𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 ▣ JANUARY TDM

[saltburntmods]

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."

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.

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?

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 ! 😋

DIRECTORY

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Comments

cw: drug mention

[molloys]

[the kid’s desperate, sweating and hot and surprisingly strong beneath corry’s firm hand. he wonders if it’s something he drank, something he took, something else, but – he doesn’t fight beyond some squirming, some pleading, voice pitched breathy and near-frantic.

at the touch, corry pauses a moment, eyebrows arched, meeting the big, panicked, hazy eyes. he softens slightly, free hand reaching up to tip the boy’s chin upwards, try to catch sight of his pupils, see if he’s been – drugged or something.]

Corrigan. “Corry” is fine, though. Just arrived a few days ago. [he can’t tell, can’t figure out if the pink-haired stranger is having some sort of reaction or just really, really horny or something else entirely. but he’s not throwing punches, so corry softens his expression, one dimple deepening.] You doing all right, kid?

[wicka]

[ He still looks over his shoulder, watching the girl leave and feeling like he's being dragged further away from shore, breath leaving his lungs until he's wretchedly empty. The stranger's hand tips his chin up, forces eye contact as Dom is examined, thoughts racing, breaths shallow. The heat between his legs is loud, and just as he'd found the person who could help him quiet down, this man kept it ringing in Dom's head. He's barely paying attention to his words — to anything at all, brows drawn, lips stiff, some lost animal faced with the wilderness and its own instinct for the first time. ]

N-no, I'm not.

[ Shifting, uncomfortable and uneasy, he grabs his shirt and pulls it down, fighting the urge to keep going. He's still got enough dignity left to stop himself from just start rutting into his own hand. ]

This happens sometimes, [ Days before the full moon, culminating just before it, but — ] It's just— it's never been this strong before.

[ He looks back at where Corry found him, desperately wishing the girl would come back. ]

She was going to help me. It has to be her.

[molloys]

[the hands knotted in his shirt, the frantic turning, scanning, looking for the mildly alarmed girl who’d vanished into the crowd – there’s nothing screaming drugged, just a turned-up-to-eleven impatient, twitchy need corry remembers from his own younger days. too many shots, too many bodies – when you’re this age, every hazy heated night feels impossible to bear.

so he softens further, hand slipping from the boy’s shoulder to the back of his neck, kneading gently, alongside his prompting words:] Hey, look at me. She’s gone, she’s not gonna help you, all right? [it’s firm, but not unkind, big palm warm and firm against the sweat-slick line of the pink-haired youth’s neck.

the door to the nearest balcony is close, close enough that corry can steer them that way, coaxing and soothing, voice rumbling in a deep baritone.] You need someone to help, got me right here. I’ll help you, all right? [he can remember being young, desperate, tipsy and welling with raw emotion.] Tell me what you need.

[wicka]

[ This must be what it feels like to drop into deep sleep with a touch. No, this is the opposite — it's a hand that holds him in place, a paternal or maternal force stilling a restless thing with one hand anchored on the thin layer of sweat shining there, skin too warm and too eager. Dom is ready to lament the absence of the girl, to lament the key that slipped down a grate in concrete, there but impossible to reach anymore.

Corry is close. Corry is also warm. He may not be the key, but he smells like he's something adjacent, and he's offering to help. In the hazy madness of animalistic instinct, Dom decides it's acceptable to reach for the older man, acceptable to clench his fist in his shirt, acceptable to lean in and make sure he doesn't smell like her. That'd be too easy, wouldn't it.

He remembers how it felt, the first time the full moon and his hormones aligned. There was no one to talk to, certainly no one to help him with it, so Dom hid in his room, or the shower, or any place where no one would run into him, to masturbate until enough orgasms left him panting, ashamed and anxious to clean up once his brain finally landed back on Earth. Corry finds him ashamed and anxious before Dom ever gets the chance to feel skin on his erection, steadily filling out while they talk and he thinks of all the ways he can be helped. ]

I need—

[ To fuck, to fill her up, to make her mine with teeth and nails and come. He shakes his head with a groan. Back to earth, back to fucking earth. Shirt released, groin uncovered and cock sorely evident, Dom mutters with distasteful honesty. ]

I need to get off.

