope.
[ The fluid that's leaving a messy sheen as she ruts, dripping down the side of his thigh with the leftovers of one orgasm and the build up to the next, scent reaching a sharp nose. That's all he needs to swipe his finger, come coating and drooping from the tip, planted in his mouth with an indulgent noise. This is no natural flavor, even for a creature like Yeko, candy and nove-caudas compelling blood to rush to his cock, extending and shifting — the same way his nails became claws, the same way his pupils sharpened and he shed some magic to let his tail emerge — changing to a deeper, moonstone color, smooth to the touch, ridges across the full length to the tip that's like the peak of a mountain. Da-Lua bites his lip, smiling, a dragon playing with food that was lured right in and is soaking wet on his leg. ]
You talk too much.
[ So he presses his fingers into her cheeks to coax an open mouth, then shoves two in to shut her up. Let the demanding belua suck on her own taste, let her choke if she has to. ]
You say I'm here for you? I say you don't get to leave. Now sit properly so I can fuck you.
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Da-Lua–
[is what she manages before his fingers are in her mouth and she's moaning around them, brows pulling together and lashes fluttering closed as she tastes herself. she sucks without meaning to, sensual in how her tongue flattens and curls around him, spit dribbling down her chin.]
Mmph, [she whines and curls her fingers in his hair and tugs, nails digging into his scalp. there's no point in fighting it, especially when she's doing as he demands, muscles shaking while she readjusts herself to straddle his lap.] Hurry up–
[she finally pulls away, lips parted and breath shallow.]
Are you going to– oh, [she bows her head, rolling her hips and searching for the friction of his hardening cock, cunt catching on the ridges of it through fabric and body shivering with anticipation. she could relax here and let him take what he pleases– he'd know better than anyone else how to handle the problem, yet her defiant streak remains when she glares at him like he's the one putting her out.] don't make me wait.
xeno all the way down y'all have been warned
His tail moves, slow and crawling upward, sinuous as a snake, tip slipping under her ruby-streaked skirt to curl between the waistband of her panties and her skin, pulling and pulling until fabric snaps, rips and comes loose; he takes care of the other side with a claw, pulls them off from under her oversensitive and aching body to drop them on the floor, damp and utterly ruined.
He takes his dick in his hand and — shakes, then freezes, mouth open and speechless when the candy casts its spell straight to the girth in his grip, spurts of come staining her dress, stark against the black apron. Breathing hard, more laughter fills the air with his head dropped back, fingers and nails in his hair, a drawn out ahh at the absurdity of these sugary enchantments. He's still hard, too, but focused again, gliding the still-dripping peak across and between her folds, letting her clit taste the sample of what's about to fill her up. But first—
—his tail moves again, pressed against the cleft of her ass. It slides under, further, past her hole and her clit, coiling at its narrow end, solid between her legs like an oversized toy. He nudges her hips, makes her spread the cloying delicacy all over his scales, smooth and dry. ]
Nice and wet, nove-caudas. I have plans for you.
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made of candy
She has to have recognised him in turn, right? She'd seen him at the accusations, at least that first round. It might as well be a million years ago, now, a million miles away, but the truth was all the feeling of it was still right there, below the surface. He remembers how angry she'd been. How she'd wasted it, thinking she was so smart, letting herself get played all the same. Just like now, trusting any food a place like this would offer, letting herself get turned into a whining, needy mess, grabbing any body she could off the dance floor.]
No.
[He says, simply, after tonguing the candy into his cheek. Shrugging out of his jacket, arms bared, just the red vest, holsters, toy guns as he grabs her hips, hauls her up.]
I think you've got something better for my mouth.
[Pulling her up, up, in, till he can lick a line of the slick shining her inner thigh, follow it up to her centre, the soaked-through fabric of her panties. She was going to waste this too, grinding herself on his thigh, probably aiming to take his cock, next. Not that the idea doesn't set an ache in his gut, but this was better: his mouth on the throbbing heat of her, tonguing her clit through the sopping wet of her panties, mouth filling with her, moaning as he swallows it down.]
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yeko, under most circumstances, is quite graceful. here, grace has been left out on the dance floor and shut out entirely the second the door was closed. she hikes her leg over his shoulder, high heel digging in between his shoulder blades and catching on the fabric of his shirt.]
