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
no subject
(he thinks about hawk again, though it’s something he said this time, not his way of being. you’re easy to open up to, even without the void forcing it. something in the riptide of his ocean eyes, or the vulnerability that spills over, honest as his time-locked confession. not tonight, when he could have just said no.)
that kernel of genuine sentiment only makes bob like him more. he smiles back, a shy sort of pleasure, when corry fully recovers. laughs a little, at the idea of him having any effect on an ego of apparent indestructibility. the accumulated tension in his spine and shoulders eases, increment by increment, with the aid of corry’s wandering hands. bob goes with the gentle current, easy and instinctive, arms loose around his neck so he can press closer than close, breath hitching at the unmistakeable hard-on, angled near enough to where he’d like it. a roll of his hips, just slight enough to go unmissed by their neighbours, confirms that even bob might ache to take him. and that — whew. ]
Y-Yeah. [ stuttering with the ardent re-application of corry’s mouth. he cants his head to welcome him there. splays his thighs that inch further, tighter against corry’s own. proof of concept, given where they’re surely headed. a direct contrast with the soft, ] More than I did before.
[ — perhaps not for the reason corry thinks. his voice ticks up, hopeful. ] Now?
no subject
this dance, he knows – albeit not necessarily started at an auction – and corry is happy to take the steps that lead to more buttons being lost, piles of dress shoes by the door, the gentle squeak of bedsprings and that hesitant smile pressed up against his skin. hopefully.
one more squeeze, affectionate, a momentary farewell to arms (to ass?), and corry leaves the impression of lips, teeth, tongue, all just a teasing trace, where bob’s jaw meets his neck, where the woeful sigh sends goosebumps shivering down to the bisection of silver collar around his neck.] Mmm, I could’ve been talked into an exhibitionist moment, if you just couldn’t wait…
[corry leaves that thought for a moment, lingering, the possibility of such a thing – making a claim publicly, letting bob rut against his lap here in the middle of the auction, show off, parade, display – not without it’s appeal. but bob adds – now? – sweet and hopeful enough to give corry goddamn cavities, and he laughs, shattering the idea entirely, leaning back and cupping bob’s chin, affectionate.] But, no, you’re right, Bob – I’m a greedy bastard who doesn’t like sharing. You know me so well.
[a click of his tongue, another of those almost-kiss nuzzles to the corner of bob’s mouth, then corry gently nudges him back, to stand. a well-tailored suit hides a multitude of sins, though bob’s got corry worked up enough to necessitate a subtle adjustment of his slacks, one accompanied with a quiet, bemused grin – a wink, even. then corry’s broad hand is settling protectively, possessively on bob’s lower back, gently steering him out of the auction hall.] So. My room or yours?
no subject
but it passes with corry’s interest. a coincidence that bob notices and files away, even if there’s nothing to be done about it. far more important things to consider, like the width of corry’s palm against his jaw, the length of his fingers — the almost kiss has him leaning in once more, stopped only by corry coaxing him back to his feet. not here, right. no alien impulse to blame for his intentions that time. ]
Yours. [ because his room is a permanent mess. because a not insignificant number of people with telepathy and super hearing reside in the new avengers hallway. because he just caught the eye of someone he knew and had to duck his head before he burst into flames. take your pick.
when the rummage wing doors shutter behind them, bob catches his cheek between his teeth. thinking he ought to be doing more. unsure how. ]
Did you — was it expensive?
[ it, not him. he chases the question with a sidelong glance, eyes open with sincere interest. no vanity, in the matter of the price he fetched, instead thinking of the cost to corry. a track that runs parallel to the one telling him to do something, anything so as to ensure he was worth it. ]
no subject
there’s a pleased sort of satisfaction at that, rumbling like a purring cat in his chest as he shifts closer, the arm around bob changing from a protective guide to something – softer. sweeter, maybe, less conquest for the night and more two people taking a nice walk. there’s naturally a goal, one that pulses down corry’s spine, throbs insistent and impatient and half-hard in his slacks, but he likes the whole package – flattery, seduction, the slow build. he likes how bob blushes, how he looks up sideways, how he feels tucked against corry’s side.
so he rests a broad palm on bob’s opposite shoulder, steers them towards where he’s fairly certain his room is. he can manage a bit of a walk, though if bob keeps looking up at him with those puppy-dog eyes and soft voice and the work of his throat against the pretty collar that corry wants to take off with his teeth – well. there are plenty of unoccupied rooms, surely?]
I’m sure I’ll find out. [the two sisters had seemed pleased by however high his bid had gone, exchanging mossy, toothy grins when corry’s was the last paddle held up, when he’d secured bob’s company for the night at the cost of –] They said I’d find out after the auction. [dismissive, the attitude of a man for whom cost is negligible. he’ll charge it to one account or another, find a way to reconcile the cost. he’s very good at that.
smiling downward, dimpled and warm:] I got exactly what I wanted and that’s all that matters, in the end.
no subject
so, are you worth it? bob tilts up the fraction required to tuck himself under corry’s jaw. nosing there, momentarily stalled by the question of whether this was his idea. it could be. payback for the teasing in the auction hall, thanks for wanting him and picking him and touching him now. ultimately, bob decides it hardly matters, because he likes the heady mix of corry's expensive aftershave and cologne, and he loves the feel of muscle tensing under his mouth, when he noses up the column of corry’s throat. power of a different kind than sunbeam and shadow.
bob slips his hand under corry’s suit jacket (sparing the briefest thought for wherever his own ended up), two fingers hooking on the waistband of his trousers. ]
Uh-huh. [ nuzzled below his ear. exactly what i wanted on a loop in his head. he clocked the way corry eyed the cracked-open door up ahead. ] You got me. [ the collar heavy at his throat, extra gravel in voice. i'm a greedy bastard. ] All to yourself.