🔞 belatedly lmao

[molloys]

[the fidgeting, needy hands reach out, clutch and fist in corry’s button-down shirt, tremors spreading up the tensed, muscled arms, gleaming in the moonlight as the door swings shut and they’re left alone on the balcony. the boy leans in and corry automatically moves his hand, slips it over the heated, damp back of his neck, where his cotton-candy hair is soaked in sweat, where the tips of his fingers can feel the pulse beating staccato, frantic in the exposed jugular.

the answer isn’t a surprising one – corry would’ve, could’ve put those pieces together himself, between the wild-eyed look, the focus on the girl, the sweat and breathlessness and fidgety need. but the shirt goes loose, and the young man’s arousal is plainly visible, and corry lets out a soft, bemused huff.]

I can see that. [it’s gently teasing, coupled with his free hand slipping down, gently gathering up the fabric of the wrinkled shirt, dragging it up, up. just enough so he can get a good look, so he can see if the young stranger squirms or fidgets beneath his unflinching, dark-eyed gaze.] Tell me your name.

[it isn’t a request, and it’s followed by corry’s broad, warm hand, slipping down to palm over the straining front of the young man’s pants, unhurried, near-casual.] Then tell me how you want me to get you off. My hand? My mouth? [a pause, leaning in, murmured into the space between them, the heated air –] Or do you want me to fuck you, make you come that way?

[corry has a preference, of course, but he’ll stay with his palm cupped firmly over the young man’s straining cock, until he gets the answers he’s asked for.]

[wicka]

[ Dom is hypnotized, hand hovering his own chest, dreaming of pulling his shirt up while Corry translates it into reality. The brush of his knuckles on Dom's flesh sets it on fire, nipples sensitive, stomach dipping with a little jerk. He's breathing hard, ribcage expanding and relaxing, air through his nostrils and lips, winter kissing flushed skin. ]

Dom.

[ A mutter through the haze, standing in place, aching to be touched until it actually happens. It's a careful what you wish for moment, every sense coming alive like an animal spotting a feast in the distance, wanting to chase it and clench its jaw until it stops moving. He wants to grab Corry again, force him down, wants to lick him and scrape his teeth on his neck and face, imagining every possibility all at once. Fucking, being fucked, being sucked and jerked off. He whines, brows knitted with a helpless spasm, wet where the head of his cock oozes into the fabric. ]

H-hand.

[ It's already there, of course it's his choice. As much as he needed to fuck the person Corry pulled him away from — ]

Please, [ Spoken after another huff and shudder down his entire body, focusing into a mess of precome in his underwear as he rolls his hips once, twice, and so on. He needs to be relieved from his clothes, he needs to watch his cock jerk free and Corry's hand wrapped around it. He's so hard it hurts, he's so blinded by it that he buries his face against his collarbone, angling to lap his tongue up the front of his throat with a whimper. Corry has to take the pain away, ] Please.

[molloys]

[the name is followed almost immediately by the whine, and corry’s palming the boy – dom’s – cock more insistently even before he’s answered, hearing the thread of near-painful desperation in his voice, wrapping his hand loosely around the blunt, hard shape and squeezing. the jerk of dom’s hips is instinctive, desperate, and corry’s free hand slips around, pressing against the sweat-damp back of the young man’s shirt to guide him closer.

close enough that it’s partially hidden between them, when corry gets the fabric out of the way, pants open, pausing to thumb briefly over the soaked spot that outlines the head of dom’s cock, tongue pressing hungrily against his teeth at the way he can feel the boy’s hips jerk, hear his breath stutter.]

I gotcha, don’t worry, doncha worry… [murmured, hand rucking up the back of dom’s shirt, petting along the sweaty length of his spine as he tugs the wetted fabric away from the twitching, hard length of his dick, shoves it down, low enough that corry’s big palm can slip around dom’s cock and squeeze again, thumb the tip in slow, lazy circles.

dom’s mouth is hungry against his collarbone, his neck, tongue lolling out like an overeager puppy, and corry’s laugh rumbles deep, baritone as he strokes a couple languid, unhurried times.] God, you’re dripping, aren’t you? [soft, scratchy-hot with how turned on he is, with how dom squirms and pants against him.] Here, lemme – [corry pulls his hand away, drags his tongue over his palm, then, impulsively, thumbs at dom’s panting, pleading mouth, gathering the slick of his saliva so it’s easier when he grips his cock again, strokes more purposefully.]

