𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖘. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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draino2026-01-03 10:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2026-01-03 10:00 am
𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 ▣ JANUARY TDM
JANUARY 2026 TDM: ETERNITY
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."
MARKET PRICES
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes, human auctioning, human furniture, voyeurism, dub/noncon.
The manor rings in the new year Saltburnt style — that is, in an abundance of hedonism, decadence, and debauchery. So strange, you might find it, that there was no official party planned from your generous hosts, who take any opportunity to flaunt wealth and hungry bodies, but it might be a boon in disguise. The holiday is yours for the taking, though they don't leave you strung out for too long. Through word of mouth comes an urgent invitation in the following days, the unveiling of a brand new wing of the manor. Didn't know there was construction going on? That's not so surprising — the contractors were paid for discretion, after all. Named after Portia and Jonty’s personal (and very wealthy) friends, Haven and Cove, THE RUMMAGE WING serves as an auction house where you can acquire rare and desirable goods and antiques. All proceeds go towards Rosie’s personal charity for the benefit of crabeater seals, although Bunny is spotted loudly telling her that they are the most abundant seals in the world. No matter.
Put on your hottest party dress and most expensive fits, because all are encouraged to drink, dance, enjoy the hors d'oeuvres, and celebrate your survival into another year. The newest visitors in for the holiday — and apparently a good auction — stand with their arms linked, obscenely tall and boney, their long unkempt hair a strange waterfall of green. Haven and Cove Rummage, a pair of sisters and dear family friends, are anything but normal. Upon closer inspection, their skin appears colorless and almost translucent but with makeup caked on for the party. Remember that it's rude and tacky to comment on appearances. Despite the unsettling nature of their appearance, they are in fact having a grand time, taking enormous interest in people-watching, long fingers pointing at several guests as they whisper among themselves. Throughout the night, their shrieks of laughter can be heard echoing across the room, shrill but equally melodic, like an out of tune bell.
During the celebration, in between bumping and grinding to loud electronica and pop music, the festivities are cut in half by an announcement telling everyone to take their seats, as the WEEK LONG AUCTION is about to begin. What curiosities are up for buying? Why — you, of course. Interestingly enough, in front of some of your dinner sets, rather than auctioneer paddles are little signs for the front of your shirt or dress, printed off with a number. Don't feel like putting it on? No worries — you'll feel compelled to the stage once your number is called regardless, though interestingly enough you might not be on the stage alone. Yes, some lucky guests are auctioned off in pairs, grouped together due to similar dispositions, or something familiar under the surface that binds them, or — hell, maybe you just look aesthetically pleasing together. Regardless, the Balfour's friends (who all share a passing resemblance to the Rummage sisters) are buying, if you're into a lovely (see: kinky) date night with a stranger. Of course, given that the auction is a week long, you might be sold off to the highest bidder more than once — a buyer is only given a night, after all. They wouldn't want to be greedy with you!
Not up for auction but still want to take part? Of course, you can toss your hat in the ring for a date night with any of those up for auction, lifting your paddle to raise the bet. But what do you have to offer? The price will be made known to you once the auctioning is done and over with, the Rummage sisters coming to claim — one sorrowful childhood memory, perhaps, or the last few years of your tragic life? Maybe the clothes off your back, or a bit of blood? Remember, the higher the auctioning gets raised, the more you'll have to pay it forward. Make sure you make the date worth it!
Those auctioned off are suited with gorgeous collars in jeweled tones, and only when the buckle gets clicked in place do you feel an instinctual pull to show off for your bidder, and impress them with the bounty they just won. Of course — it's not really you doing it. Your body and personality maintain the image of perfect servitude, but your mind remains your own, feeling trapped inside a body you don't really recognize as your own, having no outlet but an easy smile and a perfect bow, and beneath that — a claustrophobic feeling of being stuck. Additionally, those of you auctioned off in pairs will feel separation anxiety when parted, making yourself sick without presenting as a duo.
Ultimately, you're bought and paid for for one reason only — the pleasure of your bidder. Those bought by the unsettling Balfour guests might be pressed into challenging positions, displayed like living furniture sets for their amusement, a tray of freshly shaken martinis balanced down your spine, the only thing keeping you upright is your dedication to being a good table, or chair, or footrest. People might try to touch you, to break your concentration, to make it more challenging for you. Others might be bought for performance pieces, guests who like to watch while you're made to fuck your partner however they direct you to, while they sit smiling on the sidelines. Still yet, some of you might be put to the challenge of endurance or different sexual challenges that require cooperation, like one in a pair being bound while the other person tries to get you to come, where being too slow or too fast or too bad at the task gets you punished physically. Some, one might say most, just want servants for the night, forcing you to the role of bartender and demanding you serve with your partner in perfect synchronicity.
Regardless of what you're made to do, it's plain to see that the strange friends of the Balfours are invested in one thing and one thing only: observing the fascinating behaviors of you lot, laughing all the while. You're such a strange bunch, you know — enjoy your rowdy fun for the week, but once all is concluded the collars come loose and you fall back into yourself, once again aligned in body and mind.
The manor rings in the new year Saltburnt style — that is, in an abundance of hedonism, decadence, and debauchery. So strange, you might find it, that there was no official party planned from your generous hosts, who take any opportunity to flaunt wealth and hungry bodies, but it might be a boon in disguise. The holiday is yours for the taking, though they don't leave you strung out for too long. Through word of mouth comes an urgent invitation in the following days, the unveiling of a brand new wing of the manor. Didn't know there was construction going on? That's not so surprising — the contractors were paid for discretion, after all. Named after Portia and Jonty’s personal (and very wealthy) friends, Haven and Cove, THE RUMMAGE WING serves as an auction house where you can acquire rare and desirable goods and antiques. All proceeds go towards Rosie’s personal charity for the benefit of crabeater seals, although Bunny is spotted loudly telling her that they are the most abundant seals in the world. No matter.
