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peacockstop2024-10-15 09:00 pm
TDM 06
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
On behalf of the house and resort, we would like to advise all Game 52 players to exercise caution around the Golden Peacock for the next few weeks. The veil between 'what is' and 'what has been' grows thin and the threads of fate have tangled in unexpected ways. We are currently observing how these two phenomena behave when they occur simultaneously and act in concert.
We advise that all guests monitor their physical states until the veil thickens once again and the threads of fate return to running parallel. If you find yourself undergoing any strange transformations, please report to the Broken Wing clinic for observation. We will do our utmost to make sure you are comfortable during this time.
You may also notice other strange phenomena around the Golden Peacock while the veil is thin. Please continue to exercise caution. New wayward spirits have joined us during this time. While spirits are crossing, it is possible for guests to get swept along into the ghostly realm.
As always, please let us know if there is anything we can do to improve your stay. 】
HEADS
TAILS
MAIN LOBBY
BACK HALLWAYS & STAIRS
MONSTER MASH
THE VALE
SMOKED EGG
BALANCE RETURNS
OOC NOTES
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's October event. Changes to the above locations will ICly be present from October 15th - November 3rd. All supernatural phenomenon will increase in strength over time, culminating in peak activity on All Hallows' Eve. The days following Halloween will relax, leading into eventual normalcy. Some locations are spared the supernatural frenzy, so players can play as normal if they wish to avoid these tropes/prompts. Players may assume that the supernatural come and go in the above specifically incorporated locations.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate. This TDM in particular has the potential to get real wild, so we want to emphasize this request!
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Go forth and let your freak flag fly!
no subject
They weren't done. Oh, he knows that. Pinocchio just hasn't realized what the beastman's intention was. Luckily, Wriothesley was in no mindset to tease and string them along. The middle head presses his snout against the crevice of Pinocchio's ass, his other hand grasping one of the cheeks to spread it as a long tongue licks a long stripe from the perineum to the smaller man's entrance. It's then that he laps at the sensitive ring of muscle, not entering it, but merely making it wet with his saliva as he tastes the other on his tongue.
A pleased rumble as one of the other heads nips at the other cheeks. Nothing that would leave marks yet. That, of course, is only a matter of time given how rough the man has been about their copulating for now.]
no subject
Thank God he refrains from saying anything, lest his inexperience cost him something that turns out to be good for him. (Except that's not what concerns Pinocchio the most, is it? It's always and ever been the satisfaction of the people he's been with... so why...)
Wriothesley's tongue is warm. Supple. Wet, decadently so. And Pinocchio isn't prepared for any of it, as he licks up the seam of his ass, as he seeks out the puckered rim of his taint. He pulls in one long breath, shocked, because he for all the scant tenderness the puppet has ever known, he has certainly never felt this.
The long, silken heat of a tongue striping him from tight balls to rim, he has never been attended to like this.
Pinocchio bites back his inhale, tipping his head down, jaw hanging open around the wordless shape of his desire. His lashes fall over his eyes next, as he tries to disguise his ecstacy with the tilt of his head, the curtain of his dark and wavy hair. He might lie, he might lie more freely than his manufactured brethren, and yet... ]
Your... your teeth— [ he groans, his spine arching, hips tilting, like he's seeking out more of that welcome contact, that sweet touch. ] Your tongue— Wriothesley..!
no subject
It's a good thing, though Wriothesley might be more amused than anything if Pinocchio reacted to the idea of the man's saliva on him when their first meeting was him giving Pinocchio a messy blowjob. He's more enraptured in the salty taste of skin that lingers on his tongue and the sweet sounds of the puppet.
He teases the rim a little more though before pushing his heavy tongue through the ring of muscle and starts to press the wet muscle in, taking his time pressing against those heated walls and spreading the man open as he truly gets a taste of the other. Delighted, his tail wags, ears perked as his two heads are also observant to how Pinocchio takes all these sensations in.
Oh, how he intends to have this man fall apart under his ministrations.]
no subject
He likes it, the riot of sensation when he's being opened up, that pull on his sensitive rim. But Wrio's tongue is softer, wetter than Pinocchio's own fingers, and the feeling of smooth muscle pressing, then sliding into him pushes a long, shivery note from him, his head tipped back, mouth open, hands fisted on the ground. That's really—
The puppet's scarcely able to keep still for him, Wriothesley's tongue fucks him open and Pinocchio lifts a trembling foot from the ground, shaking, before he remembers to put it down; his spine flexes, the flushed arch of the cock swaying between his thighs is drooling a thin, glistening thread of pre. His lashes flutter, one lid shut, but when he tries to speak, turning his face to peer back at him, it's as though pleasure has swept away all the words programmed into him.