There you go, you can move, move your hips like that… [a squeeze, varying the grip, the pressure, watching dom’s face to see what makes him whine, shudder.] Keep going, Dom, lemme make it feel better…

[wicka]

[ He thinks this must be torture — it has to be, with how good it feels, how it keeps climbing and climbing and refuses to let him see the peak, thoughts clouded by senseless arousal, weaved and tangled by base instinct and the hormonal disruptiveness of a teenage werewolf. Dom doesn't know it's not exclusive to him anymore, that it's spread out to humans and whatever else roams Saltburnt with a body it can control and spin out of control, stupidly horny and desperately needing someone to fix it for them.

He thought he'd found that someone in the girl, tale laid out before him: they'd lose their clothes, he'd fuck her until nature took over and made sure they stayed together until he was empty and she was full. Even now that's something that circles his judgment — the single grain he has left — like an animal waiting for an opening to strike, one finger pressing softly against his nipple, whimper struck from him like a cord pulled taunt, while the stranger gets his clothes out of the way and watches Dom's cock jerk free. A drip of precome drools from it, stuck to his underwear until the stretch pops the thin string of fluid. Dom gasps, moans like he's in pain, like he wants to feel it again.

Somewhere in the depravity of near-public handjob, Dom gets the sense that he's being protected, somehow, with a spit-slick hand around his cock, pangs of arousal pooling every time it goes from the head to the hilt and back. He finally breaks through some of the haze to look up at him, lips parted and brows knitted, either about to beg for mercy or beg for more. More of this torture, so he can keep having that hand, keep hearing Corry's voice, urging him on, comforting him while his cock oozes generously with each sharp thrust. Too much to be normal, even for him. ]

I, I'm gonna— It feels—

[ Good doesn't cover it. He speaks three languages and none have the words for it; he wouldn't have the mind to dig them up if he did. He's biting his lower lip, breaths shallow, wishing he were biting Corry's neck; he's still playing with his nipple, distracted, one hand with a mind of its own, another clinging to the man like he's Dom's last chance. He can't get away. Not until he's done. Not ever, maybe, because he thinks he'll never be done, even after he comes. ]

Y-you need to get out of the way— so I don't get it on you—

[molloys]

[those big, hazy eyes drift upwards, dom’s face slack with arousal and want, but brow knitted just slightly in something that’s either concern or bewilderment, even as corry’s hand pumps steadily, expertly over the length of his dripping cock. the saliva was hardly necessary – corry’s hand palms over the weeping tip of dom’s length every couple of passes and that easily slicks his movements, firm and rhythmic, tightening and twisting a bit at the top of each stroke.

and he murmurs –] I gotcha, yeah? I gotcha, you’re all right, honey, just let go for me, let yourself feel good. [dom’s cock is somehow, impossibly, getting thicker in his palm, but corry doesn’t let it stop him, the hand on dom’s neck dragging him closer, suddenly, like reading his mind, tucking his face into the crook of the man’s neck and stroking up, down the back of his neck as he starts jerking him off faster.]

Not goin’ anywhere, you kidding me? [there’s a low, rumbling bemusement in it, in how corry spreads his hand wide over dom’s neck, like scruffing a mischievous, naughty puppy, pumping his cock between them.] You wanted my help, yeah? Lemme help you. [a squeeze, twist, tighter, tighter.] Wanna feel you come all over my hand, make a mess of it. Know you wanna, c’mon.

Come for me, Dom. [soft, almost sweet, murmured against the young man’s ear, the side of his sweaty neck.] S’all right, you’re safe, I gotcha. Come for me.

cw knotting

[wicka]

[ It's the best thing Corry could've done and Dom didn't even know it — nudged his head so Dom could hide his face where the man's neck meets his shoulder, gesture like the protection of a grown man over a boy that woke up from a bad dream. Dom opens his mouth — it would be so easy to clamp down with the teeth grazing soft skin — and gasps against him instead, mindless thrusts humping into Corry's grip, needy noises, clutching his shirt. Sweat has Dom's clothes glued to his skin, precome coats Corry's hand and the swelling shaft lovingly caged in it, and he wishes he'd keep talking, because it's all Dom ever wanted to hear. He wants this, wants Corry, wants his body to do what nature demands of him.

