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draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-08-02 12:30 pm
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๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ โฃ AUGUST TDM
AUGUST 2025 TDM: BALANCE
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 โ 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 ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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.
GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT
CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.
The day starts much like any other โย at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.
Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services โ tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.
Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions โย irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"
The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"
"The โ" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."
A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."
The day starts much like any other โย at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.
Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services โ tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.
Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions โย irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"
The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"
"The โ" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."
A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."
LIVING OFF THE LAND
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes.
By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken โฆ liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either โ that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.
At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll justโ we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."
Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others โ without suitemates, or freshly arrived โ find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.
Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that โ while the interior is positively spacious โ some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.
Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.
The generosity doesn't end there โ with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!
No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other โ medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race โ with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.
Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits โ all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."
Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.
By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken โฆ liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either โ that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.
At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll justโ we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."
Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others โ without suitemates, or freshly arrived โ find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.
Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that โ while the interior is positively spacious โ some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.
Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.
The generosity doesn't end there โ with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!
No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other โ medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race โ with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.
Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits โ all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."
Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.
TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK
CONTENT WARNINGS: emeto, slight body horror, potential character death, fuck or die.
While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. Youโre only sure of one thing โ it seems like youโve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe youโve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, itโs probably nothing you havenโt dealt with before, and it wonโt stop you from finding your way out of the maze.
The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage โ or at least you think thereโs no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means youโre probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyoneโs desperate to get out, and youโre only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)
Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from โ you guessed it โ the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you donโt keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.
It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until youโre all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.
These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and itโs up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions โ but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into Iโm glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them โ three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you theyโre the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?
The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other โ two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how youโll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how theyโll claim it over you โ a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, donโt they? Best to keep your wits about you.
For those of you prone to clumsiness, youโre probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, itโs time to face your vipers โ that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin โย the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe youโll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.
If you manage to avoid the pits, theyโre not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and youโll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style โ and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky โ or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?
Just when you think itโs the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, youโre lucky enough to happen upon a water source โ one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, youโre parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you โ only itโs either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear youโve already become. Once you catch your reflectionโs eye, youโre caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the waterโs depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself โ fast.
After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end โ a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you โ a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. Theyโre going to need some patching up once theyโre done.
As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you havenโt made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfourโs beloved Minotaur statue should beโฆ only itโs nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.
While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. Youโre only sure of one thing โ it seems like youโve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe youโve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, itโs probably nothing you havenโt dealt with before, and it wonโt stop you from finding your way out of the maze.
The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage โ or at least you think thereโs no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means youโre probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyoneโs desperate to get out, and youโre only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)
Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from โ you guessed it โ the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you donโt keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.
It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until youโre all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.
These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and itโs up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions โ but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into Iโm glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them โ three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you theyโre the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?
The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other โ two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how youโll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how theyโll claim it over you โ a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, donโt they? Best to keep your wits about you.
For those of you prone to clumsiness, youโre probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, itโs time to face your vipers โ that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin โย the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe youโll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.
If you manage to avoid the pits, theyโre not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and youโll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style โ and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky โ or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?
Just when you think itโs the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, youโre lucky enough to happen upon a water source โ one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, youโre parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you โ only itโs either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear youโve already become. Once you catch your reflectionโs eye, youโre caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the waterโs depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself โ fast.
After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end โ a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you โ a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. Theyโre going to need some patching up once theyโre done.
As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you havenโt made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfourโs beloved Minotaur statue should beโฆ only itโs nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.
MATERIAL GIRLS
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential character death, loss of limbs.
It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness โย or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.
EYE TO EYE โ Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made โ forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point โ the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.
HAND IN HAND โย Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined โย but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made โย reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.
Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well โย you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token โย a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.
Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house โย and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.
It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness โย or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.
EYE TO EYE โ Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made โ forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point โ the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.
HAND IN HAND โย Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined โย but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made โย reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.
Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well โย you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token โย a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.
Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house โย and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.
DIRECTORY
zephir โ original
( cw: severe burns, slight plant body horror, emeto with black ooze )
As his skin begins to heal, arms spread out and eyes closed, bright orange dancing as the light of the manor's undoing is reflected on his flesh, he waits to return himself to his ideal form, healthy skin replacing the damage and the blisters.