[ starting now, or the second the collar clicked in place. no need to wait, unless he really wants that. bob thinks maybe he doesn't, actually, and so they shouldn't. hence the slide of his fingers along the waistband, questioning. the puppyish nip at corry's throat, teasing. ]
no subject
the door is still a little way down the hall, but corry doesn’t rush, not when bob’s hand slips along the belted waist of his well-tailored slacks, when bob’s teeth tease at his throat. he turns, warmth crinkling his eyes, something nearly sweet in how he moves his hand from bob’s shoulder, rakes it through his mostly-ungelled hair, cradles the back of his head in one broad hand.]
All mine. [it’s a rumble, more felt than heard, and in front of the doorway, corry stops, turns, dips down and kisses bob slow, warm, the end-of-the-night movie kiss that’d suit a first date, a first shy farewell. but the way he slips his other hand down, tucks around bob’s waist, tugs him close, flush to corry’s body like he’d nearly been in the auction hall – that suggests this is in no way a goodbye.]
Gonna keep giving me exactly what I want? [the same intonation, lilting, bright in corry’s warm mouth when he pulls away, flashes that grin, all dimples and teeth. he backs them into his suite – brand-new, barely lived-in, a towel over the chair and a slightly ajar closet the only sign someone’s staying here – then gently bullies bob back against the closing door, pinning him there with that dark-eyed, cheshire-cat grin.]
Because what I want… [he begins slowly, savoring the curl of his hand into bob’s shirt at his waist, dragging it up, up, free of his pants, free enough that corry’s consuming, possessive touch can slip beneath the loose shirttail, over the warm, bare heat of bob’s hip, stomach.] Is you in my bed…hands and knees for me. [the hand in bob’s hair moves in the dim light, to his throat, to the circlet of silver and sapphire, tapping lightly against the metal.] Wearing nothing but this.
[another grin, just visible in the warm dark.] That sound good to you, sweetheart?
🔞
when corry questions him, he nods quick, an overeager jerk of his chin. ]
Yeah. [ already leaning up for another kiss. not a movie kiss but a kiss that’s really going somewhere, when corry shifts and leaves him wanting — the collar smarts, his head spins — do more, be more, everything he wants — ] Anything.
[ but for all bob teases and pushes and tries, it seems corry is in charge. relief slides down his back with the realisation, something of the collar’s magic shed with it. because corry will decide what he wants. it isn’t on bob to figure that out and provide. despite being all-powerful, immovable, stronger than the avengers combined — bob stumbles back a little. lets corry steady and corral him against the door, pinned as much by those dark eyes as his wandering hands. one of bob’s own fastens loosely to his arm, feeling the ripple of muscle and fabric before every movement. flowing with it.
now he wishes he could say he’d taken something ‘cause at least then he’d have an excuse for the way he shivers and sighs. the way his cock firms in his fine trousers. beneath his fitted shirt, the planes of defined muscle won’t surprise corry, but maybe they’ll still charm him. a body built by oxe for posters on doors and billboards in times square. in any case, the flat of his stomach tenses, anticipatory of everywhere else corry might touch him. fingers tighten and uncurl in his sleeve. the apple of his throat throbs beneath his collar, a delicious drag. impossible not to imagine exactly what corry asks of him from the outside, of what surely comes after, pulse kicking up under his attention. he nods again, twice so corry knows he’s sure, blinking through it, fluttery as the feeling in his chest. ]
Really good. [ breath hitching, ] Just want to be good for you.
[ whatever that means, whatever corry wants, he can’t think of something he wouldn’t do for him now. and so he withdraws from corry to unravel his sleeves from his elbows, the unbuttoned, open cuffs overreaching his wrists to skim his palms. struggling through one button, then another, and another after that, a quarter of the way down his shirt. eyes wide when they flick up to see if corry’s watching, if he’s undressing too, before he lifts his shirt overhead in one, fluid movement and slings it aside — capable of that as much as he is boyish fumbling, it seems.
easy enough to toe out of his dress shoes. a little harder to go the distance, fingers stuttering over the button of his trousers. thumbs caught on his waistband, briefly, as he looks for assurance again. heat flushes his chest, the length of his throat. no dawdling once he tugs his trousers down, all the more eager to comply here at the point of no return. the foreign urge to show off at odds with his interiority as he crosses to the bed. head ducked a final time, fingertips brushing his collar, before he settles on all fours. feeling like a live wire, thrumming with electricity and fraying close to metal. ]
no subject
corry might not be an expert at the interpersonal, the connections that last, but he can read desire like a book, can see whether whoever he’s with wants quick and messy or slow, languid, lingering. bob looks up at him, shirtless and soft-eyed and corry’s own shirt is half-buttoned, but he reaches out like he just can’t resist, cradles the side of bob’s face for a moment, palm warm against his neck, slipping to his shoulder, trailing down his chest – a slow inhale, a quick, hungry look out of dark eyes and corry drags his hand away, leaving his shirt in favor of unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate moves.]