And then he remembers what he thought moments ago: he's swelling. ]

No, no—

[ Leaning away to look down, he's horrified to confirm his fear: his cock is swollen at the base, growing an inch longer (or two—?) just like he thought he would inside that girl. It's not supposed to happen like this, in someone's hand; he really must be losing it if his body can't even tell the difference anymore. ]

D-dont look at it, [ Embarrassment stands no chance against everything else, but he can still beg Corry not to see that he's a freak of nature, too big and wet in the final moments before he wave crashes into the sand. ] I'm gonna—

[ No words are needed. They wouldn't make it to his throat if he tried. Instead there's a hurt noise, the first spurt thick and painfully intense, the rest that follow (another, and another, and—) leaving Dom a mess barely standing on his own two feet, face buried in the crook of Corry's neck again. He's all ragged breaths and shaking limbs when his orgasm reaches the end of its absurdly abundant peak, cock still shaped like it's trying to keep Corry's hand there. Again: ] Don't look, please.

cw continues

[molloys]

[it doesn’t take long – corry hadn’t thought it would, not with the young man’s cock that hard, that hot, that flushed deep reddish-purple when he freed it from the sticky confines of his pants. he’s actually surprised the boy can still talk, the words stuttering, whimpering out of his throat as he hides his face and mouths at corry’s neck and thrusts his hips earnestly, helplessly into the grip of his hand.

and yes, dom’s cock is particularly dripping and slick and messy, but corry remembers being young, remembers the lack of control when it came to touching yourself – or touching someone else, the way hormones and horniness and pure youthful lust whipped you up into a frenzy, embarrassing and inescapable. he remembers coming twice, three times in one evening, stamina and need keeping him awake until his abs ached and his hands were cramping and his stomach and chest and bed were covered in cum, but –

– but he doesn’t remember his cock swelling like this. and corry’s eyes flick down, but then dom plaintively whines and the thickness at the base of his dick hitches through corry’s fist and it’s strange and new and he might be tipsier than he though, but corry slips his slick hand over the bulge, feels it fill his palm, press against his fingers and it’s good too. and dom makes the sweetest, most plaintive sound into his neck and shudders and shivers and comes hard, and it’s spurting up in the heated space between them, getting on their shirts and dripping down corry’s knuckles and he exhales, groans, doesn’t move his hand, but squeezes slow, feeling the shape of dom’s cock snug in his fist.]

There y’go. [murmured, hearing the soft drip of cum onto the balcony, so much his hand slips a little on the thick, rounded base of dom’s cock, tugs a bit. his other hand doesn’t hold dom in place, trusts he’ll stay put, even as it slips down, stacks above the one around the swollen part of his dick, strokes over the rest.] That’s a good boy, you feel better now? [palming over the still-spurting head, gathering dom’s cum, slowly.] You tell me when to letcha go, baby. Stay here as long as you need.

[wicka]

[ It feels like there's a fog around, in his eyes, blinding his thoughts, the memory of his orgasm fresh on his mind and sticking to their shirts. His hips aren't quite done, moving in little hiccups to ooze anything left in his body, cock large and unwaveringly stiff in Corry's fascinated hand. All of Dom is still in a slow-moving, cloying pool of arousal, thinking he could and would to do it all over again. Corry is holding him (practically coddling him), after all, calling him a good boy, patiently waiting for him to come back to the real world.

The noise Dom makes, too small for a moan, too gentle for a grunt, is the replacement for that word he'll never find. He thinks he'll never find someone like this stranger, either. Dom wants to keep clutching his shirt, make good on that urge to mark him, but — he lost the right to do that, didn't he? Dom didn't even put up a fight before Corry took over and jerked him off, held in the man's protective closeness while he soothed Dom's thoughts with dirty encouragement. Even now, he seems so… understanding. That could be his infatuation speaking, though. Has he done this before? (Could he do it again?) ]

I, uh, [ Tired, embarrassed. ] You're supposed to… to mark me.