Put on your hottest party dress and most expensive fits, because all are encouraged to drink, dance, enjoy the hors d'oeuvres, and celebrate your survival into another year. The newest visitors in for the holiday — and apparently a good auction — stand with their arms linked, obscenely tall and boney, their long unkempt hair a strange waterfall of green. Haven and Cove Rummage, a pair of sisters and dear family friends, are anything but normal. Upon closer inspection, their skin appears colorless and almost translucent but with makeup caked on for the party. Remember that it's rude and tacky to comment on appearances. Despite the unsettling nature of their appearance, they are in fact having a grand time, taking enormous interest in people-watching, long fingers pointing at several guests as they whisper among themselves. Throughout the night, their shrieks of laughter can be heard echoing across the room, shrill but equally melodic, like an out of tune bell.
During the celebration, in between bumping and grinding to loud electronica and pop music, the festivities are cut in half by an announcement telling everyone to take their seats, as the WEEK LONG AUCTION is about to begin. What curiosities are up for buying? Why — you, of course. Interestingly enough, in front of some of your dinner sets, rather than auctioneer paddles are little signs for the front of your shirt or dress, printed off with a number. Don't feel like putting it on? No worries — you'll feel compelled to the stage once your number is called regardless, though interestingly enough you might not be on the stage alone. Yes, some lucky guests are auctioned off in pairs, grouped together due to similar dispositions, or something familiar under the surface that binds them, or — hell, maybe you just look aesthetically pleasing together. Regardless, the Balfour's friends (who all share a passing resemblance to the Rummage sisters) are buying, if you're into a lovely (see: kinky) date night with a stranger. Of course, given that the auction is a week long, you might be sold off to the highest bidder more than once — a buyer is only given a night, after all. They wouldn't want to be greedy with you!
Not up for auction but still want to take part? Of course, you can toss your hat in the ring for a date night with any of those up for auction, lifting your paddle to raise the bet. But what do you have to offer? The price will be made known to you once the auctioning is done and over with, the Rummage sisters coming to claim — one sorrowful childhood memory, perhaps, or the last few years of your tragic life? Maybe the clothes off your back, or a bit of blood? Remember, the higher the auctioning gets raised, the more you'll have to pay it forward. Make sure you make the date worth it!
Those auctioned off are suited with gorgeous collars in jeweled tones, and only when the buckle gets clicked in place do you feel an instinctual pull to show off for your bidder, and impress them with the bounty they just won. Of course — it's not really you doing it. Your body and personality maintain the image of perfect servitude, but your mind remains your own, feeling trapped inside a body you don't really recognize as your own, having no outlet but an easy smile and a perfect bow, and beneath that — a claustrophobic feeling of being stuck. Additionally, those of you auctioned off in pairs will feel separation anxiety when parted, making yourself sick without presenting as a duo.
Ultimately, you're bought and paid for for one reason only — the pleasure of your bidder. Those bought by the unsettling Balfour guests might be pressed into challenging positions, displayed like living furniture sets for their amusement, a tray of freshly shaken martinis balanced down your spine, the only thing keeping you upright is your dedication to being a good table, or chair, or footrest. People might try to touch you, to break your concentration, to make it more challenging for you. Others might be bought for performance pieces, guests who like to watch while you're made to fuck your partner however they direct you to, while they sit smiling on the sidelines. Still yet, some of you might be put to the challenge of endurance or different sexual challenges that require cooperation, like one in a pair being bound while the other person tries to get you to come, where being too slow or too fast or too bad at the task gets you punished physically. Some, one might say most, just want servants for the night, forcing you to the role of bartender and demanding you serve with your partner in perfect synchronicity.
Regardless of what you're made to do, it's plain to see that the strange friends of the Balfours are invested in one thing and one thing only: observing the fascinating behaviors of you lot, laughing all the while. You're such a strange bunch, you know — enjoy your rowdy fun for the week, but once all is concluded the collars come loose and you fall back into yourself, once again aligned in body and mind.
A TIME OF REMEMBRANCE
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes, slight a/b/o.
You'd be forgiven for not noticing them on entry, but with your mind clearer and more observant, you'll spot in the new wing of the manor — grand portraits in heavy golden frames line the walls, only these aren’t your typical Balfour ancestors. These hauntingly beautiful paintings feature guests familiar to you, though ones you haven’t seen in some time. Emmrich Volkarin. Daniel Molloy. Roronoa Zoro. Alicent Hightower. Lucifer. Gideon Drake. Monkey D. Luffy. Aemond Targaryen. Quentin Toma. Caitlyn Kiramman. Lottie Matthews. Nick O’Broin. Travis Martinez. Nikolai Lantsov. Jinx. Furiosa. Alina Starkov. Paul Atreides. Spike. Of course, those of you new arrivals who haven't had time to miss anyone aren't left high and dry — dead friends and family members belonging solely to you join the portraits, seemingly plucked directly from your mind.
The paintings go on and on, proclaiming without so many words that guests who no longer walk these halls undoubtedly left a mark on Saltburnt — until the frames shift to a darkened silver, ornate carvings of leaves, teeth, and eyes wrought into the metal. The next set of paintings hold people far more familiar, because one of them might be standing right next to you. Eddie Munson. Ash Colchester. Silco. Wanda Maximoff. Lestat de Lioncourt. Buffy Summers. Jackie Taylor. Dean Winchester. Tim Laughlin. Oberyn Martell. Castiel. Parisa Kamali. The paintings continue down the hall, no explanations on the placards present besides a name. Lilies, chrysanthemums, and forget-me-nots decorate the hall. To fully ring in the new year, you must look upon the past without flinching. The Balfours have decided this is the opportune time to both honor and mourn the dead.
Guests are, of course, welcome and encouraged to mourn together. For the latter half of the month, the Iron Rooms of Malice have been converted to accommodate the ongoing remembrances, and are open to private mourning. However, once you enter, you're locked in with your chosen partner (or partners) for the next 24 hours — to fully mourn properly, of course. What's that? You don't actually know them, or who you're supposed to be mourning? Well, you've got plenty of time to figure it out. Each room is stocked with complimentary tissues, a charcuterie board, and twelve bottles of freshly imported Everclear.