Anyone passing near to Wrio's cavernous hideaway might think it haunted for the litany of wordless cries echoing off craggy walls. His balls, tight against the base of his cock, ache with impending release. Tempted to, one pale hand shoves down under him, balling into a fist as he resists taking himself into hand. He grips high on the back of one thigh, instead, fingertips digging into his pliant cheek.
If he wants to see him crumble, he's got it — he feels everything with the severity and vulnerability of one still unused to such pleasures, and the next sigh from him sounds more like a sob of ecstasy, affirmation and plea at once, his body beginning to quake from sheer stimulation. ]
no subject
He's relentless, pressing his tongue as far in as he can, letting his tongue taste and feel ever crevice of the other. Drool drips from his chin, but messy had never been a problem for Wriothesley. He liked the mess, the tangle of limbs, the absolute debauchery that sex can become. It's fun and wild that way.
He eats every moment and everything Pinocchio offers to him as though he had always been starving for the smaller man.
Is it that he noticed the want to touch himself or is it that he merely did not want to neglect any part of the puppet? Does it matter? Wriothesley wraps one of his large hands around Pinocchio's cock, roughly stroking the other, giving them no moment to catch their breath. A drowning pleasure as he tongue fucks the man open as he jerks them off. To add to it, one of the heads sink their teeth into the smooth, plush skin of one of their cheeks.]
no subject
[ The changes that had taken root in his manufactured body had miraculously imitated so many traits and attributes unique to a living being. Taste and smell, however, weren't among them. Kissing him always tastes neutral, like water from a tap. The salt on his skin comes from the environment outside of it. He always carries a note of petrol-based derivatives.
But he feels it all the same as any human. The smooth, powerful muscle of his tongue, probing so deep. The ravening hunger with which his friend devours him.
When Wriothesley has taken pleasure in pain, perhaps it shouldn't surprise him that he knows how to deliver it to anyone else. The uncut girth in his fist is greasy with the slick, inert fluid drooling from the tip, an imitation of pre from an imitation of humanity; Pinocchio's gasp stutters, overwhelmed — it's the sharp points of his teeth that topple him.
Seizing, under the stuttering gasp there's another sound, the erratic chatter of clockwork. His hand smacks into the ground, the steely other gropes backward, blindly shoving into Wriothesley's mane. He doesn't know which head he's clasping, there's no room for any thought that isn't a crescendo of sensation. With an arch of his back, the puppet comes with a shout, spilling himself onto the cave floor once, twice, and the third drools hot over Wrio's knuckles. ]
no subject
And he'd honestly keep going. He'd keep the other on high on ecstasy with his engorged tongue if not for his own ravenous need to fill the other. Someone as strong as Pinocchio would be perfect would they not? To breed them full of cum? If he were in a better state of his mind, he knows that nothing would come of it, but the feral beast that has taken over feels like if he pumps the puppet enough cum, it would surely take.
It's with that in mind that he finally pulls his tongue out from the smaller man, licking his jaws as though he had just enjoyed a nice meal. Honestly, one can say he did though. He pulls away enough if only so Pinocchio can feel the man's large cock now rubbing between the crevice of his cheeks. It's the only second warning he gets before Wriothesley starts to press his cock passed the ring of muscle to replace that cunning tongue of his, mounting the smaller man as he presses his entire weight down on Pinocchio's back.
There won't be any reprieve for Pinocchio even after they just came. And there should be no expectation. Not when Wriothesley's hunger hadn't been at all satiated.]
no subject
Gears grind and actuators whine — white sparks dance the length of that rust-pocked limb as he shudders and writhes, lashes fluttering over the whites of eyes rolled back, buffeted by the push and pull of ecstasy and overstimulation. Sensation rolls over him like a boulder, another crushing wave that has him tingling all the way to every extremity. His spent cock spasms, giving another hot drizzle to the ground. He doesn't have it in him to cry out, just a stuttering in his throat as he's caught, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open around the shape of a pleasure he can't see the end of.
Wrio's tongue comes away from his twitching hole and Pinocchio groans, bereft and reeling. It's visible in the way he blinks at the ground and his fists on it, dazed and panting. Clawed hands. They hold fast to his hips, Wriothesley is a band of heat following the bent line of his back, cock heavy and hot as it rides the wet seam of him. As though he's had reason slapped back into him, Pinocchio's focus returns in a more familiar shape; the whirling glance back at him has the feral fight in his blue eyes that usually only rears its head in battle.