[ He looks up at Corry, searching for a reaction. Hoping it's yes. ]

[molloys]

Oh? [corry sounds politely curious, like he hadn’t just jerked off a complete stranger on a semi-public balcony, like he isn’t still gently working his fist against the swell at the base of the young man’s slick cock. he hums softly, looks down, meets dom’s eyes, still hazy from how hard he’d come, weary and hopeful and embarrassed. it’s endearing, enough so that corry doesn’t push, doesn’t tease.

his free hand comes up, cradles the back of dom’s head, tilts it to one side to bare the side of his neck, leaning down to nuzzle at the curve, trail his lips down to where it meets dom’s shoulder.] Hold still. [there’s a sweetness to it, to how corry’s teeth scrape light over the sweat-slick flesh, how his tongue drags hot and wet and lingering over the spot afterwards.] Here?

[he barely waits for an answer before sealing his mouth to the spot, starting to worry with tongue and teeth and pressure, working a mark into that place, just beneath dom’s shirt collar. the hand around dom’s cock squeezes, tugs gently, enough that the shivery, post-climax state drags, lingers. enough, maybe, that dom makes more of those needy little noises.]

[wicka]

[ His goosebumps kind of feel like blades of grass dancing with the low wind, Corry's hand on his over-sensitive cock, nose and lips brushing against Dom's neck. It's all so perfect, almost too much, just enough to make him wish he could have it forever.

'Hold still' is an order, the only one in the world. His teeth and tongue fill the hollow space left by the post-orgasm, after the erratic peak still keeping him swollen in Corry's fist. Dom barely nods before he seizes, grimacing with a soft whimper. He's the one who marks others, either by accident or when his instinct takes over and too far. This is a request fulfilled, the thing that feels right despite the pain, despite the stimulation on his cock making it jerk with a thing dribble following after. ]

Y-yeah. Like that.

[molloys]

Good. Good boy.

[against dom’s neck, in the pause between the worry of teeth and the lave of tongue, between corry’s mouth marking him up messy and practiced at the same time, like he’s done this a thousand times before. his fist rocks slow, tugging just enough to keep dom shivery and twitchy, his cock still drooling onto the ground in a way that makes corry’s mouth water.

half-hard himself, but that’s not the priority here, that’s not what’s most important, because corry isn’t always a giver, but when he is, he is, commits with every ounce of his being. he pulls back, examines the blooming bruise he’s left where neck and shoulder meet, easy enough to hide, free hand moving up to thumb over it.]

There. Feel better?

[wicka]

[ Dom breathes, licks the sweat from his upper lip, embraces the pain because it satisfies the urge — the craving, to have Corry's teeth on his skin after having his hand on his agonizing arousal. It's still responding to what he's doing, when he should be aching from the overstimulation, too sensitive because it's too soon, and yet the inhuman part of his biology won't let him feel any of the downfalls. Especially here, today, with the manor's influence increasing all the good parts tenfold.

Good. Good boy. That makes him leak again. ]

It does. [ Trailing off, it's better to keep his eyes closed, heavy lids and soft limbs as he leans in to keep Corry close. He can smell it on him, too — his own arousal, sparked from observing and making. It leaves him dizzy again, looking down at his hand, pressing it against the fabric growing taut on Corry's groin. Dom's skin is so warm, hot where Corry bit him. ] I should help you too. I'll be good.

[molloys]

[corry’s ready to step back, to let his hand slip from the lovely, thick, perplexing and fascinating shape of dom’s cock, leave him shivery and dripping and bruised until the house sees fit to move them together again. but dom reaches out, presses his palm to the shape of corry’s arousal – which he’d planned to satisfy on the memory of that shattered sound dom had made when he came – and there’s a low sound, a punched-out groan.]

You wanna? [breathless, fighting the urge to rock up against the careful press of dom’s hand, nudge the bulge of his cock into the hollow of his palm, get off on the shiver in dom’s voice.] You don’t gotta, y’know, you’ve already been real good for me. [his hand is still resting at the base of dom’s cock, and he slides it slow, fingers loosening, spreading as they pass over the swollen, rounded part that corry can’t resist squeezing, tugging at.] Real, real good.

[a pause, corry licking his lips, leaking in his slacks, thinking and thinking and finally asking:] You think you could be even better? Help me out? You wanna show me how, Dom, baby? Anything you wanna do, you can. Show me how.

[wicka]

[ Maybe he doesn't have to — it's not about that, because yes, he feels he has to, but that's a soft shape being crushed under the weight of want to. Corry's left his mark, made himself the dominant one, he stroked and handled Dom and had nothing humiliating or disgusted to say about the shift of Dom's cock, he called him a good boy, he has a bulge that makes Dom think he's not going to have enough of.