To better get to know those who are still with you, whether they've died or not, a body-painting station is available every weeknight in the Chapel — tastefully situated, of course, to afford you and your chosen canvas some privacy. The only colors of paint provided are black and white, along with a soft, calligraphy-style brush, which you will use to paint each bone in your partner’s body, starting with their toes and working your way up to their head. Using the black paint provides a slowly burning arousal and a mounting feeling of euphoria. Your body begs for release, but you’re unable to touch yourself or find any relief until the painting is completed. The building strokes of white paint bring on death-like symptoms, such as extreme cold, slipping away from your body, and acts almost as a sedative. For those who have died, intense feelings can trigger the onset of your death consequence during this ritual.
Morning and weekend services go on as normal in the Chapel. If a guest who has died attends one of these services, over the next few nights you will begin to exhibit animalistic, almost feral tendencies. You will find yourself obsessed with the idea of guardianship over one person or multiple, though these qualities might extend to enhanced smell or hearing, increased aggression, and experiencing cycles of heat and rut. For those less into the literal behavior of animals, the Balfours have organized a scavenger hunt to lighten the mood amongst all the heavy mourning. Three different animal figures — a tiger, a dragon, and a turtle, signifying luck and protection — have been hidden around the grounds. Whoever finds them all will win a prize — one slimy kiss on the cheek from both Haven and Cove, which will serve as protection in the prompt to come.
After all that depression and sadness, a Celebration of Life will be held at the Remembrance Pool in the form of a reserved feast, hosted by none other than Haven and Cove themselves. Guests are given dark-colored mourning attire with brooches attached that are able to sense another’s grief, and the seating seems to be laid out strategically, in that you find yourself beside someone who has experienced a sadness similar to your own. You may feel urgently compelled to confess your grief to someone else, but for some of you it will manifest through the compulsion to physically comfort one another. For small confessions, hand-holding. For something deeper, you could find yourself pulled into someone’s lap, their hands delicately soothing your inner hurts. No matter what, even the most standoffish of you will feel the need to be connected as much as possible, through song, through dance, or through story. Everyone in the room feels on the verge of sobbing, whether you’ve lost someone or not, as if one minor comment could push you over the edge. Must be something in the air. Haven and Cove do the rounds to each table, silently expressing their gratitude for your presence with a brief touch to the shoulder, though they seem to linger especially at the tables where those are experiencing true grief, watching wet cheeks and outright sobs with a curiosity that veers upon sexual, smiles peeling up their lips like old wallpaper.
For food and drink offerings, you’ll find sugared biscuits wrapped in black wax paper, upon which are printed verses ruminating on death. A separate basket of “sin-eating” biscuits sits adjacent; should you consume these while meditating upon a deceased or missing body, you can take their sins as your own as a way to alleviate their travels home, although you might feel a compulsion to act out some of their worst transgressions. Other selections include finger sandwiches, pork pies, scones, and vol-a-vents, along with chocolate eclairs, fruit kebabs, and lemon drizzle cake. The drinks are hearty and plentiful, perhaps the main course of the entire feast. Upon consumption, you begin to have curious visions of losing someone close to you in Saltburnt, should they be dead, dying, or simply gone missing. To anchor yourself from falling further into these hallucinations, skin to skin contact is required — the more intimate, the more effective. A hug or a kiss may spare you for a moment, but you really need to consider moving your mouth a little lower to truly pull yourself back to the present.
Even then, some of you might begin to notice that the crowd has grown a bit sparse. Surely your fellow guests — friends, lovers, those in between — have just gone back to their rooms for some privacy, either with a partner or to simply have a good cry on their own. Once night falls, however, and you’ve searched the halls for your companions, you realize those hallucinations might’ve held some weight. Undeniably, there are a number of guests missing. But where have they gone off to?
You'd be forgiven for not noticing them on entry, but with your mind clearer and more observant, you'll spot in the new wing of the manor — grand portraits in heavy golden frames line the walls, only these aren’t your typical Balfour ancestors. These hauntingly beautiful paintings feature guests familiar to you, though ones you haven’t seen in some time. Emmrich Volkarin. Daniel Molloy. Roronoa Zoro. Alicent Hightower. Lucifer. Gideon Drake. Monkey D. Luffy. Aemond Targaryen. Quentin Toma. Caitlyn Kiramman. Lottie Matthews. Nick O’Broin. Travis Martinez. Nikolai Lantsov. Jinx. Furiosa. Alina Starkov. Paul Atreides. Spike. Of course, those of you new arrivals who haven't had time to miss anyone aren't left high and dry — dead friends and family members belonging solely to you join the portraits, seemingly plucked directly from your mind.
The paintings go on and on, proclaiming without so many words that guests who no longer walk these halls undoubtedly left a mark on Saltburnt — until the frames shift to a darkened silver, ornate carvings of leaves, teeth, and eyes wrought into the metal. The next set of paintings hold people far more familiar, because one of them might be standing right next to you. Eddie Munson. Ash Colchester. Silco. Wanda Maximoff. Lestat de Lioncourt. Buffy Summers. Jackie Taylor. Dean Winchester. Tim Laughlin. Oberyn Martell. Castiel. Parisa Kamali. The paintings continue down the hall, no explanations on the placards present besides a name. Lilies, chrysanthemums, and forget-me-nots decorate the hall. To fully ring in the new year, you must look upon the past without flinching. The Balfours have decided this is the opportune time to both honor and mourn the dead.
Guests are, of course, welcome and encouraged to mourn together. For the latter half of the month, the Iron Rooms of Malice have been converted to accommodate the ongoing remembrances, and are open to private mourning. However, once you enter, you're locked in with your chosen partner (or partners) for the next 24 hours — to fully mourn properly, of course. What's that? You don't actually know them, or who you're supposed to be mourning? Well, you've got plenty of time to figure it out. Each room is stocked with complimentary tissues, a charcuterie board, and twelve bottles of freshly imported Everclear.
To better get to know those who are still with you, whether they've died or not, a body-painting station is available every weeknight in the Chapel — tastefully situated, of course, to afford you and your chosen canvas some privacy. The only colors of paint provided are black and white, along with a soft, calligraphy-style brush, which you will use to paint each bone in your partner’s body, starting with their toes and working your way up to their head. Using the black paint provides a slowly burning arousal and a mounting feeling of euphoria. Your body begs for release, but you’re unable to touch yourself or find any relief until the painting is completed. The building strokes of white paint bring on death-like symptoms, such as extreme cold, slipping away from your body, and acts almost as a sedative. For those who have died, intense feelings can trigger the onset of your death consequence during this ritual.