All this time, Wriothesley has been hard and wanting... now he's taking what he wants — and he wants him. Pinocchio would never deny him anything. Not just because of his kindness, not because of his forgiveness or his help. He could have whatever he needed because this heart aches at the very thought he might want for anything at all.
With a shaky uh-huh, he tries to get his limbs under him. Without thinking about how much bigger Wriothesley is like this, he's drawn to his need like there's a compulsion to be part of his satisfaction.
Pleasure has made the puppet as unsteady on his knees as a colt. He tries to shuffle back to meet him when he's already there, weight bearing down on him, pressing him back down. The moment he remembers that he's never taken anything so big is the same moment a breathy groan spikes into something between a bark of laughter and a sob. ]
no subject
It doesn't end there though. No, he needs to fully claim them. He wants to paint the other's insides with his seed. The want, no need, of breeding this man full so that no one else can claim him burns through his instincts.
Wriothesley starts to piston in and out, slamming his hips, the sound of their bodies meeting over and over with each thrust echoing in the cavern that they've taken refuge in. Pinocchio can do very little but to accept what the beastman is giving him, pressing them down into the earthen floor as he fucks into the smaller body. He makes sure of it too. He keeps the other down, the want to completely dominate feeding into raw instincts. To have Pinocchio completely at his mercy in this moment burns hotly in his veins.
There's a needy growl in the back of his throat.]
no subject
When the spittle drooling from one maw drips on his skin, beginning to cool in the cavern air, he scarcely notices. There's no room for it, not with how Wriothesley crowds everything else out; the hot shape of his desire pushing into him, searing, pushing him open. His back bends, twists, arches in vain.
When he begins to fuck him in earnest, it tears a jagged cry from his throat. His brimming eyes spill and he tastes grit on his skin when he tries to smother his sobs with his knuckles. Buffeted between crashing, violent waves of pain and pleasure, he can't even think, is still processing the thunderous ecstasy and agony of the last time his cock batters into him when he's back again. A great tension builds and builds in him, his curled fingers creak, balled up into fists, his toes too, like a spring wound tightly—
How strange a heart is, when he can hurt so impressively and feel so loved. The puppet trembles violently, clenching around the fat shape of his cock, as pleasure rolls over him, grinds him down. He howls, a sound that shatters into grateful sobs.
He isn't stopping, driven on by primal hunger so powerful it's terrifying; he thrashes again, as if he has that instinct to get away, and as he keeps crashing down into juddering cheeks, the puppet's limbs go taut again, fists tight, trembling. It's almost as though he's forgotten to breathe, he's so silent — mouth hanging open and chin tipped against the ground, sticky lashes fluttering against his tear-stained cheeks. Until he groans, a sound squeezing out of his throat, beating a fist against the dirt and grasping for something to hold on to. ]
no subject
Wriothesley doesn't slow his hips, slamming his length into the small frame of the puppet over and over again. Want. Take. Possess. Own. He can only think that the sweet man sobbing under him is his and only his in this moment. He'll ruin Pinocchio for anyone else. Hell, he'll make sure Pinocchio will struggle to find someone who can take him like this ever again.
No matter how spent Pinocchio might be, the beastman doesn't slow. If Pinocchio comes and comes again, he'd consider that ideal even. He wants the man completely spent that they won't want for sex from anyone else anytime soon.
He presses the other down with a growl, not letting the other escape. Not when he's still filling them over and over again with his sizable cock. Not especially when he has yet to get his fill. To fill the puppet with his cum until it takes. The urge to breed until pups take. Pinocchio can probably feel it. Something slowly growing as the base of Wriothesley's cock seems to expand.]
cw: somnophilia
Pinocchio couldn't begin to count how many times he shakes himself apart on Wriothesley's cock thereafter — like his mind has been reduced to something animal and unreasonable, there isn't a thought that isn't him, his relentless instinct to breed him, how ravaged by sensation he feels, how tender it is that he licks the tears from his face, how gratifying to feel his teeth sink into his skin.
He doesn't recognize when he's reached his limit, the world goes syrupy and dim. With his eyes rolling back behind his fluttering lashes, Pinocchio swoons, a limp hand caught, fingers tangled in Wriothesley's mane, his temple thumping into the churned dirt. Every bit a puppet with its strings cut, he's gone limp. ]
no subject
It's a shame the man isn't awake to feel the way Wriothesley's cock expands at the base, a knot forming to lock himself inside the small frame, to connect them as one. How he grinds deep into the puppet, spilling his seed into them, but not stopping his rutting no matter how much seed is spilled into the lithe frame.