Once he's done, he breathes out, quasi-meditatively, and smiles at a bystanderโ you. Then he bends over and purges, throwing up a black sludge on the grass and dirt. (Sorry if some of it got on you, too.) ]
teamwork
( cw: plant body horror, nsfw, dubcon, fuck or die, amputation, potential body horror related to excessive regeneration/growth of extra limbs )
The only thing he finds to be wrong here, is that the sickness won't speak to him. The plants won't grow or slow down, rebelling against their original creator, denouncing him as their false parent. How unfortunate. He'll tear them from his neck and flesh until they come around.
โ
Later, he keeps walking until he finds someone โ you โ tangled in the vines that have been waiting to ambush the maze's little lost dwellers. As they coil around your middle, your neck, exploring every curve, searching for a way in to fully feel you under your clothes, Zephir walks close enough to touch one of the vines near your cheek. It doesn't retreat, but a flower does suddenly sprout and bloom under his touch, as if the thing is purposely leaning into his hand. Curious โ flattered โ the 6'7" man tilts his head to watch it a moment longer. Then his attention is all yours. ]
They won't listen to me, these ones, but they'll still make me a little gift. Isn't that funny?
[ Sorry, were you in the middle of something? ]
โ
[ Beams of heat suddenly cut through the walls, seemingly out of nowhere. Whether you've been walking on your own or ended up in Zephir's company beforehand, he's there to grab and push you out of harm's way, only to get hit by a beam that slices his forearm off. Zephir is strangely quiet when it happens, looking around sans half his arm to make sure the attack from an invisible enemy has stopped โ
Only to be lifted, as if taking flight, and brought back home by gravity. The falls gets more of a reaction than the amputation, flat on his back, grimacing and sighing until he rolls on his side and pushes himself upright with the one hand he has left, spitting blood. It's white, not red. ]
[ ooc โ Zephir is life incarnate and can produce substances that act as aphrodisiacs on their own. Please let me know if your character is life or death aligned for some fun mechanics if you haven't already! Kinklist is here. Contact me at
teamwork, nsfw.
Zephir finds her not long after it tugs her to the side, one wrist caught, free hand working at the binding. Still on her feet, as if that counters the indignity of the vines slow creep downward, slipping above and under the vee of her pale blue dress. The skirtโs been trussed up to the waist on one side and hangs off her pale shoulder on the other. She tries to gain purchase by bending her knees, legs still free, but it isnโt enough. ]
The height of humour.
[ voice scratchy, above all, though it strains for dry derision. Sheโs made a point not to speak to Zephir since she debased herself in the chapel, throwing herself upon him like common whore. Notably, however, she attributes the strangeness of their encounter to the manor and the priest, not to the man before her (still handsome, in his odd, ethereal way; pretty as a Targaryen). Heโs so much taller, isnโt he, when one looks at him head on. Alicent tries very hard not to think of his long fingers in her cunt, particularly as one of the tendrils loops her upper thigh to widen her stance. ]
โAre you certain they wonโt listen, when you havenโt tried, dear? [ Flushed with arousal and irritation both. ] Do give it a go.
[ Ever the princess, the queen, prone to demand a rescue rather than request it. ]
no subject
He wants the knowledge, revisited, of what happens to this one when the entity once again redecorates its toys. Who was she, in June? Would Alaric have been kind to her, would he have looked the other way and returned to his other obsessions? Maybe their meeting might have happened in another church, this time desecrating what has been made and unmade as holy in new, mundane ways.
The only god on these grounds is plucking one of the petals, feeling its texture in the friction of his fingers. ]
Haven't I?
[ Gaze drifting down, following where vines disappear into the fabric clinging to her skin. They stretch and relax around her every breath, an embrace and a prison. He's familiar with the kind. They might as well have modelled themselves after what he does to the lovers that end up in his arms. ]
What should I tell them? To let you go, [ They relax again, tenderly slack, like the gentle brush of fingers and lips. ] Or to show you what you once looked like, in my garden?
[ There had been so much blood spilled during Easter, so much taken from its attendants as they bared themselves in carnal and grotesque ways alike. Zephir took a seed from a queen, made her a part of his collection of strange, beautiful plants. They've all been lost to the fire, save for the seeds he swallowed down before he walked through the flames and gave them a new home.
As if the tendrils are aware, they resume their precious dance at a faster, tighter pace, crowding the dress as they seek the curve of her breasts and the warmth between her legs. ]
Mm. Perhaps we're the ones who should listen.
no subject
She sighs with relief as the squeezing pressure at her breasts eases. To show you what you once looked like in my garden is a strange enough phrase to take root in her mind, to find purchase in her belly for how he finally looks at her as he says it. ]
[ half to herself, ] Iโve never been to your garden.
