𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄 ▣ AUGUST TDM

[saltburntmods]

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 — 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.

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.

The day starts much like any other — 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 — 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 — 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 —" 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 … 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 — 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 just— 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 — without suitemates, or freshly arrived — find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.

Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that — while the interior is positively spacious — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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. You’re only sure of one thing — it seems like you’ve 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 you’ve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, it’s probably nothing you haven’t dealt with before, and it won’t 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 — or at least you think there’s 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 you’re 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 everyone’s desperate to get out, and you’re 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 — you guessed it — 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 don’t 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 you’re 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 it’s 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 — but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into I’m 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 — three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you they’re 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 — 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 you’ll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how they’ll claim it over you — 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, don’t they? Best to keep your wits about you.

For those of you prone to clumsiness, you’re 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, it’s time to face your vipers — 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 — the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe you’ll 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, they’re not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and you’ll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style — 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 — 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 it’s the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, you’re lucky enough to happen upon a water source — one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, you’re 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 — only it’s either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear you’ve already become. Once you catch your reflection’s eye, you’re caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the water’s 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 — fast.

After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end — 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 — 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. They’re going to need some patching up once they’re 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 haven’t made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfour’s beloved Minotaur statue should be… only it’s 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.

HAND IN HAND — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

john irving | the terror | returning player/new character

[extramuralise]

» † 𝔏IVING 𝔒FF 𝔗HE 𝔏AND⨾

---

—❝ fun times in babylon ❞ TENTS⨾

[ Lieutenant John Irving has barely so much as had even a single moment to either breathe or get his bearings ever since he'd first woken to the unfamiliar, smoke-filled bedroom in a building which was actively burning— circumstances for which thankfully require no particular situational awareness or comprehension whatsoever beyond the most immediately and readily apparent: to simply leap out of bed and evacuate as quickly as one's legs will carry them, especially when possessing absolutely no personal belongings to speak of that would first merit collecting to be carried out with.

The tented encampment proves no more grounding for him, either, looking no more like a camp than a luxurious countryside holiday, some kind of strange upper-crust "camping experience" ritual. Not that Irving particularly minds (let alone would dare complain about) being granted such comfortable accommodations — God knows he's seen precious little comfort for several years, now — but even the tents are so overwhelmingly modern they're hardly any less alien to him than the very situation itself, to likely include whoever it is that has the misfortune of sharing the tent with Irving.

And, having no other choice but to change out of his filthy and overly warm clothing, it is then to his further chagrin that all there is for him to actually change into is a slim white undershirt and a pair of shorts almost as small as the absurdly flimsy underpants they've given him. Sorry, new roommate, but Irving is banishing you from the tent for as long as this unpleasant costume change takes him— beggars can't be choosers, but he'll nonetheless be holding himself with all the discomfort of trying to hide just how scantily clad he is for the duration of this experience.

On the plus side, however, the sheer indignity of being dressed this way makes the gift bags seem quite harmlessly charming by comparison, although just about every single item (save for the candles and the ribbons) perplex him greatly. And while the silicone bands and rose quartz obelisk do intrigue him— ]

But what in Heaven's name can any of this be for...?

[ —Murmuring to himself, even as he keeps picking the silk ribbons or the rose quartz back up again to palm like worry stones, enjoying how they feel to hold. ]

—❝ From Samaritan to sin ❞ ACTIVITIES⨾

[ Now, Irving normally does love him some good, old-fashioned activities — and don't even get him started on the wholesome delights of parlour games — but almost nothing he's seen or heard so far seems to be at all suited to helping them become better oriented with either their surroundings or each other, but rather more as if some house of ill-repute organized bawdy lawn games to be played in broad daylight right before God and everyone.

No, activities like these Irving would do well to steer very clear of... which, for the most part, he manages without too much difficulty, at least until he is suddenly jump-scared by a violent ambush of red dye pummeling him like cannon-fire and knocking him backwards off his feet. Unclear as to what, exactly, even hit him just then, Irving looks down at the gory carnage soaking him nearly from head to toe and shrieks, clearly mistaking it for actual blood. ]

» † 𝔗EAMWORK 𝔐AKES 𝔗HE 𝔇REAM 𝔚ORK⨾

---

—❝ Something went wrong along the way ❞ LABYRINTH⨾
cw | nascent dubcon / cnc fantasy⨾ period-typical internalized (/possibly also somewhat externalized) homophobia⨾ self-flagellatory desire for pain / punishment

[ When Irving wakes next, he feels borderline feverish with congestion, trembling all over from chills despite how his sweat-drenched clothes keep clinging to his body... and is he even somewhat delirious, too, or is he simply just dreaming that he's somehow been deposited (and while he'd slept?!) right in the thick of the enormous hedge maze dominating the grounds. But then how the devil did he end up here? Irving has never known himself to sleepwalk, and he certainly wouldn't have entered the maze willingly— while tolerable enough on paper, mazes actually become quite forbidding once blown up to such larger-than-life proportions; life-size problems are always so much more difficult to solve.