Good, [ he says, keeps saying, each time bob’s big sweet eyes dart upwards, each time his fingers falter, not leaving him to perform, to show off – corry says good, so good and he doesn’t touch, not yet, but he’s close, he’s warm, leaving his belt open, his slacks unbuttoned, unzipped, the bulge of dark boxer briefs framed shamelessly in the triangle of his open pants. and bob moves to the bed, ducks his head, settles and arches and obeys, and there it is, so good, heavy and heated as soon as he kneels, stretches out, because corry doesn’t stand back and admire his prize, oh no. because bob follows orders beautifully, and he deserves to be rewarded.
so corry’s right there on the broad bed, up on his knees, shirt pulled over his head, shoulders rolling back a couple times as he lets out a satisfied, deep groan and stretches one hand to smooth down the line of bob’s back, shoulder to spine to the tipped-up curve of his ass. it’s a firm, familiar touch, like he has every right to put his hands all over bob, anywhere he wants, but there’s affection in it too, the way he smooths down to the tensed muscles in one thigh, lingers there for a moment, thumb caressing, massaging, soothing.
and all the while, his voice –] There you go, so good, Bobby, baby, so quick and good for me. You’re doing beautifully, sweetheart. [the other hand, the warmth of corry kneeling close, the nuzzling, lingering tease of his mouth against bob’s shoulderblade when he ducks his head, surrounding, consuming, enjoying. lips still pressed there, the curve of muscle, the jut of bone:] God, I wanna put my mouth all over you, y’know? Wanted to taste you since I saw you up on that stage. Wanted to make you gasp my name with that pretty, perfect mouth.
[the hand on bob’s thigh skirts up, grips at his ass, fingers wide, teeth blunt against the expanse of perfect, unmarked skin.] Most of all – wanted to fuck you in my bed, on your hands and knees, just like this. [kissing the mark, thumb skirting to tease over bob’s entrance, pad lingering, circling –] You want that too, Bobby? Tell me that’s what you want. Ask nice and sweet and I’ll fuck you into the mattress, I’ll make you scream for me.
Ask me.
no subject
corry makes it simpler than all that, caring only for what bob is, in this specific context, and that makes his praise infinitely easier accept. good, when he falters. good, before it, the mere fact of his person cast as pleasing in the lamplight. so good, as in exactly what corry wants, obedience as intoxicating now as it was at the commune. more so, knowing that isn’t what this collar asks of him but what corry does. a desire fulfilled preemptively, instinctively, beautifully. with that, the last of his lingering, coltish nerves dissipate under corry’s hand on his thigh. body instead buzzing with anticipation.
for the first time, his power fluctuates with another’s desires and not his own. corry wants to leave a mark and so he gets to, the gasp in bob’s mouth both requested and earned. the hell does that mean? when he can still hear corry’s heartbeat in his head, steady and even while bob’s trips into double time. if he focuses, bob can find the party below them; the pulse of those sleeping above. not a total depowering, then, but a selective, intentive one. the kind that means he’ll have bruises on his hips and ache from the inside by morning, if he’s lucky. bob pushes back just a little, just enough to beg for more pressure. for something to hold him together, when he could rattle apart with need at any second. he can’t imagine how it’ll feel to get fucked like this — all the heightened senses, none of the guardrails — by someone who knows what they’re doing and isn’t afraid of what could go wrong. why should he be? no part of bob, the sentry, or the void could hurt him unless corry wished it. he doesn't even know the danger exists. ]
Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes. [ and maybe he’d leave it at that without the collar, suddenly so heavy that he could sink into its hold, of a piece with corry’s hands. an extension of him, wrapped around bob’s throat, wringing the words out — ] Will you please fuck me, Corry?
[ fingers tight in the bedsheets, muscles tense with anticipation. his voice lowers into a confessional register. ]
I wanted. [ too many things, with corry’s breath ghosting over his skin, the memory of his mouth on the secret, tender space beneath his strong jawbone. ] I wanted you to fuck me at the auction, in front of everybody. And in the hallway, because you couldn’t wait. [ telling, maybe. because that would mean you really wanted me, bleeding from every syllable. ] You are, like. [ a bronze from the balfours’ art wing, come to life. someone who actually belongs in this house, when bob emphatically does not. ] I cannot believe this is happening. Of course I want you.
no subject
and he banishes it like always, like he prompts bob to do when his breath hitches tight against the snug, hemming-in of the silver collar, when his fingers curl and his muscles go tense again – ] Good, sweetheart, that’s good, you’re being so good for me. [the words, the plea, the confession rambling, spilling from bob’s gasping mouth, anticipation edging into desperation until corry’s big hand is slipping around, cradling the front of bob’s throat, atop the collar, wishing suddenly that he could – remove it, put his own palm against the gulping work of bob swallowing, feel the shudder of his breath and the rocket of his pulse.] I would’ve, you know – right there over my table, up against the wall, where everyone can see. Bent you over, pinned you there, made them all see how sweet you get when I touch you like this.
[as he speaks, corry’s thumb works at the muscle of bob’s hole, fingers casually, possessively curled over the meat of his upturned ass, gives the pressure, the press, the tease before he pulls away, watches to see if bob arches back, seeks it out. regardless, corry moves his hand from bob’s throat, leans out, over to the bedside table – thank you saltburnt, for adequately stocking each and every guest room – tugs open the drawer and rummages as he speaks.] But then, of course, I remembered what you already know, Bobby – I’m terrible at sharing. [lube bottle, cap flicked up, the messy drip when corry pours some into his palm, scatters droplets over bob’s spread thighs, his plush ass.] So, as appealing as the idea of Saltburnt’s finest watching me fuck your perfect ass is, baby, I eventually went with my gut.