Morning and weekend services go on as normal in the Chapel. If a guest who has died attends one of these services, over the next few nights you will begin to exhibit animalistic, almost feral tendencies. You will find yourself obsessed with the idea of guardianship over one person or multiple, though these qualities might extend to enhanced smell or hearing, increased aggression, and experiencing cycles of heat and rut. For those less into the literal behavior of animals, the Balfours have organized a scavenger hunt to lighten the mood amongst all the heavy mourning. Three different animal figures — a tiger, a dragon, and a turtle, signifying luck and protection — have been hidden around the grounds. Whoever finds them all will win a prize — one slimy kiss on the cheek from both Haven and Cove, which will serve as protection in the prompt to come.
After all that depression and sadness, a Celebration of Life will be held at the Remembrance Pool in the form of a reserved feast, hosted by none other than Haven and Cove themselves. Guests are given dark-colored mourning attire with brooches attached that are able to sense another’s grief, and the seating seems to be laid out strategically, in that you find yourself beside someone who has experienced a sadness similar to your own. You may feel urgently compelled to confess your grief to someone else, but for some of you it will manifest through the compulsion to physically comfort one another. For small confessions, hand-holding. For something deeper, you could find yourself pulled into someone’s lap, their hands delicately soothing your inner hurts. No matter what, even the most standoffish of you will feel the need to be connected as much as possible, through song, through dance, or through story. Everyone in the room feels on the verge of sobbing, whether you’ve lost someone or not, as if one minor comment could push you over the edge. Must be something in the air. Haven and Cove do the rounds to each table, silently expressing their gratitude for your presence with a brief touch to the shoulder, though they seem to linger especially at the tables where those are experiencing true grief, watching wet cheeks and outright sobs with a curiosity that veers upon sexual, smiles peeling up their lips like old wallpaper.
For food and drink offerings, you’ll find sugared biscuits wrapped in black wax paper, upon which are printed verses ruminating on death. A separate basket of “sin-eating” biscuits sits adjacent; should you consume these while meditating upon a deceased or missing body, you can take their sins as your own as a way to alleviate their travels home, although you might feel a compulsion to act out some of their worst transgressions. Other selections include finger sandwiches, pork pies, scones, and vol-a-vents, along with chocolate eclairs, fruit kebabs, and lemon drizzle cake. The drinks are hearty and plentiful, perhaps the main course of the entire feast. Upon consumption, you begin to have curious visions of losing someone close to you in Saltburnt, should they be dead, dying, or simply gone missing. To anchor yourself from falling further into these hallucinations, skin to skin contact is required — the more intimate, the more effective. A hug or a kiss may spare you for a moment, but you really need to consider moving your mouth a little lower to truly pull yourself back to the present.
Even then, some of you might begin to notice that the crowd has grown a bit sparse. Surely your fellow guests — friends, lovers, those in between — have just gone back to their rooms for some privacy, either with a partner or to simply have a good cry on their own. Once night falls, however, and you’ve searched the halls for your companions, you realize those hallucinations might’ve held some weight. Undeniably, there are a number of guests missing. But where have they gone off to?
TRAPPED, SEALED, CONTAINED
CONTENT WARNINGS: buried alive, claustrophobia.
For some of you, the visions feel less like a dream and more like a blade, slicing to the heart of you, opening up your sorrow to something far more potent and devouring. It flows through your veins as deeply as your blood, your tears choking you, red-cheeked and blurry-eyed as you stumble from the Remembrance Pool. Away from the guests, you try to calm yourself in the quiet solitude, but you swiftly realize you’re not alone. One of the visitors — Haven or Cove, you’re not sure which, although this is the first time you’ve seen them separated — stands suddenly before you, too close, mouth stretched too wide as a cold, wet finger traces your cheek, almost lovingly, a look of grisly desire in their milky eyes. The touch makes you go weak. After sustaining so much grief, you suddenly feel at the end of your rope, your knees giving out when usually you would never succumb to such frailty. Before you have a chance to hit the floor, a pair of boney arms wrap around you, a wash of tangled green hair the last thing you see before your eyes slip closed.
When you open them again, it’s to utter and overwhelming darkness. It takes a moment for the haze over your mind to clear, the floor beneath your back unforgivingly hard, the air stale. You reach out — and your hands barely clear two feet before hitting iron. When you try to turn, you’re boxed in, the walls beside you just as hard, just as unforgiving. Panic creeps in slowly, then in a relentless flood as you push on all sides, even kicking your feet, only to meet solid, unmoving iron. The last thing you remember is Haven or Cove’s touch, and now the culmination of the so-called Celebration of Life has ended with you in a coffin, trapped and thoroughly alone. Any strength or ability that your body innately holds has left you. Those normally able to break through steel or magic their way to safety are left powerless. It’s only you in the dark, your sorrow a living thing pulsing in your chest, your fear swiftly growing in the enclosed space. Sobs come quickly, or wails, or screams of anger and cries for help. Your hands ache from furiously banging the lid, your fingernails bleeding as you resort to scratching the metal. It’s only when you’ve exhausted yourself that you fall silent for long enough to hear the sounds of someone near you, muffled as if they’re trapped. It could be someone you know or a guest you’ve never spoken to, but it’s a lifeline. You call out to them, and they call back.
Communication between nearby coffins is the way you learn that you’re not the only one who has been effectively abducted. Everyone here has the same experience — leaving the Remembrance Pool in distress, only to fall into Haven or Cove’s treacherous arms. Communication is also the one thing that keeps you from falling back into the terror of your circumstances. If your companion isn’t willing to talk, or you go too long in silent isolation, hysteria begins to bubble up, shivers wracking your sweat-soaked body, tears welling in your eyes. Just as it was at the Celebration, closeness remains the key to staying grounded — and those that take comforting the voices beside you seriously, whether you know them, love them, or hate them, are rewarded. With a slow creak, one wall of your coffin suddenly comes loose. With a few shoves, you’re able to knock it down, to reveal that the coffin closest to you has done the same, now joining your two caskets. Still trapped, but at least with company now. Settle in, because it’s going to be a long night.