Murphy–
[syllables drawn out through pitiful, incoherent babbling, fingers curling in his hair to press him in closer, closer, god, as close as he can get without suffocating. even if he does, she thinks that would be a good way to lose consciousness– doing what he seems to enjoy so much. even with him where she wants, she writhes, impossible for her to stay still while he's licking between her folds through her panties with an unexpected eagerness.
he's handling her well, or as well as he can, while she pants and shudders, pitched little noises escaping her throat.]
That's, you're– can you-
[every train of thought started is stopped, then started somewhere else entirely. she barely registers what he's wearing, only that he's dressed and she's dressed and she'd like very much not to be. there's something strangely– good, she decides, about the nearly of touch. nearly on her, nearly inside of her, his mouth enveloping her pussy through cheap fabric and coaxing out another orgasm, too quick to be savored, but chased all the same.]
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He's nothing if not adaptable, though, and knows how to leave his wishes behind. Just like he knows how to shift his hold to Yeko's ass, reach up to unlatch one of her hands from that sweetly burning grip on his hair, guide it to the back of the chair.]
Hold on.
[Voice rolling low with his own arousal, making sure she's supported over him as he pulls the sodden fabric of her panties aside. Pushes in close, closer, to drag the flat of his tongue over her cunt, breathing in her scent, her heat. She has to be aching, empty, this damn wet. So he fills her. No lead up, no careful introduction. Three fingers, pushing in easy with her slick, deep, flush to the knuckle.]
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wildcard :) | playrooms
Disorientation is the first thing she feels, as if the world suddenly turns sideways, and then upside down. Nimble as she might be, Yeko's sense of direction goes completely awry for a few seconds until she lands, surely on her feet. But not in the floor.
The floor is white marble, extending in all directions, seemingly to no end. Or so it would be, if it weren't for the shadows, draped over the corners of the room, although the absolute darkness makes it hard to tell where the room does end, indeed. The floor is polished to a gleam, tiles perfectly crafted, but the atmosphere is of nothing but cave-like. Somewhere up there, stalactites grow.
As for Yeko, she's atop a pedestal, inside of what seems to be an oversized crystal jar. A large cylinder, seamless, hermetically sealed. The light source for the room rests somewhere over the setup, rendering her with no shadows whatsoever. A specimen. A exhibit. A curiosity? Her glass prison is unbreakable, unmovable, but also not uncomfortable in the least, if one does not mind being showed off like a trophy of sorts.
From the edge of the room, something stirs. Something massive. A mountain of shadows stretches, uncoils, observes. Eyes like pyres stare from high above before they close. Movement soon follows; the hulking beast begins to make its way towards the center, the room trembles, and so does the glass.
Something is coming. ]
made of candy ❤️
but still. none of it had felt good, and they’re apparently both just stubborn enough for a mutual case of the silent treatment. as far as embry is concerned, it can go on forever. he doesn’t need an explanation or an apology. they were nothing to start with, and they’ve gone back to being nothing now.
only — it hadn’t felt like nothing when yeko slipped through his window and put her arms around him after greer was gone. she’d shown kindness he didn’t deserve, and that wasn’t nothing. far from it.
also not nothing: yeko grinding down on his thigh in the colorful haze of the otherworld, where embry isn’t sure she has the presence of mind to even realize it’s him. although he thinks a face like his is decidedly hard to miss once she shoves fingers past his mouth. ]
Yeko. [ the sticky warmth of butterscotch fills his mouth. he sucks the sweetness from her fingers, gaze wary despite his obvious erection. his hands brace her hips, fingers trailing lower to the heat between her legs. ] You can’t seriously be asking me to join you anywhere.
no subject
the noise leaving her throat is a mixed whine, close to animal, her brows pinched in pleasure and mouth parted.]
You took it, Embry. [the fury rising from her chest mixes with arousal, lips curling into a cruel smile as she watches him suck the candy from her fingers. she's reduced to a shivering creature rutting on his leg, yet she manages to redirect need and transmute it into dominance. this, of course, is an illusion for herself.] If anyone is falling into this rabbit hole with me, it's going to be you.
[because you deserve to suffer with me. when yeko kisses him, it's crushing. hungry and punishing, small fangs nicking into his lips. fingers find his hair and tug, her body pressed so flush against him there's no room for air. ]