Yet somehow, Irving is still able to pull himself to his feet and slowly begin to walk, dimly unsure of whether or not he's even going in the right direction but focused primarily on just putting one foot in front of the other. Who can say how far or how long he's been walking for by the time his face is flushed bright pink and beaded with sweat along the hairline, lips stained red from several instances of vomiting up bloody clusters of leaves and flower petals as an increasingly steady swell of desire emanates from him like heat, like fumes, a wordless demand of  “have me, hurt me, choke me, overpower me, defile me until I have no other choice but to want it, to want more—” beaming from his wide, pale eyes.

It has to be wordless, for not a single one of these strong and secret desires could Irving possibly make himself actually ask for. ]

—❝ Everybody's waiting for judgment day ❞ VINES⨾
cw | dubcon⨾ vine shibari⨾ fuck or die

[ He dangles there among the branches and blossoms like an offering; a sacrificial lamb who perhaps relishes his position more than rues it even despite the way he continues to squirm and struggle against his bondage, fear and desire coming together as one in his glassy prey animal gaze, in every desperate gasp of breath or twitch of muscle.

His wrists are either bound above his head, or else perhaps around his ankles — the vines can and will move Irving this way or that as necessary, repositioning him as easily as a rag-doll for both their own eager explorations, as well as for the benefit of anyone else within reach, whether they still walk free or have been similarly ensnared like a fly in a web — tangling him firmly into place like flexible but unyielding ropes of chain. Bruises mottle the pale skin of his neck, ankles, wrists, and thighs, the clothing torn in places against snagging thorns and from the grabbing vine's aggressive manhandling as they travel hungrily over his skin both above and below the fabric.

Now, were Irving in his typical more temperate state of mind, rather than driven utterly insensible by the heady musk of — what, pollen? fever? allergies? — something influencing him far beyond the reach of any of his usual inhibitions, making his head spin with overwhelmingly unnatural yearnings which are only partly recognizable as his own, then he would have surely already convinced himself that while in his right mind, of course he would sooner choose to die rather than to orgasm; death before dishonour, just like any good Christian should want. Of course he would never willingly debase himself in such a perversely depraved manner— and yet: ]

Please— I-I can't... [ Gasping, red-faced and breathy with need. ] N-not on my own.

🌊 w i l d c a r d。

Choose your own adventure⨾

—aka hit me up with anything else, and/or feel free to PM or plurk me @ reggiemantle to discuss further ❤︎
& INFO / KINKS LIST, which despite not having been edited/updated in quite a while should still otherwise be serviceable!

judgement day | dubcon, vine shibari, fuck or die, medical kink if you squint

[mygoodsir]

[Of all the people Harry Duncan Spens Goodsir expected to encounter in the maze, third lieutenant of the HMS Terror John Irving was probably last on the list. No: he didn't even make the list, because the last time Goodsir saw Irving was when he was wrist deep in the stomach of his mutilated body. And on the very rare occasions he lets himself fantasize about seeing any of the other members of the expedition it's never been like this. When he rounds the corner of the maze and finds Irving trussed up he can only stare in shock at first.

But Harry has been at Saltburn for months now. He is familiar with its games, and so he knows precisely what it is they must do about this situation. But how to do it in such a way that will spare Irving any undue distress?

Ah.]

It's alright, lieutenant.

[Goodsir's voice is as gentle as ever, as soothing as a cool hand on a fevered brow. He's grown out his beard and he wears the clothes this place has enforced upon them, but otherwise he looks much the same as when they last saw one another.]

It's perfectly alright. [He lifts his hands and steps closer.]

Just try to relax. You're suffering a... a sort of fit. But we're going to see you through it as quick as we can.

[Vines squirm toward Goodsir, caressing one calf. If he takes too much time the both of them will wind up stuck.]

I am going to have to manipulate you, lieutenant. It's for your own good, so you must simply, ah. Relax into it.

[He reaches Irving and before he does anything else he passes a hand through the man's sweaty hair, pushing it back from his flushed face. He smiles softly.]

It will be alright.

[Then he quite confidently palms Irving through his pants.]