In the rest of the manor, the Celebration of Life is long over and many of you are searching for your missing friends, haters, and loved ones. Calls and texts keep going not only unanswered but undelivered, although for some of you more absent partners, not getting a text back might be normal for you. As you check their rooms or the beds you’ve taken to sharing lately, small trinkets can be found on the pillow — an earring or a watch from your missing companion, as if someone is toying with you, mocking you, trying to push you. Doing a sweep of the room, you begin to find more and more disturbing breadcrumbs. A neatly bound lock of hair left by the sink. Their favorite or most worn piece of intimate clothing left out on the bed, where it wasn’t a moment ago. When you open the door, your heart pounding, you come face to face with none other than Haven or Cove, looking far more translucent than before, their tall, skinny frame reaching the top of the door. Holding out something for you to take, they smile widely and say only one thing. Looks like your darling is calling out for you from below! Before you can even think of attacking, they’ve vanished, and you’re left with their parting gift: one bloody fingernail.
Panic will drive some of you to action — the hint below might be all it takes to lead you to the crypts under manor, though some of you might have to follow a more instinctual pull, guiding you to your trapped loved ones. Through it all, you have the sense of being watched — your pain or panic voyeuristically enjoyed by some unseen eyes. Still, after some time, you finally find rows and rows of coffins lined up in the crypt, some of them pushed up against each other. A chaotic search ensues to identify who’s who, and then the strongest and most magically skilled among you try to pry open the lids. It's just your luck, that not even those with amplified powers have any success — these coffins are sealed shut with something inhumane, and the moment you hit, pound, saw, or cause harm to the coffin, the person inside abruptly cries out in pain. Somehow, the coffins have been linked to them, and the more damage you cause as you try to open it, the more it hurts them. How bad do you want to get them out? More importantly, how bad do they want to get out?
Just when all hope is lost, your favorite sisters Haven and Cove, and their strange brood appear, to offer a deal: if you really want them out of their confines, will you take their place? Just for an hour. You might feel inclined to attack the strangers, which is understandable, and only met with their growing, ferocious amusement. They don't seem capable of death or even bleeding — thick saltwater will pour out of their noses, coating their disturbing smiles in a shine. Regardless, you either take the deal or not. One hour willingly in the depths of your panic and sorrow, or leaving your partner high and dry, in the thrall of their suffering.
The Rummage sisters and company will make good on their promise. Otherwise, by next sunset the strange company has left, seemingly by stepping into the cracked open frozen lake and turning into seafoam, ending whatever magic was trapping those in coffins, and freeing them up. Upon reuniting with your bed, there will be a note on your pillow, written in haunting script that can only have belonged to the sisters. It reads:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR GRIEF — IT WAS DELICIOUS ! 😋
For some of you, the visions feel less like a dream and more like a blade, slicing to the heart of you, opening up your sorrow to something far more potent and devouring. It flows through your veins as deeply as your blood, your tears choking you, red-cheeked and blurry-eyed as you stumble from the Remembrance Pool. Away from the guests, you try to calm yourself in the quiet solitude, but you swiftly realize you’re not alone. One of the visitors — Haven or Cove, you’re not sure which, although this is the first time you’ve seen them separated — stands suddenly before you, too close, mouth stretched too wide as a cold, wet finger traces your cheek, almost lovingly, a look of grisly desire in their milky eyes. The touch makes you go weak. After sustaining so much grief, you suddenly feel at the end of your rope, your knees giving out when usually you would never succumb to such frailty. Before you have a chance to hit the floor, a pair of boney arms wrap around you, a wash of tangled green hair the last thing you see before your eyes slip closed.
When you open them again, it’s to utter and overwhelming darkness. It takes a moment for the haze over your mind to clear, the floor beneath your back unforgivingly hard, the air stale. You reach out — and your hands barely clear two feet before hitting iron. When you try to turn, you’re boxed in, the walls beside you just as hard, just as unforgiving. Panic creeps in slowly, then in a relentless flood as you push on all sides, even kicking your feet, only to meet solid, unmoving iron. The last thing you remember is Haven or Cove’s touch, and now the culmination of the so-called Celebration of Life has ended with you in a coffin, trapped and thoroughly alone. Any strength or ability that your body innately holds has left you. Those normally able to break through steel or magic their way to safety are left powerless. It’s only you in the dark, your sorrow a living thing pulsing in your chest, your fear swiftly growing in the enclosed space. Sobs come quickly, or wails, or screams of anger and cries for help. Your hands ache from furiously banging the lid, your fingernails bleeding as you resort to scratching the metal. It’s only when you’ve exhausted yourself that you fall silent for long enough to hear the sounds of someone near you, muffled as if they’re trapped. It could be someone you know or a guest you’ve never spoken to, but it’s a lifeline. You call out to them, and they call back.
Communication between nearby coffins is the way you learn that you’re not the only one who has been effectively abducted. Everyone here has the same experience — leaving the Remembrance Pool in distress, only to fall into Haven or Cove’s treacherous arms. Communication is also the one thing that keeps you from falling back into the terror of your circumstances. If your companion isn’t willing to talk, or you go too long in silent isolation, hysteria begins to bubble up, shivers wracking your sweat-soaked body, tears welling in your eyes. Just as it was at the Celebration, closeness remains the key to staying grounded — and those that take comforting the voices beside you seriously, whether you know them, love them, or hate them, are rewarded. With a slow creak, one wall of your coffin suddenly comes loose. With a few shoves, you’re able to knock it down, to reveal that the coffin closest to you has done the same, now joining your two caskets. Still trapped, but at least with company now. Settle in, because it’s going to be a long night.
In the rest of the manor, the Celebration of Life is long over and many of you are searching for your missing friends, haters, and loved ones. Calls and texts keep going not only unanswered but undelivered, although for some of you more absent partners, not getting a text back might be normal for you. As you check their rooms or the beds you’ve taken to sharing lately, small trinkets can be found on the pillow — an earring or a watch from your missing companion, as if someone is toying with you, mocking you, trying to push you. Doing a sweep of the room, you begin to find more and more disturbing breadcrumbs. A neatly bound lock of hair left by the sink. Their favorite or most worn piece of intimate clothing left out on the bed, where it wasn’t a moment ago. When you open the door, your heart pounding, you come face to face with none other than Haven or Cove, looking far more translucent than before, their tall, skinny frame reaching the top of the door. Holding out something for you to take, they smile widely and say only one thing. Looks like your darling is calling out for you from below! Before you can even think of attacking, they’ve vanished, and you’re left with their parting gift: one bloody fingernail.