[this time corry moves up close, pants slipping, the bulge in his briefs pressed against the outside of bob’s thigh so he can feel the heat of his cock, and his slicked-up thumb presses again at the clutch of bob’s tight hole, circles, slicks him up all messy and nice, so the more deliberate push of his index finger sinks in slow, steady, unceasing, one thick finger buried to the knuckle. corry exhales, the sound almost a growl – ] Oh, yeah, Bobby. Getting inside you, fucking you deep, watching you take my cock – that’s for me. [a crook, a drag free, another, quicker plunge deep.] That’s all mine.
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i would’ve is enough to make him squirm. corry’s words seem to come so much easier than bob’s own, the fullness of his voice blocking out any second thoughts. his confession appreciated and returned, with corry’s grip as soothing as it is inciting, even spread over his throat, the collar pressed flush by his hand. (better his hand there than the collar, yes, than the shadow-tipped fingers of the void —) how sweet you get, spoken as if corry already knows what he’ll be like, now that he’s dropping into that needful, hollowed out space. he probably does, when bob tilts his head to encourage corry’s hand up before it goes, lips brushing over his palm. when leans into his touch and arches his back to catch corry’s fingertip against his rim, inhale sharp and short with the tease, begging for it. ]
Good idea. [ a hard swallow of an answer. he can’t help but shift, knees angling wider, ass lifting perkier. a bead of sweat slides to the dip of his spine. his limbs go taut with every one of those mesmeric circles. corry gets him messier, wetter than he expected; something bob likes. teasing right up until he isn’t at all, stretching warm, slick and thick. confident, inexorable. something bob likes a lot, clenching and unclenching to welcome him. ]
All yours. [ because corry favours that. because it’s true, naked but for the collar that makes it so. the chorus of bobby, baby, bobby, baby on repeat. ] Only want to be yours.
[ with a sound stuck between a whine and a moan, he sinks to his elbows. half reaches for his aching cock but thinks better of it, when corry hasn’t said anything about that. instead, he commits to a gentle rock forward and back, leverage enough to help take more, deeper, faster. he’s done this plenty of times, sure, that much is probably obvious. but not often in this place — even less since he’s been forcibly made sober, changed into something other — feeling everything too clearly, every push and pull, each angle and curl. it’s good like this, he thinks, sharp notes giving way to blunt need. ]
More. [ head hanging, mouth parted. pleasing corry and pleasuring himself converge at the same point. all heightened by the collar, rather than overruled by it. ] Please. Gonna need more.
[ to take him. deep seems like an understatement, given the length flush to his thigh. ]
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here, though, he doesn't. he hums softly, indulgently at bob's words all yours, only want to be yours, turned-on half-truths that matter in this room, between these walls, in the space of time corry's won fair and square. he won't hold bob to it in the morning, knows better. picking apart words was for the handful of time between bob in his lap and bob in his bed, the point of no return somewhere along that hallway, stepped over without a look back. another point comes, goes when bob dips down to his elbows, rocks his hips back against corry's hand, begging even before he says anything for more, the press and pull not enough now.
and corry gives it, free hand carding through bob's hair, keeping it out of his flushed face, second finger stacked with the first and slipped inside easily, waiting until he's knuckle-deep to scissor, spread, watch the muscle of bob's back, his thighs shiver at the new stretch.] Mmmhm, I know, honey. [soothing, almost sweet, like a late-night comfort after a nightmare, instead of murmured as corry fingers bob open, hooking and curling his fingers and dragging his tongue over his lower lip and watching, watching. every reaction is clocked, noted, the angle that makes bob's head go lower, makes his hips cant backwards for more, deeper, there repeated steady and unceasing.] I gotcha, I'm gonna make sure you're ready for it, sweetheart, don't you worry. Won't do anything that'll hurt, okay?
[three fingers and corry's keeping that promise, gazing at the trickle of sweat down the pretty, arched curve of bob's back, his shoulders, his pert ass upturned and rocking back to meet each deep thrust of thick fingers. corry's free hand tugs bob's hair gently, turns his gaze sideways, lets him watch the straining fabric get tugged down, away, watch corry free his cock too, bobbing against his stomach, long (really long) and thick and dripping.]
Think you're ready yet, Bobby? [guiding one of bob's hands out to feel, to touch, to curl around the considerable girth of corry's hard cock and stroke slow, root to tip. there's no wrong answer -- if he's ready, corry doesn't have to wait any more to fulfill his promise to fuck bob into the mattress, but if he isn't, bob's hand is a nice consolation prize for the moment. they have all night, corry reminds himself, though he's tempted to thumb open bob's pleading, pretty mouth and see what it feels like, if he'd go teary-eyed when corry slides into his throat, if he'd whine around his dick when corry added a fourth finger in his ass.
still coaxing bob's hand over his cock, working his hole open, precum dripping messy over the shy curl of bob's knuckles, to his wrist, corry exhales ragged, heated, hoarse --] I'll go real slow, but -- god, if I don't get inside you soon, baby, I'm gonna fuckin' die.