The last time he felt this horny — he's not sure, it's happened enough times with too many people, one embarrassing indulgence after another, from the full moon that brought him back to the room where Theo was waiting for him, to the party where candy made him come over and over, thick spurts practically splashing until his body felt too weak to keep going, and kept going anyway. This is different, yes; he's not doing anything he hasn't seen before, only this is like feeling the effects of the days leading up to the full moon at the wrong time, as if — as if Corry is the full moon himself.

His hips falter, legs ever so slightly bent; he can smell the sweat on him, the come he collected, the precome in his slacks. Smells that lure him in, that dangle something luscious with the threat that it'll go away forever if he doesn't have it now. Dom looks like he's half-asleep, or half-taken over by another self, pressing his forehead against Corry's chest, grabbing one of his arms to make the stranger's back meet a stone wall with too much strength for his build. There's a lazy little moan to go with it, dark eyes looking up with parted lips. ]

I'll show you… I'll show you.

[ Undoing Corry's slacks, he sinks to his knees, cock exposed and — maybe — finally waning. He chases the scent that marked the inside of Corry's pants, pulls down fabric, then a waistband, nuzzling his cock with a full-tongue lick from base to slit. ]

[molloys]

[the push is – hm, corry’s gonna file that away for later, to puzzle over at his leisure (it’ll make more sense when he realizes what sort of place this is, the confluence of impossibilities, the confluence of worlds, and he’ll wonder where dom fits in all that). but it speaks more of desperation than anything else, and desperation is fucking gorgeous, especially from a shivery young guy who’s just come all over corry’s hand.

so he settles back against the wall, legs splayed just a bit, just enough so when dom pulls down the tailored slacks, the snug-fitting briefs, the fabric catches at mid-thigh, makes it somehow dirtier, corry mostly-dressed when dom gets down on his knees. half-hard, corry’s cock lies heavy against his thigh, long, thick, twitching at the drag of dom’s tongue, at the needy heat of his mouth.

one hand moves, cradles the back of dom’s cotton-candy-colored head, nothing more than a reassuring i’m here, right here, undercutting the low murmur of corry’s baritone voice:] There y’go, good boy, such a good boy. [the risk of someone finding them registers more as an appealing possibility than anything else, because where’s the shame in being caught with a beautiful boy kneeling for him, laving their tongue all over his cock?] Take your time, honey, ain’t no rush.

[wicka]

[ Maybe, if he were clearheaded, Dom might have been intimidated by the cock that emerges from Corry's briefs, half-hard, pinned between Dom's tongue and the man's thigh. His mouth is watering, fingers twitching when he hears those two magical words again, like the tug of a leash and collar Theo once put around his neck. Maybe that's why it has so much impact now, even more primed than he already is at his baseline.

He presses his lips together, licks them, swallows saliva with a noise, and nods like he eagerly needs Corry's continued approval. Needs to prove his worth, needs to prove he deserves the row of teeth printed and throbbing on his skin.

Taking Corry's cock in his hand, he stokes him once, twice, feeling the weight of it like it's the first time he's jerked off anyone other than himself. He knows what he's doing, though, wrapping his lips on the head, shallow bobs while he works a full grip on the girth, base to the crown, sighing around the tip with closed eyes. His dick is softer, returning to a normal length and shape, but the pulse of arousal is still there — a caress, a murmur, telling Dom it isn't going anywhere, and neither is he. He just keeps sucking and using his grip, feeling Corry fill out, heavy on his tongue and thick against the roof of his mouth. ]

[molloys]

[corry’s half-cloudy head (still hazy from the hangover wake-up, from trying to piece backwards-sideways how he’d gotten to saltburnt, because there’s a great big gap where something should be) considers momentarily what sort of good thing he might’ve done in a past life to earn this. beautiful, pink-cheeked, pink-haired boys with mouths made for sucking his dick, personally, don’t generally materialize out of nowhere in crowded clubs, and yet.

dom sinks to his knees, opens his mouth, feels the heft and weight of corry’s cock and adjusts accordingly, wraps his lips around the tip like he’s hungry for it, and corry’s never been a “sit-back-and-watch” sort, not once. so he drags his nails up through the silky lay of dom’s pink hair, nails against his scalp, coaxing him just a bit, just a nudge towards the back of his throat, not enough to choke, just enough so the bulk of corry’s dick’s getting hard against his tongue.

and he talks – of course he talks, corry always talks when he fucks, fucks through the talking, cradles the back of dom’s skull and murmurs til those big hazy eyes look up:] There y’go, attaboy. You’re doin’ good, real good, good boy… [because he’d seen the expression, felt the leak of dom’s cock in his hand at those words, says them with an almost-mean curl of his mouth.] What a good, good boy. Can you take even more? Can you get me in your throat, d’you think?