Panic will drive some of you to action — the hint below might be all it takes to lead you to the crypts under manor, though some of you might have to follow a more instinctual pull, guiding you to your trapped loved ones. Through it all, you have the sense of being watched — your pain or panic voyeuristically enjoyed by some unseen eyes. Still, after some time, you finally find rows and rows of coffins lined up in the crypt, some of them pushed up against each other. A chaotic search ensues to identify who’s who, and then the strongest and most magically skilled among you try to pry open the lids. It's just your luck, that not even those with amplified powers have any success — these coffins are sealed shut with something inhumane, and the moment you hit, pound, saw, or cause harm to the coffin, the person inside abruptly cries out in pain. Somehow, the coffins have been linked to them, and the more damage you cause as you try to open it, the more it hurts them. How bad do you want to get them out? More importantly, how bad do they want to get out?
Just when all hope is lost, your favorite sisters Haven and Cove, and their strange brood appear, to offer a deal: if you really want them out of their confines, will you take their place? Just for an hour. You might feel inclined to attack the strangers, which is understandable, and only met with their growing, ferocious amusement. They don't seem capable of death or even bleeding — thick saltwater will pour out of their noses, coating their disturbing smiles in a shine. Regardless, you either take the deal or not. One hour willingly in the depths of your panic and sorrow, or leaving your partner high and dry, in the thrall of their suffering.
The Rummage sisters and company will make good on their promise. Otherwise, by next sunset the strange company has left, seemingly by stepping into the cracked open frozen lake and turning into seafoam, ending whatever magic was trapping those in coffins, and freeing them up. Upon reuniting with your bed, there will be a note on your pillow, written in haunting script that can only have belonged to the sisters. It reads:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR GRIEF — IT WAS DELICIOUS ! 😋
DIRECTORY
domingos choi — oc (current)
[ Dom looks as comfortable at this party as he looks at any other Balfour-sponsored event — which is to say, like he doesn't fit in his clothes and like his muscles are having a reaction to the grand expectations of every single one. He's bracing for the plot twist for this night's event, either dragging more sex or violence from its attendants like the very walls feed on it. Before the auction begins, his eyes are set on the sisters, sniffing at the air, wondering (and being almost certain) that everything that smells out of place is probably their doing. Is he the only one who sees how off they look? Why is nobody talking about how off they look?
He touches someone's arm, frowning in the sisters' direction. ]
Do they look off to you?
[ Give him a few seconds to look at the non-guest attendants and feel the same way about them. ]
[ He hates it from the start. The portraits feel like they're warning the living, not honoring the dead, mocking Dom the longer he walks down the hall, the better he understands what they are, until anxiety bursts in his chest, making him warm and cold all at once.
He's breathing faster, seeing his face staring back at him, and he swears the canvas is even burnt at the edges where it touches the frame. Panic, then anger take over, as he reaches up and pries the painting off the wall with an angry grunt, refusing to let anyone see — refusing to be reminded of when he died and why he died.
Horror fills him when he finally looks at who else he can see from his bitter spot, not that far from the now vacant spot on the wall. Giles. Natalie. Lanfear. ]
No, no, no — fuck you. Fuck you. [ Muttering unsteadily at whoever set this up; whoever weaved this nightmare into reality. Dom destroys the painting with his portrait and dumps it on the floor. There. Now everyone can see what it deserves to look like. ]
[ You may have noticed someone's been watching. A young man, pink hair that you can't miss, dark eyes that keep staring and then looking away when he's spotted, anxiously fidgeting. There's something stirring in Dom, something that isn't entirely unfamiliar, like the instinct that kicks in days before the full moon, except — amplified. Condensed into one single day, spotting the one person he suddenly needs to protect and … Possess? That sounds wrong. Unfortunately, it feels right. ]
A [ Stranger or friend, Dom follows them around, and if they start to get friendly with someone else — he withstands it at first, but eventually finds himself incapable of keeping the irrational need in check. He walks over, shoves the other person away, then turns to the object of his attention (affection, obsession), and freezes now that their scent is up close. It's intoxicating. What is happening? ]
I need — I need you to come with me.
[ He shifts uncomfortably, pants a little too tight. ]
B [ One encounter leads to a conversation, leads to Dom bringing them to the first secluded place they can find, hugging his partner from behind, kissing the back of their neck until his brain tells him that isn't enough: he needs to bite, he needs to lock them in place with his teeth. His pants are halfway down his legs, underwear barely removed, rubbing the head of his cock up against his mate's — mate's? — ass. Slow but needy little humps, a little wet at the tip. ]
the wolf - a
but instead he steps in, 6’3 of pure muscle, low baritone voice, hand settling on the younger man’s shoulder as he rumbles:] Mmmm, no, I think you need to come with me. [it’s firm, brooking no arguments, but he’s not above using his height and breadth to not-so-subtly steer the young man towards the door to the balcony.] Think some fresh air would do you good, hm?
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No, [ A desperate murmur, hand moving to reach for the girl as though she'd reach back, his cheeks flushed and chest hot. It's all running hot, blood and breath, and he whines and tries to fight off the larger man. ] You can't. I have to, I have— I need her—
[ The moment he picks up Corry's scent, his agitation plateaus. This man is not like the other people who've crossed his path, followed by an aura entrancing the young wolf into believing they're destined to meet and feel and fuck until there's nothing left in them. Whatever this is, Corry is like Dom: the one who follows the aura, who smells sex and chases it for the destined meeting and feeling and fucking.
Dom still puts his hand over Corry's. Something stops him from prying it off, muttering wordless protests until he's ready — almost — to give up. ]
Who are you?
cw: drug mention
at the touch, corry pauses a moment, eyebrows arched, meeting the big, panicked, hazy eyes. he softens slightly, free hand reaching up to tip the boy’s chin upwards, try to catch sight of his pupils, see if he’s been – drugged or something.]