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lost but for corry’s hand in his hair, guiding him to look, really look, eyes wide and already wet. his stomach swoops, features slackening. blink, blink, blinking. glad again for corry’s guidance, with his fuck-off massive cock now in hand, thick enough that he thinks he can already feel it right where he breaks open, snagging on the rim. his fingers splay and stretch, assessing, before corry gets him moving. ]
What the fuck, man. [ punctuated with one lick to the bulbous head, then another. he whines through another still. ] I’m the one who’s gonna die. [ utterly without the oomph to sell that, at odds with his eager hand, his urgent licks. messy, enthusiastic, so fucking wanting, can’t help but tongue his leaking slit — because corry is so wet for him, aroused just from fingering him open and instructing him perfectly. of course bob wants corry to split him open right now. a digit ago. no, for him to fuck bob’s throat so can feel it on the inside and the collar on the outside and corry’s thick fingers hooked inside him, taken and owned completely (belonging, belonging, belonging). he mouths sloppy from the side both to buy time and because he wants to taste salt-sweat. the collar tells him to do it all, more and then some. ]
Just one more. [ groaning at the thought of that, too. ] Then I’ll be, ah, ready.
[ as he can be, christ. not at all a consolation prize, he takes corry’s cockhead in his mouth, lips red and stretched around him. fist working the length of him, even as he slides lower fast. good at this the way corry is good at the rest, equal parts practiced and determined. fingertips run up the vein on the underside, base to ridge. bob sinks here like he had to his elbows, like he knows he’s going to when corry slides home. halfway down and gagging on a moan, bob shifts his body slightly, moving up and altering the angle so that when his mouth is impaled again, his throat just opens. enough to impress, surely. lashes glistening as he swallows hard. only inching further when corry gives him another, as promised. suspended between corry’s fingers and his cock, a broken sound vibrating down his length. ]
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corry cards gently, almost tenderly through bob's curls, gathers them away from his flushed, teary-eyed face, watches him chase the drip of precum with his sloppy, eager tongue and fucks open his hole on three fingers, starting to work the fourth in against his palm.] You keep making a mess of my dick like that, sweetheart, and I won't even need to lube up before getting in your ass. [bob's lips close around the head of corry's cock and he grips tighter, tugs him forward though he doesn't need any damn guidance, he's sinking down like a goddamn pro.] Just -- gonna slide right into this needy hole, gonna take my cock like you're taking my fucking hand, Bobby -- [and there's a stutter of his hips that comes out of his careful, measured response, because he hits bob's throat and slides deeper, and corry makes a short, growly groaning sound, hand fisting in bob's hair, thrusting forward deeper once more before he reels himself back in.
and it's been a long damn time since someone made him lose it even for a moment, but bob swallows his cock with a practiced ease, flicks those damn teary eyes up and corry laughs rough, a touch ragged, loosening his fingers a bit so he doesn't give into the urge to fuck bob's throat, fill it. he thinks of the gulp of bob's throat where the collar fits snug, thinks about his dick there and like that he's gone from mostly-hard to goddamn iron, thickening against bob's tongue.] Careful, sweetheart, [raspy, the practiced control slipping, the indulgence into what bob's been begging him for -- want to be yours, want to be good, the sort of fuckdrunk needy whining that hits just as good as the work of bob's throat on his cock.] or I might not want to give you back after tonight.
[and it's not like corry had expected bob to be inexperienced, blushing, shy, but -- it kicks heat up his spine to think of think of just how many times bob had gotten down on his knees and opened his pretty mouth to be this damn good at it. the hand in his hair is reluctant, but firm in pulling bob's mouth away from his heavy cock, watching the stretch of his lips, the streaks of saliva down his chin when corry slips free. the fingers curl, pump, slip out slow, leaving bob empty, waiting, slick hand palming the meat of his ass just this side of too-rough, fingers digging in tight for a moment.] On your back. Wanna see your face.
[and he -- does, is the thing, charmed by the hangdog eyes and the stammering and the mouth like a goddamn angel yes, okay. he wants more of bob's teary eyes, dark lashes and flushed face and beautiful damn body spread out and whining and moaning for him, so fucking sue him, he's only human. corry moves his hands away (and regrets it, irrational, foggy with arousal,) rummages for condoms (much more well-stocked here than most places), rolls one on and breathes. breathes.
his pants get fully shoved off, corry half-turning to step out of them, dim lamplight catching the faded landscape of black-ink tattoos across his back, his upper arms. perhaps at odds with his composed presentation, yes, but corry's back on the bed, crawling over bob, broad and heated and near-predatory in how he cradles his face, kisses him messy like he'll taste his own dick on bob's tongue.] Damn glad I get you all night, at least. [mumbled, tipping bob's chin up, going in for another kiss that's more of a bite.] Not done with your mouth at least, that's for damn sure.
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which is, apparently, a desperate, wanting creature. when corry pulls him off, and he gulps his first unimpeded breath of air in minutes. bob would listen to him even if the collar weren’t telling him to, but that does nothing for the aching loss. corry guides the lion’s share of his hand free — and bob goes down, brow pushed into the bedspread, damp hand curling there beside it instead of around corry’s perfect cock, halfway to wrecked and whining. fucking bereft, hole twitching and spasming around nothing at all. with the way corry grabs his ass (possessive, a little mean), bob wonders if he’d like to — if he’d mark him there by hand, one hit after another — if he likes that in addition to this.
not here, not now, when wanna see your face makes him smile sweet, having been certain corry was going to pound him into the mattress, facedown, ass-up, at the start of this. also good. extremely hot, in fact. just less personal. the alternative earned with his scraped throat and still-shuddering lungs, the delicious stretch of his internal muscles. and so he goes without question (with a little oof), head lolling to the side to watch corry finish undressing. bob's hair damp with sweat and curling against his forehead as he stretches out his arms. on his back, knees bent and parted for corry. cock so neglected it hurts, standing at attention. bob wishes he could see him more clearly, committing his silhouette to memory, broad and muscled down to the cord of his wrists (unaware that the lamps momentarily brighten in service of this. his power a living, breathing thing, even while contained.)