[extramuralise]

[ While it is probable that, by now, someone will have more or less explained the overall "Saltburn" situation to Irving at some point during the small handful of days he's been here already, that still ultimately means very little in the grander scheme of Irving actually understanding any of it; because after all, how ever could he? Almost everything he's seen, heard, and/or otherwise encountered so far has been all but entirely impossible.

And not least of all the maze itself, of course, although for now Irving's been granted something of a mental reprieve from needing to make sense of it all, what with... what with his mind now being quite otherwise preoccupied.

Yet oh, is Goodsir ever a sight for sore eyes, however unbelievable his sudden appearance may otherwise seem— the sheer relief of his presence alone is both tremendous and immediate, even in spite of the terribly compromising position Irving currently finds himself in. If anyone can help him, surely an anatomist can. ]

Dr Goodsir— [ he gasps with gratitude, flushed cheeks streaked with confused and humiliated tears. ] Y-you're here. I-I...

[ As Goodsir patiently explains — no: diagnoses — the nature of Irving's shameful ailment, it barely even registers as much of a shock anymore, considering the way Irving's feeling— and considering how many other similarly outrageous things Irving will have by now surely already seen and heard.

The touch is soothing and stimulating in almost equal parts. Irving shivers against Goodsir's hand, an undignified whimper escaping from his lips. ]

Do you mean to say that I'm... a-am I hysteric?

[mygoodsir]

Yes.

[The lie comes smoothly to his lips, because it will ease Irving's suffering. For better or worse, Goodsir will always try the kinder route.]

But it is temporary, and none shall think less of you for it. This place has claimed many a good man.

[He gets Irving's pants open and slips his hand in, working past his undergarments so he can take the undeniably pleasant weight of his cock in hand. Goodsir knows that he really ought to stay removed from the process - it is a necessary thing he's doing, that's all - but he's startled and ashamed to find that it's all actually rather arousing.

Irving looks so... helpless.

Harry wonders what he might look like bent over with welts on his ass.

Trying to banish such terrible images, he instead turns his attention to stroking Irving's cock.]

And you are good, aren't you? You're doing just as you're told.

[extramuralise]

[ The very notion is all too mortifying for words, but Irving is clearly in no position to try to deny his state— rather, in fact, to the contrary.

Grateful though he is to have Goodsir's assistance, he's nonetheless unable to look the other man in the eye.

He bites down on his lower lip, unwittingly rouging it a deeper red than even his face as he shivers again within Goodsir's firm grip, squirming in place to rut and knead himself against that touch with an eager, needy urgency. The vines tug Irving's little shorts down past his knees to further aid their respective efforts, his pink cock springing free of the tight fabric and glistening already with drops of fluid. ]

O-oh— [ he gasps, keening sharply with a groan. ] I-I want to be, I do, but I-I'm...

[ Irving shakes his head in chagrined contrition, face beaded in a fine mist of sweat. If either of his hands were currently free, he'd use them to cover his face, but instead he can only blink guilty tears of shame from his eyes. ]

I'm wretched, I-I've— just l-look at what I've made you... I-I only hope that you'll not think too poorly of me.

[mygoodsir]

[Oh. Irving has that desperate, pleading energy that Goodsir has come to enjoy so much. It's impossible not to respond to it, even though part of him is ashamed at the fact that he's taking pleasure in Irving's distress.

He varies his stroke, slowing and firming.]

Wretched. That is a rather good word for you. Writhing, leaking.

[He tsks and lifts his other hand to press his fingers against Irving's lower lip.]

I've half a mind to punish you for it.

[The hand on Irving's cock squeezes. Goodsir's voice, always so soft, lowers further.]

But you'd like that, wouldn't you?

oh right cw repression period-typical internalized blah de blah and so forth <3

[extramuralise]

[ A sharp twitch of desire hardens Irving's prick so suddenly that it all but makes an audible sproing as it jumps in Goodsir's hand like something spring-loaded, his head nodding senselessly in agreement before dignity and discretion can otherwise censor his arousal.

Punishment is exactly what he needs, yes, lest he one day find himself somehow beginning to internally condone succumbing so readily to such lesser base instincts— to allow himself to freely and willfully partake in the forbidden, sinful pleasures of flesh like Eve in the Garden tasting fruit for the first time. Even if or when he can't seem to help himself, like now, discipline is always the solution; penitence is, after all, the key to all atonement, and pain — or shame — is the antidote to pleasure. ]

I would deserve it, [ he pants, expression vaguely rapturous as his eyes, wide and bright as moons, tilt up to meet Goodsir's. ] Surely conduct like mine deserves no better.

guys being totally normal guys for the 1800s

[mygoodsir]

[Having been stationed on separate ships, Goodsir had mostly only rumours about the disposition of Terror's lieutenants, but there were rumours. Irving had been held in high esteem as a man of impeccable Christian morals. Since in his time at the manor, Goodsir's discovered that impeccable Christian morals lend themselves very neatly to carnal debasement and punishment.