Corrigan. “Corry” is fine, though. Just arrived a few days ago. [he can’t tell, can’t figure out if the pink-haired stranger is having some sort of reaction or just really, really horny or something else entirely. but he’s not throwing punches, so corry softens his expression, one dimple deepening.] You doing all right, kid?
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N-no, I'm not.
[ Shifting, uncomfortable and uneasy, he grabs his shirt and pulls it down, fighting the urge to keep going. He's still got enough dignity left to stop himself from just start rutting into his own hand. ]
This happens sometimes, [ Days before the full moon, culminating just before it, but — ] It's just— it's never been this strong before.
[ He looks back at where Corry found him, desperately wishing the girl would come back. ]
She was going to help me. It has to be her.
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so he softens further, hand slipping from the boy’s shoulder to the back of his neck, kneading gently, alongside his prompting words:] Hey, look at me. She’s gone, she’s not gonna help you, all right? [it’s firm, but not unkind, big palm warm and firm against the sweat-slick line of the pink-haired youth’s neck.
the door to the nearest balcony is close, close enough that corry can steer them that way, coaxing and soothing, voice rumbling in a deep baritone.] You need someone to help, got me right here. I’ll help you, all right? [he can remember being young, desperate, tipsy and welling with raw emotion.] Tell me what you need.
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Corry is close. Corry is also warm. He may not be the key, but he smells like he's something adjacent, and he's offering to help. In the hazy madness of animalistic instinct, Dom decides it's acceptable to reach for the older man, acceptable to clench his fist in his shirt, acceptable to lean in and make sure he doesn't smell like her. That'd be too easy, wouldn't it.
He remembers how it felt, the first time the full moon and his hormones aligned. There was no one to talk to, certainly no one to help him with it, so Dom hid in his room, or the shower, or any place where no one would run into him, to masturbate until enough orgasms left him panting, ashamed and anxious to clean up once his brain finally landed back on Earth. Corry finds him ashamed and anxious before Dom ever gets the chance to feel skin on his erection, steadily filling out while they talk and he thinks of all the ways he can be helped. ]
I need—
[ To fuck, to fill her up, to make her mine with teeth and nails and come. He shakes his head with a groan. Back to earth, back to fucking earth. Shirt released, groin uncovered and cock sorely evident, Dom mutters with distasteful honesty. ]
I need to get off.
🔞 belatedly lmao
the answer isn’t a surprising one – corry would’ve, could’ve put those pieces together himself, between the wild-eyed look, the focus on the girl, the sweat and breathlessness and fidgety need. but the shirt goes loose, and the young man’s arousal is plainly visible, and corry lets out a soft, bemused huff.]
I can see that. [it’s gently teasing, coupled with his free hand slipping down, gently gathering up the fabric of the wrinkled shirt, dragging it up, up. just enough so he can get a good look, so he can see if the young stranger squirms or fidgets beneath his unflinching, dark-eyed gaze.] Tell me your name.
[it isn’t a request, and it’s followed by corry’s broad, warm hand, slipping down to palm over the straining front of the young man’s pants, unhurried, near-casual.] Then tell me how you want me to get you off. My hand? My mouth? [a pause, leaning in, murmured into the space between them, the heated air –] Or do you want me to fuck you, make you come that way?
[corry has a preference, of course, but he’ll stay with his palm cupped firmly over the young man’s straining cock, until he gets the answers he’s asked for.]
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Dom.
[ A mutter through the haze, standing in place, aching to be touched until it actually happens. It's a careful what you wish for moment, every sense coming alive like an animal spotting a feast in the distance, wanting to chase it and clench its jaw until it stops moving. He wants to grab Corry again, force him down, wants to lick him and scrape his teeth on his neck and face, imagining every possibility all at once. Fucking, being fucked, being sucked and jerked off. He whines, brows knitted with a helpless spasm, wet where the head of his cock oozes into the fabric. ]
H-hand.
[ It's already there, of course it's his choice. As much as he needed to fuck the person Corry pulled him away from — ]
Please, [ Spoken after another huff and shudder down his entire body, focusing into a mess of precome in his underwear as he rolls his hips once, twice, and so on. He needs to be relieved from his clothes, he needs to watch his cock jerk free and Corry's hand wrapped around it. He's so hard it hurts, he's so blinded by it that he buries his face against his collarbone, angling to lap his tongue up the front of his throat with a whimper. Corry has to take the pain away, ] Please.
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close enough that it’s partially hidden between them, when corry gets the fabric out of the way, pants open, pausing to thumb briefly over the soaked spot that outlines the head of dom’s cock, tongue pressing hungrily against his teeth at the way he can feel the boy’s hips jerk, hear his breath stutter.]
I gotcha, don’t worry, doncha worry… [murmured, hand rucking up the back of dom’s shirt, petting along the sweaty length of his spine as he tugs the wetted fabric away from the twitching, hard length of his dick, shoves it down, low enough that corry’s big palm can slip around dom’s cock and squeeze again, thumb the tip in slow, lazy circles.
dom’s mouth is hungry against his collarbone, his neck, tongue lolling out like an overeager puppy, and corry’s laugh rumbles deep, baritone as he strokes a couple languid, unhurried times.] God, you’re dripping, aren’t you? [soft, scratchy-hot with how turned on he is, with how dom squirms and pants against him.] Here, lemme – [corry pulls his hand away, drags his tongue over his palm, then, impulsively, thumbs at dom’s panting, pleading mouth, gathering the slick of his saliva so it’s easier when he grips his cock again, strokes more purposefully.]
There you go, you can move, move your hips like that… [a squeeze, varying the grip, the pressure, watching dom’s face to see what makes him whine, shudder.] Keep going, Dom, lemme make it feel better…
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He thought he'd found that someone in the girl, tale laid out before him: they'd lose their clothes, he'd fuck her until nature took over and made sure they stayed together until he was empty and she was full. Even now that's something that circles his judgment — the single grain he has left — like an animal waiting for an opening to strike, one finger pressing softly against his nipple, whimper struck from him like a cord pulled taunt, while the stranger gets his clothes out of the way and watches Dom's cock jerk free. A drip of precome drools from it, stuck to his underwear until the stretch pops the thin string of fluid. Dom gasps, moans like he's in pain, like he wants to feel it again.