expression caught between dazed and awed, bob wants to ask corry about his tattoos and the house that wasn't his but felt the same and if anyone has ever said absolutely not when he took his dick out. the final thought nearly makes him laugh, a sound that’s mostly air, cut short by a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. bob kisses him desperately, open-mouthed and dirty. better that than let the collar say insane shit like. i can go as many times as you want. you literally cannot hurt me. you don’t have to use a condom because we are playthings in a psychopath’s dollhouse, and i want to feel you come inside me. i was made in a lab to save the world or maybe just to take good dick. quick to snare his legs around corry’s back and beg him closer. a hand urgent at his neck and curled at his shoulders. looking up at him, eyes wide but soft, too. there, in the corners, crinkling with the curve of his mouth. ]
Better not be. [ done with his mouth, done with him. he keeps his hold loose so corry can line up and manoeuvre him, 'cause he is probably gonna need to, like, bend bob in half to make this work. ] Need you back inside me first.
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he lets it go fairly quick, though, settling between bob's spread legs for a moment, propped up on an elbow, enjoying the warmth of his shivery, compliant body pressed up against corry's, chest-to-chest, stomach-to-stomach. not corry's full weight, but enough to feel the thud of bob's heart, the rise and fall of his breath, to hem him in and kiss him slow and lazy and possessive, because he's not going anywhere. especially not when corry's hand snakes down, pets up the neglected length of bob's dick, nudging it against the condom-clad shape of his own, trapped between them for a moment, dripping against his stomach.]
Oh, he's mouthy now. [bemused, laughing, kissing tongue-first and wrapping his hand loosely around bob's cock, thumbing beneath the head, waiting to swallow up whatever sweet little noise bob makes at finally, finally being touched.] Feeling a little needy, sweetheart? Got you all ready and now you're empty, huh? [another kiss, then corry's shifting back up onto his knees, carding rough through bob's hair, tugging his head back, chin up, collared throat bared. a beat, then he tugs both hands up above bob's head, crossed at the wrists, curls his hand around them for a beat, eyebrow quirking.] Keep 'em there. Can you do that for me, Bobby?
[corry's thinking about a belt, a tie, something, about tying it around bob's wrists, looping them to the headboard -- keep you, keep you, like liquid fire, cock twitching impatiently, needily, and he slides one hand up the back of bob's thigh, bending a knee towards his chest, spreading him open pretty as a damn picture, the slick drip of his fucked-open hole clenching around nothing.] Just like that, good boy. [murmured, corry's free hand slippery on his cock, pumping a couple times, saying again as he nudges the thick head to skate over the swollen, reddened rim, slide up, down, teasing --] Good, good boy, Bob. [his name nearly a groan, cock slipping up through his fist, grinding the full length through his fingers, letting bob feel how long, how thick, how hard, pumped and slapped lightly against his hole and then, then --
then corry lines up, presses in, hand like iron under that bent knee, four damn fingers and it's still a damn stretch to get his fat cockhead in, but he feeds it in slow, steady, watches the stretch of bob taking him, taking him (so good, you're so good), then drags his eyes up to do what he said he wanted. he watches bob's face as he's filled, gradual, but unceasing, more and more and more, always another inch when it seems like there shouldn't be, and he feels like fucking heaven, of course he does, tight and hot and shuddering and clenching, and corry stops halfway in, breath ragged, chest and stomach wet with the strain of holding back. his hand finds bob's cock again, palming it slowly, root to tip, distracting from the stretch, the burn, thumbing the slit, then lifting his hand to his mouth, licking at the wet caught on the pad of his finger.]
Still with me, baby? [almost a purr again, only half-in, stopping long enough to thumb rough under a teary eye, nudge the salty taste past bob's slack lips, pressing down on his tongue to bully his mouth open. corry fishhooks his thumb there, hitches his hips forward, stuffs more of his cock inside bob's ass and waits for the sound he makes, waits for it to prompt him to drive deeper, deeper, shoving bob's knee closer to his chest to bend him, spread him open wider.] Doin' so good for me, honey, taking it so nice, knew you would. Tell me how it feels, Bobby, gettin' what you need. [thicker at the base, goddamn coke-can thick, corry prompts the slurred, whiny words around the meat of his thumb in bob's mouth, needs them to spur him on, not sure if he'll get his cock all the way in without bob begging for it.]