[ Not even as stewardess of the manor, though those thoughts shimmer and scatter as the vines part her trembling legs, a thicker tendril sliding between, along the slick folds of her cunt, when she wears nothing beneath her fine dress. She cries out, shuttering her eyes shut in shame, but that only encourages the ropes to wind tighter. ]
Zephir โ [ a pleading note, though itโs hard to say for what, with her hips hitching minutely in their bonds. Sheโs never let anyone tie her for their pleasure, though sheโs bound others for hers in this hedonistic place. Doesnโt like the way everything heightens or the vulnerability that heats her from within. Her throat feels thick with blood, with sap, with need. ] You have to help me.
no subject
There, the fabric of her dress folded and draped over his arm, he touches the thicker vine that has given itself to the wet warmth between her folds, stroking the green texture like a shaft, fingers curling to coax it further along, silently telling it where and how to tease at the circle of her entrance.
A thin string of saliva clings to his mouth and Alicent's breast when he breaks away, holding her face for a kiss, mouth tasting of something sweet and floral. The same ichor, the same disease, the same urge. ]
I'll take you there, Alicent. You just have to let us in.
[ Open wide, let go. The closer he is, the longer he stays, the more these plants begin to tie them together. He feels them on him, his arms, between his legs, seeking the same warmth and arousal. This is what all of them were made of, this is what the blight turns them into, telling Zephir to fill her while they penetrate him too. ]
Are you afraid? We'll feel it together. Everything.
no subject
The blinding heat. The shallow fucking โ the way her cunt starts to clench and pull, as though it wants โ needs the thing inside her proves otherwise.
She tries to reach down but the vines guide her toward him, up on her toes to meet him, the thing inside her bearing the brunt of her weight, gravity working her down and open, until she gives in. Alicent loops entwined arm now curled around his broad shoulder, fingers splayed over flesh and bone. All the better to kiss him back โ to seek out the syrup-sweet taste on his tongue with a wanton moan. The tentacle takes her momentary enthusiasm as its cue to spear into her, and she keens. Clings to her only anchor. His words are almost comforting โ but she canโt, can she? Canโt debase herself, as the queen. Canโt allow a conquering creature to have what it wants, for the sake of her pride. Her cunt shudders around the barely shifting, twisting intrusion. She wants it to leave her be. She wants it to fuck her properly. ]
Yes. [ Yes, sheโs afraid. Yes, theyโll do it together. Theyโre already half latticed to each other, Alicent tipped the slightest bit back so her lidded gaze can bore into him. Vulnerable and needful and not-quite trusting but wanting to be. Her other hand finds his waist, and the vines slip away to allow her to open his trousers. ] Yes, please โ please touch me.
no subject
No more, are the two words written on a title next to the portrait of her past. As Zephir stands with her, watching the vines force her down to let them in deep and deeper, he imagines the name changing on the portrait of her future. These plants may not truly listen to Zephir, but they're still a part of him โ a part of nature. And what is She, if not abundance and consumption, scarcity and battling for resources? It's More. Either giving or begging.
He kisses her neck while she undoes his trousers, one hand kneading her breast, nipple between index and middle finger, spreading the saliva there with his thumb. Vines swarm the vee of his pants, wrap around his shaft at the hilt, leaving the rest uncovered so they can squeeze that circle alone. Zephir sighs against her skin, nips and licks her earlobe, tries to connect to the plants so he can experience Alicent's body through them. Every soft curve, the heat of her cunt slippery and welcoming. Head tilted, hips pressing forward, he moves his touch to circle her clit while he quickly fills in any touch he receives back, stiffness gradually brought to full mast. ]
Make me bleed, love. One more time.
[ When she cut him with the cross, he bled white. That wasn't the ichor she was given after, though; Zephir fed her the black sludge that came after his body healed. ]
cw light bloodplay, self-harm
Itโs less that Alicent believes him, and more that she wants to. She wants this to be easier than it is, for the thrusting vine with its tendril-tip to be replaced by the familiar curve of Zephirโs cock. He took her well in the chapel, she remembers, cutting through the blood and the thrall to shape her to him. Less the conquerer than the stealthy invader, like the vine now fucking her open.