[wicka]

[ Dom thinks he's doing a good job — or is too focused on Corry's dick in his mouth to think about anything else — thick cock gliding with excess saliva dribbling down from the corners of his lips to his chin, noises like his voice is underwater, gasping and grasping for air, in through his nose, struggling to exhale next. Corry's voice is in the back of his mind, all the way up there as his hand covers the back or top of his head.

Shoulders tense, inching up as Corry nudges himself further inside, Dom twitches like he's trying to cough, brows drawn together, frowning with his eyes tightly shut. He thinks he feels tears coming up, a physical response to being overwhelmed, to feeling wonderfully used. He's still desperate to make a good impression, too, to earn those compliments and get more, so he takes it — every extra inch, one at a time, clutching Corry's thighs.

The thick noises stutter one at a time, pushing through the gag reflex, tongue pressing up the underside of his cock, muscles pulsing around his length every time he swallows and hopes he's drinking precome. He's holding his breath by the time Corry's cock is deep enough to feel the tip brushing the back of his throat, hoping this is good enough, because he doesn't know if he can take more. Fingers trembling, gripping the man's legs, he thinks he's hard again, he doesn't know for sure; he just knows he's flaring with arousal, the kind that makes him go insane and practically black out. Is that good enough?, he wants to ask, do you need more? ]

[molloys]

[and damn if he doesn’t fall apart pretty as a damn painting, hands curled at corry’s thighs, eyes teary, making the sort of obscene sounds corry’s gonna wish he’d recorded, later. there’s a thought to push more, but – pretty wrecked boy’s drooling and dripping and kneeling to choke on his cock, what more can he ask for?]

There y’go, attaboy. [murmured, rough with affection, with approval, big hand slipping from the back of dom’s head down to thumb at the messy-wet stretch of his lips around corry’s cock. cradling his chin, jaw must be aching but he kneels and holds his breath and clutches at corry’s slacks like a – ] Good boy, such a good boy.

[corry shifts back, lets his cock slip down dom’s fluttering tongue, away from his throat, looking for that place where he gets the hazy-eyed, melty-brained squirming but dom stays clear-headed, eager, wanting to prove himself.] Go on, honey, keep showin’ me.

[wicka]

[ There's a reality check when Corry holds his chin, easing himself out of Dom's mouth; the boy doesn't recognize himself, just like the other times where libido trumped and stomped and crushed reason or pride. Reason would say that this is too much, that he should be better than someone who drops to his knees to desperately suck a man's dick and long for more the moment it's no longer there. All that's left is the ghost-sensation of his girth, and it feels worse to experience the soreness of Corry's absence than it is to choke on him, it turns out, and so his pride is silenced so he can listen to praise instead.

He's the kind of turned on that doesn't scream for gratification, chasing a different kind of high when he looks up, jerking off a cock that will barely fit in his mouth, lips wiped with the back of his hand, soaked with saliva. With a nod, Dom catches the head with his tongue, cushioning it with small, eager licks, sucked in down to the crown, bobbing toward the hilt, then out, building up the courage for an encore. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes, takes Corry inch by inch, trying so hard to do this right.

The last time he had someone this big — he hadn't even sucked him off, and they were both too high on aphrodisiacs to remember the details after. He'll remember this time, right? Corry will remember him too, so Dom doesn't have to ask him for a second go.

There's another gag, like a match lost by blinking or laughing during a staring game. Dom pulls away to clear his throat, head hanging while he swallows back more spit; he pretends nothing's happened, going back in, suppressing that absence he'd felt before, pushing the ghost away with a thick weight stiff against the back of his throat. He needs to be good, he needs it so Corry will say he is, eyes shut and tears cool on his cheeks. He keeps one hand on the base, fondles his sac with the other, going for everything, anything. He just wants to be good. ]