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Mouthy always. [ talking to himself when he’s nervous, talking back whether or not it’s wise, fucking his throat on corry’s huge cock — you get the idea. needy, too, corry’s right about that, with his hole pulsing and hips pushing up, begging to be filled anew. ] S’your fault. [ that he’s needy, when he isn’t this wildly desperate every time he’s with somebody. that he’s empty, fucked open on corry’s hand and still likely to cry on his cock. the complaint’s easily kissed from his mouth, leaning in for another and another until corry nudges his head back. bob likes the feel of corry’s hand there, above the collar, twin points of pressure at his jugular and the divot of his chin. breathing tight, hands already slipping from corry’s body so they can be gathered up neatly before corry does just that. a flex of his defined arms overhead, proof that this is something given freely, with his obvious strength. (although he doubts corry imagines that if bob were, say, tied to the headboard, he might break the damn thing.) in lieu of any restraint to aid him, he cups one wrist from behind with the opposite hand. unspeakably turned on over being given a means by which to prove how good he can be. all before he jerks his head in answer. ]
[ softer, ] Yes, Corry. [ not so mouthy now, breath caught. nevermind how he squirms, only stilling when corry guides his knee back, jolting a little with the cool air on his hole. jolting a lot with corry’s hand on his dick, and corry’s dick kissing his puffy, fucked-out rim. he doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath, glad for the sudden exhale that goes long and ragged with the initial penetration. praise dappling his sweat-slick skin like sunlight, easing the way. ]
Corry — [ hands twitching, back arching, jaw and stomach trembling. his brows scrunch together, head tipped at a harsher angle with the strain of it. unprepared for corry to bully deeper, thicker than his fingers can reach or spread. too lost in the sensation, the thrum of the collar, to stay shy. as corry touches him, bob's mouth falls open on a low keen, unable to stop himself from squeezing around him — whimpering through the subsequent attempt to adjust. he tries to rock his hips at the halfway point, to take a little more then pull back, more and back, ankle dragging up the sheets before slipping with that grip to his cock. eyes open but glassy, visibly brightening at the sight of corry tasting him. tracking that flick of tongue, then the sweat on his chest, the uneven rise and fall of it. noisier in this than he’d like to admit, moaning at the pressure on his tongue, whining at the impossible stretch, the bright fullness that he knows isn’t even at its apex. ]
Feels good. Feels huge, Corry. [ like nothing else, the stratospheric high of being wanted by someone confident and beautiful, surrounding him on all sides. ] Please. I’m — [ doing good, you said was doing good. his lips close around corry’s thumb, hollowing his cheeks to suck, pulling him in there, everywhere. ] Need it. Need you. [ with his body so hot, but relaxing, accepting. mouth parting on a sigh, letting corry smear his own spit on his lower lip. driven to babbling by the collar, where he might otherwise stop, ] Need to come on your cock, so you can fuck me through it.
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because if he doesn’t hurry, he can linger, savor the way bob looks right now, spread out on his bed, arms up, one thigh flexed and shivery where corry has his knee pushed to his chest, unnecessarily, he’s past the point where he could slip out easily, buried where bob’s so damn tight he can feel his heartbeat pound in the throb of his cock, with every involuntary shudder and clench and pulse of his velvety-hot body. corry’s hips nudge up against the lube-streaked, pert curve of bob’s ass, finally, finally fully sheathed inside his ass, and it’s a goddamn gorgeous sight, his hole stretched around the meat of corry’s dick, his whole body shuddery and whimpering and needy.
releasing bob’s knee, hand moving to casually cradle his cock again, knuckles brushing the shudder of sweat-gleaming abs, corry hums softly to himself, lazily shifting his hips so his own fat erection grinds inside bob, savoring the gripping heat of his sweet ass, corry’s for the moment, corry’s for the night.] You need to come already? [teasing, moving his hand so his palm slips up, down the weeping length of bob’s cock, barely touching, gliding easy with the mess of lube still coating his fingers.] Just barely gets my dick in him and already wants to come. Hmmm.
[corry’s hand finally closes, loose, absently, around the warm, slippery, achingly hard cock he’s all but ignored until now, dragging his other hand from bob’s gasping mouth, smearing spit over his lips, his pretty goddamn lips that corry’s already missing stretched low on his cock. that hand rests splayed against one hip, pinning bob still so corry can rock back, slide slow, slow, just a bit, just enough that he has to press down so bob doesn’t jolt too hard when corry thrusts back in, hissing through his teeth at the enveloping heat once again.]
You come on my cock, I’m not stopping, sweetheart, baby boy. [almost cooed, his hand working in steady, firm pumps, swirling his thumb against the head, as rhythmic as the next rock of his hips, the next, the steadying smack of his hips against bob’s ass.] We stop when I say. [deeper, the next thrust, more punishing, testing what bob can take, if the impossible depth and stretch is too much with movement, with corry starting to fuck him shallow, steady, voice punctuated with the soft huffing grunt of each rock of his hips.] We stop – when I’m done – fuckin’ your tight ass – god, Bobby, feels so good, make me never wanna leave –
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So deep. Fuck. [ with the release of his knee, his thigh feels thick and heavy, tipping wider, caught on the bend of corry’s elbow at an angle that makes him ache. even in his fuckdrunk haze, he catches that subtle, soft change in corry’s praise. my, my, my. static shocks of affection. possessive, like those strong, grasping hands, enveloping his cock and anchoring at his hip. ] Had — most of your hand first. [ reedy, a bit embarrassed, still flushed from top to toe, and briefly, insanely worried he seems easy. thinks to explain himself: i’m sensitive, as in i could hear your heartbeat from down the hall. i can see the bead of sweat sliding down your neck even with my eyes closed. i can feel the air shift right before you move. or the collar makes you say things that he would otherwise just think or maybe never string together coherently, but corry grinds into him, and he nearly whites out with the fullness, the golden pleasure of it.
after that, it takes some effort to look down his body to see where corry meets him, neck craned and wrists tilting up. quivering abdominals more than capable of allowing him this, though his mind struggles to accept the sight of something that thick punching in, forcibly ejecting a cry on the first real thrust. flat on his back again, but for the eager tilt of his hips. he can take it. of course he can. he does, swiftly realising the heft of corry’s cock inside him had nothing on it fucking him properly. his chin jerks yes, yes, yes as corry talks. ]
Don’t stop — [ when he knows he’ll be a mess the second he comes. when his breath has already gone hiccupy and uneven from corry’s hand fisting his cock in tandem with his throbbing hole. he didn’t come all this way for it to be over fast. corry bought him for the night. owns him entirely for as long as he wears this collar, my good boy ringing in his ears like the aftermath of an explosion. baby boy enough to make his length twitch. the kind of thing he’ll think about later, lying in his bed achy and wondering whether he’ll see corry again. if he’ll show up on that stupid horny app, and what it would say about him, if it did. what it would say about what bob wants from him, when he isn’t caught up in being what corry wants first. ] More, please, more. [ incapable of being anything but himself still, always wanting to feel something physical that matches his internal overwhelm. ] I’ll be good. [ enough to keep. ] Until you say.