He'll eventually slow down once his blood calms and the urge to rut from his suit slowly fades, but not without absolutely decimating the limp puppet.]
no subject
It's a little like having a slideshow played out for him, snatches of light and sound punctuated by periods of syrupy, smothering darkness. But Wriothesley's knot swells and crowds his well-used hole, hard and thick inside him, and his flashes flutter again over the whites of eyes rolled back. His mouth drips, with spit and sound, a senseless groan.
His return to consciousness is marked twice, by a gasp, by the way his body clenches up around him and the heat he's pouring into his gut. What's slower to catch up is his understanding of what's happening, and when it finally does — he's still going, he's come but he's still — he shudders out an inarticulate sound.
It's not ecstasy, it's not pain, it's gratitude, it's exhaustion, it's his all I've ever wanted. Useful, used, fucked out and full, warm and wanted. When Wriothesley's instinct to rut seems to have run out of steam, the puppet mumbles his name, clumsily batting at him with a hand in a manner that was likely meant to pet at him, coordination eroded, his exhaustion absolute. ]
no subject
Breathing coming in warm pants, the usual coolness that comes with his Vision unable to keep up with the frantic and hurried rutting from earlier. He doesn't pull out though, his knot still pressed inside Pinocchio, and merely falls onto his side and forcing the other to lay with him. He crowds the other, pulling them close, a low whine from the heads as they sniff and nose at the other. One starts to lick at the other, less out of hunger and more with some attempt to soothe.
His mind is clearer, slowly settling into a shape that is much more characteristic of himself. More aware. More aware of what he had just done.] Hey... [The voice is a little more gruff. A growl accompanies it in its roughened state.]
When...when did you return? [He's processing a lot right now.]
no subject
The warm tongue painting his cheek rouses him, starts to bring him back from that thunderstruck haze. Hey doesn't find him all the way back; Pinocchio's initial response is a soft, monotonous: ] uh?
[ He shuts his eyes, scrunched up his face before he forces them back open, a breath punching out of him. ]
Return, [ after the way Wriothesley had him howling earlier, his voice should be rough and torn. It isn't, but weariness threads through it, leaden and sluggish, he shakes his head and somewhere loses the lede; it turns into a nuzzle. He's thinking, and this close, the ticking of clockwork busily turning this over and over is more noticeable, ] ...Like Eiden?
[ Who was gone and then he wasn't. He tips his head back against him, craning to catch the eye of one of his three heads, ] I don't... How long?
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He doesn't think too much about how he had ravaged the other, cock still buried deep and no intent to pull out, but he is aware of what he had done. Steps. There's still so much on his mind.] ...Like Eiden. [Wriothesley so often wears his emotions on his sleeve and there's something a little pained in his tone. It's merely human for him to lament when people leave his life and he was not immune to missing someone.
The heads bury themselves against damp hair or the crook of the man's neck or press against skin, as though intent to hide their faces away.] A few months. [Instinctively, his arms around the other tighten.]
no subject
Reflecting on his own reunion with Eiden, when it was him who had vanished, any humor he might have found in how similarly they'd been 'welcomed back' is subsumed entirely by his fatigue. He's spent, utterly, even thinking feels like a chore. Better to bask in the warm ache, the languid affection in the tangle of them. ]
I'm sorry.
[ Wriothesley is usually so open, so the quiet pain in his voice, the way he tucks his faces as though hiding his feelings, makes his heart drop. Months... it's almost too dizzying to consider. Months..! Too fucked out to fully contemplate the disparity between his experience and the length of time that had actually taken place, he pushes his hand into Wriothesley's mane, seeking to comfort him, clumsily carding through his hair, scrubbing at him affectionately. ]
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I would never... choose to leave your side.
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He laughs. It's quiet, not the usual bark of laughter that comes with a bright grin. It's more somber and tired.]
It's not something you need to apologize for. It isn't as though we choose when we arrive nor do we choose when this place decides it wants us no more. [And Wriothesley was not about to blame the other for their fate.] Sorry. Your scent...you... [He sucks in a breath.] Something in my mind made me snap, I guess. I didn't intend to force myself upon you.
[Regardless if Pinocchio was fine with it or not, and he was sure they had been very into it regardless, he still had forced himself onto them in a feral hunger.]