Now as then, she startles at the thought of bloodshed (at the memory of the blade in her hand, pointed to Rhaenyraโs breast; the delicious horror of her fangs tearing Danielโs arm to ribbons). She doesnโt wish to he violent, even though she thinks to hurt others more often then sheโd like. Here, she has no weapon but the vines which twist up and around her wrist, tugging it from where she spreads wetness over the head of his cock. A marionette once more. The vines sprout thorns in honour of Zephirโs desire, and she arches into his hand. Gasps with the pain of the pricks in her arm and palm, payment for the blood sheโll take. Somehow, that makes it easier to stomach.
A queen always pays her debts.
Alicent kisses his neck, his jaw, his cheek, as if to soothe the oncoming wound. Then she presses her splayed hand, with all its thorns, to his chest and drags it up to his shoulder. They both bleed, individual trickles joining to run down his flesh like teardrops. It might disturb her, if not for the drag of the vine out, out, out, until it merely holds her open and waiting for him. ]
You have to fill me up.
[ The way he did in the church, fingers in her mouth slick with something that nearly made her gag. Cock thick and pulsing inside her. Itโs what the house always wants โ to reduce her back to her initial function. (Of course, bedding the king never felt like this.)]
cw: spitting into mouth, sort of
The very same beast that deems her ready, that holds each leg in a different, equally stubborn embrace, clinging, parting, one thin tendril rebelling against the rest to circle her clit, flicking like a tongue after she speaks. As he steps forward, sensitive in her and its grasp, Zephir grabs her by the thighs, hoists her up with each leg wrapped around his sides to embrace him. The plants will keep her balanced and in place if she's incapable โ all while they wipe and smear white blood from his gashes, feeding themselves, growing at a faster rate, flowers blooming alongside the thorns.
Zephir kisses Alicent, something sweet and thick as honey on his tongue. Death's black ichor, for those who belong to him to experience everything deliciously, deliriously. It changes people โ makes them more. Too much, at times. His lips stay close as he waits for her to drink what was poured into her mouth, uttering a reminder barely above a whisper, ]
Together.
[ The vines hold his cock in place, head wet with precome, pressing up against her entrance. They're left in this position for another torturous moment, and then they lower Alicent's body to truly, fully meet his. Long, thick, seemingly larger at full mast than when he was soft, the maze helps Zephir slide in while other vines move aimlessly, as if in some perverse dance of praise and worship. Each inch that breaches her is another harsh breath, moans soft and deeply felt. Zephir lets it happen until it's all she can take, staying close, always listening. ]
goodbye to saltburnt
So his lingering nearer to the door than he likely should be is of dual purpose: the remaining dregs of his desire to remain inside, out of sight and interaction with any other person, and fascination over the individuals emerging so late from the flames.
This face, however, is the first he's recognised. It adds an even sharper edge to the grotesque visual of watching blackened and red-raw flesh melt into clean, healthy - to have features he knows emerge from unrecognisable ruin. Then to have that same face smile.
It trumps any hesitation he'd have over speaking with someone he'd interacted with in that month of being unaware of himself. Trumps also any disgust over the sludge the man pukes up seconds later - skipping, instead, to concern.]
Are you... alright? [As he eyes the black ooze in the grass warily, wondering what he expects to do if the answer is no.] Is that usual, for you?
cw: emeto reference
Sometimes. Depends on our mood. [ His, Sully's, the universe's. This particular one has more whims, and those whims often need him to bleed light and throw up darkness. ] It was reckless of me to stay behind. There were some things I needed to save first.
[ Looking at Josias again, holding the same friendly, familiar smile. They were intimate when Zephir was Alaric. Is this one a part of the crowd that wants to forget, or is he with the ones who want to keep those memories as their own? ]
Are you hurting?
[ Interpret that as you like, Josie. ]
no subject
Only my pride.
[Only, as if it weren't visible how deeply he'd been wounded, the clear signs of his self-isolation: a few days unwashed, unshaven, half dressed in robe and pajama bottoms, dishevelled, barefoot. If his pride were a vital organ, he'd have bled out weeks ago, yet this still stings like a fresh cut. The thought rising, self-centred and utterly asinine in the circumstances, that Alaric must be comparing the man in front of him to the Josias who'd so confidently slipped a hand in his pocket. Seeing the stark difference, abject and pitiful. It's another layer stripped back without his control, a new level of exposure, and the desire to flee hooks into his guts and pulls like he's been speared through with a harpoon.
But the memory serves another reminder. Pulls in the opposite direction, more urgent in the moment.]
Your snake. [He steps forward with the thought, eyes searching Alaric's form, the grass around him for any signs of the creature.] Is that what you meant? Where is she?