[ like he does now, doing everything right for corry to drive into him at pace. moving with him to a preternatural degree, everything in sync to graduate from shallow thrusts to more satisfying drags. thanks to the power, the collar, both. until corry’s really fucking him, that hand on his hip the only thing keeping him from bouncing with the force of it. filthy wet sounds drown out his thoughts, mouth open on a stream of noise and choked pleas. pleasure builds low and hot in his stomach, his thighs. threads up through him until he goes tight all over, and cries out when he comes, spilling over the back of corry’s hand, the lines of his tensed stomach. short, unsatisfying breaths on the reverb. high never quite cresting into a low with corry still going. everything fuzzy, his vision, his hearing, except for corry working his cock in and out. ]
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and he shouldn't, he should be extra careful with someone he just met, someone who sucks his dick like he was born for it, yes, like it's his goddamn solemn duty on this earth to take corrigan molloy's cock in his mouth and down his throat -- but someone who corry doesn't know, doesn't know what he can take without hurting bad instead of good the next day. he should've used more lube, should've taken more time, but see the aforementioned ordained sacred task and consider that five more minutes nestled in the expert gulp of bob's throat would've had corry spilling into his stomach before he ever gets inside his ass.
not to say that a climax is the end -- not for bob, anyway. because he asks, because he keeps his hands above his head like a good, good boy, he quivers and whimpers and keens and takes corry's cock between his spread-open thighs, in his just-stretched-enough hole, takes corry's hand pumping and squeezing and pushing him, pushing him. because bob wants to come and he wants corry to fuck him through it and he gets the first, goes tense and arching and gorgeous and cries out and spills over corry's hand, smeared over his quivering stomach. and corry slows his hand, just squeezing, holding bob's cock while he comes, feeling the twitch and pulse in time with the perfect, dizzying clench of his ass, caressing corry's length buried inside him with the shuddering aftershocks.
but he doesn't slow more than a hitch, undone momentarily by how damn good bob feels when he comes, how perfectly tight and throbbing he squeezes, how easy it'd be to come too, and corry hates himself for being responsible, hates that he gloved up and isn't going to get to see bob's wrecked hole dripping with his spend. at least, though, he gets to give bob the second half of his request, fucking him through coming, working the thick, blunt heat of his cock into bob's body just as steadily, just as deep.] Good boy. [soft, almost tender, corry's knuckles dragging through the mess on bob's stomach as he pulls his hand away, smearing come up towards his chest, slick hand resting for a moment close to one nipple, stroking light and slippery over the peak.] There you go, so sweet n' pretty for me, such a good boy, Bobby, baby.
[skirting his hand back down, corry settles his broad palm at bob's other hips, gripping both tight, feeling the jump of oversensitive muscles as he shifts, draws back, then drives in hard, harder than before, wanting the resonant smack of his pelvis against bob's ass, wanting to see him squirm and jolt and whimper at the cock working in and out of his hole.] Still feel good, sweetheart? [and his thumbs rub slow circles over the jut of bob's hipbones, then dig in deep, bruising, rougher now that bob's come, now that he's kitten-weak and shuddery-breathed, spread out and messy and taking corry deeper, quicker, harder than before.] Course it does. You asked so sweet for it, too. Fuck me through it, you said.
[harder, setting a punishing pace, the room thick with the scent of sex, of sweat and lube and the rasp of both their breaths, heated, heavy, the steady slap of corry's hips pumping forward, the way he groans low, deep when the grip above bob's hips tightens, pulls him down to meet each thrust. bury that little bit deeper, deeper, wanting bob to feel the shape of his dick for days, wanting to etch himself into every inch of gorgeous, sweat-slick, shivering body laid out beneath him. corry swears low, slowing for a moment, catching his breath, enjoying how bob's hole shudders and clutches at him, still twitchy with the aftershock of coming.] Gonna fuck you right through this, get off, then stuff you full of my fingers again. Know why?
[speeding up his thrusts, corry's voice pitches deeper, growling, snarling, hands clutching harder, harder, imagining his fingers carving sweet aching bruises all over bob's hips, unwritten signature, here, i was here, i was here with him. he fucks hard, harder, doesn't need the dirty talk, means every word anyways --] Cause I don't want you empty while you suck me hard again. I want you to stay ready for me, baby, cause I miss your ass up for me, cause I'm fucking you hands and knees next, cause I'm keeping you on my dick all night long, hear me?
[corry inhales, ragged, thinks about finishing in the condom, hates the idea, hates the fact of it, pumps bob's ass a couple more times, grinding his hips, savoring the feel, then pulls back, pulls free --] C'mere, get up here, gonna -- come, don't wanna waste it -- [dragging off the condom, squeezing the base of his cock --] Gimme your mouth again, Bobby, baby, take it on your tongue for me, c'mon...