Somewhere in the depravity of near-public handjob, Dom gets the sense that he's being protected, somehow, with a spit-slick hand around his cock, pangs of arousal pooling every time it goes from the head to the hilt and back. He finally breaks through some of the haze to look up at him, lips parted and brows knitted, either about to beg for mercy or beg for more. More of this torture, so he can keep having that hand, keep hearing Corry's voice, urging him on, comforting him while his cock oozes generously with each sharp thrust. Too much to be normal, even for him. ]
I, I'm gonna— It feels—
[ Good doesn't cover it. He speaks three languages and none have the words for it; he wouldn't have the mind to dig them up if he did. He's biting his lower lip, breaths shallow, wishing he were biting Corry's neck; he's still playing with his nipple, distracted, one hand with a mind of its own, another clinging to the man like he's Dom's last chance. He can't get away. Not until he's done. Not ever, maybe, because he thinks he'll never be done, even after he comes. ]
Y-you need to get out of the way— so I don't get it on you—
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and he murmurs –] I gotcha, yeah? I gotcha, you’re all right, honey, just let go for me, let yourself feel good. [dom’s cock is somehow, impossibly, getting thicker in his palm, but corry doesn’t let it stop him, the hand on dom’s neck dragging him closer, suddenly, like reading his mind, tucking his face into the crook of the man’s neck and stroking up, down the back of his neck as he starts jerking him off faster.]
Not goin’ anywhere, you kidding me? [there’s a low, rumbling bemusement in it, in how corry spreads his hand wide over dom’s neck, like scruffing a mischievous, naughty puppy, pumping his cock between them.] You wanted my help, yeah? Lemme help you. [a squeeze, twist, tighter, tighter.] Wanna feel you come all over my hand, make a mess of it. Know you wanna, c’mon.
Come for me, Dom. [soft, almost sweet, murmured against the young man’s ear, the side of his sweaty neck.] S’all right, you’re safe, I gotcha. Come for me.
cw knotting
And then he remembers what he thought moments ago: he's swelling. ]
No, no—
[ Leaning away to look down, he's horrified to confirm his fear: his cock is swollen at the base, growing an inch longer (or two—?) just like he thought he would inside that girl. It's not supposed to happen like this, in someone's hand; he really must be losing it if his body can't even tell the difference anymore. ]
D-dont look at it, [ Embarrassment stands no chance against everything else, but he can still beg Corry not to see that he's a freak of nature, too big and wet in the final moments before he wave crashes into the sand. ] I'm gonna—
[ No words are needed. They wouldn't make it to his throat if he tried. Instead there's a hurt noise, the first spurt thick and painfully intense, the rest that follow (another, and another, and—) leaving Dom a mess barely standing on his own two feet, face buried in the crook of Corry's neck again. He's all ragged breaths and shaking limbs when his orgasm reaches the end of its absurdly abundant peak, cock still shaped like it's trying to keep Corry's hand there. Again: ] Don't look, please.
cw continues
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( the wolf - a meets b )
Too needy. But he doesn't recognize why. He just follows Dom, softly snorting.]
Where to?
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[ He holds Theo's hand a little too hard, like saying it and realizing his aimlessness are two frustrating things, just not enough to stop him and make him actually think about it. All the thinking he has left is being taken over by the jaw-clenched bite of instinct, the mental image of his cock in Theo and Theo's inside him, fucking until there's nothing left and they've done their duty. Finally, Dom decides this place is good enough, one small corner and enough wall to push Theo up against it, smelling his neck, nuzzling it, tongue dipping out to have a taste. ]
You smell — different.
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Yeah? I-I feel... hot, but. You make me hot.
[But this is more than that. His nails are sharper, he feels like he can hear Dom's voice right inside his head, loud in its whispering.]
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But it's more than that, right? It's like — like when it's the full moon and I really need to fuck you, and —
[ And this is a case of the horny rambling, someone save them, ]
And this isn't how you smell. You smell like I need you to be mine. Or I need to be yours, I don't know. I don't…
[ He's grinding against Theo, too, mutter turning into a soft moan. ]
You have to fuck me, Teddie.
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[It's like Dom read his mind - or somehow put the thought right in there, desperate and needy. Theo's hands are already twisting down between them, trying to shove down Dom's pants and get his own unfastened. He's clumsy and desperate, grunting in frustration as he presses into a firm kiss and bites down on Dom's lower lip. His heart is hammering. He feels alive - sweat is on his brow and his back, and he:]
I need... need you. Fuck, fuck-
[He holds Dom's cock, stroking it, too dizzied with lust to think straight.]
D-Down, get down. On your back.
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Okay. [ His voice barely cooperates. So does his body, the idea of Theo letting him go being an unthinkable scenario. The whine is trapped behind shut lips, lowering himself, pants down to his thighs, cock standing at full mast; a thin string of precome links the head to his navel. ]
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Mmm, ffffuck.
[He's pushing Dom's knees to his chest so he doesn't yet have to fully remove his pants from both legs - just yanking one free and letting the other hang. He leans into the V, planting one hand on either side of Dom and staring at him as he aligns them for an entry full of friction, save for the little bit of pre on his cock after he's drawn it out. His hips jut forward, it's still not- not enough.]
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Keep going. I need more.
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Teeth — Teddie, you have to m-mark me.
[ Bite him until there's red, because they love each other's blood. ]
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[Dom's voice is like - the start of an itch somewhere inside his body that Theo can't scratch. The rise of a welt, the warm sting of something to come as it coaxes more ferocity out of his motions. He's breathing hard and shallow as they slam together, the points of his teeth digging into Dom's neck but he's never been one to bite this hard before. But his jaws feel like they can go farther, and if Dom's asking... It's not intentional but there's something sharper about his teeth after that, a shift in magic perhaps, making them dig in deeper and after a particularly heady sigh, the tips of his canines break through the skin and beads of red well up and smear over Dom's skin as he licks at the taste.]
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