Which he, personally, is happy to mete out.]

It doesn't. [Still in his soft voice - it is so rarely than he ever raises it - but with a note of cool disapproval. Goodsir is a kind man, but he is also one of science and there has always been within him the ability to disassociate enough to do whatever needs doing.

Abruptly, he lets go of Irving's cock and steps back.]

Would that I had something to strike you with properly. Perhaps later, when we are away from here.

On your knees. [He gestures at the vines.] Nevermind them. You'll find a way. Or are you not as capable a man as I've heard?

the most regular guys you will ever meet

[extramuralise]

[ Thank the very Heavens themselves that Goodsir is such a kind and selfless soul, as well as a consummate professional, or else where would Irving be right now?

He's been relatively lucky up until now not to have ever suffered too severely from any debilitating libidinous maladies whilst away at sea (merely from more typical conditions like scarlet fever, dysentery, infection, food poisoning, multiple cases of frostbite, and other such like) but this, of course, is hardly any better either. What if someone else were to see, to misunderstand?

Bad enough for Irving to have to suffer that level of shame alone, but how could he ever forgive himself getting Goodsir implicated as well?

All the more reason he deserves every ounce and inch of whatever Goodsir has in mind for him. ]

Yes— y-yes, later, I-I'll not forget.

[ He'll be like the naughty child who dutifully keeps track of his own spanking so as to correctly remind his disciplinarian of the number of strikes should they lose count.

Dropping to his knees, however, is far more difficult an order to fulfill with his limbs all tangled up as they are in vines, but he struggles nonetheless to free his bound wrists, heedless of any mild scuffs and scratches they gather from the shifting thorns. Though he remains at the overgrowth's mercy, his lips pursing in teary-eyed frustration, the bindings do finally deign to loosen themselves so that new ones growing up from the ground can take hold of him instead and pull him downward, dropping him to his hands and knees.

He can hardly take credit for it himself, but life still found a way. ]

[mygoodsir]

Good.

[Goodsir can read that tone perfectly, having had a few months in which to lovingly explore desires he'd spent a lifetime ignoring.

He watches the struggle with a faint smile, unsurprised that the thorny vines allow him to be put in a compromising position. He feels them scrape over the back of his own calves and so he moves again. His cock is half hard and so he tuck a hand into his horrible shorts to bring it fully awake.]

John. You don't mind that I call you that, do you? You're going to have to open your mouth. What I am going to do will be uncomfortable. But that's all you deserve. And if you do very well for me, I promise you'll feel ever so much better after.

Open wide, now.

[So that he can pull his cock free and, if Irving cooperates, slip it into his mouth.]

[extramuralise]

Yes, John will do, [ he agrees softly, with a nod; lieutenant hardly seems quite appropriate under these circumstances, and any formalities such as "Mr. Irving" even less so. ] As you say.

[ Somehow, his own pleasure being ignored is almost better than being granted any relief, his naked prick throbbing hard between his legs with an ache that can be felt throughout his entire body. Let Goodsir use Irving as he will to help unburden himself of his own lesser urges, yes— let Irving be a mere tool for someone else's pleasures while his own remain, as they should, perennially unsatisfied. This is what a lack of restraint gets you.

His lips part hesitantly, pink and full despite the greater camouflage of his facial hair, before then opening wider, tongue protruding itself slightly like a bed for Goodsir's organ to rest comfortably upon. Irving's eyes reflect both his lack of experience and knowledge of exactly what he's doing (or rather, how: he's no common doxy, after all, so what does he know of their trade's sordid tricks?) yet still shine with a pious dedication towards atonement—

And perhaps also some measure of secret lust, as well, of heretofore never acted upon inner longings and desires the like of which Irving could never in his lifetime bring himself to acknowledge, but can allow himself to perform while under a thin guise of protest, compliance, or force rather than by his own sinful choice.

(God may not love a loophole, but man, on the other hand, can easily live and die by them.)

With his shorts now uselessly bunched around one ankle, the ground is uncomfortably gravelly and uneven against his knees, although Irving leans more weight upon them anyway, situating himself better to accept Goodsir into his mouth. ]

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir's own sexual experience prior to arriving at Saltburn was minimal, the encounters hurried and few, but they've expanded greatly since then. (And nevermind that he fell head over heels for the first person to perform oral sex on him.) But this isn't about how good Irving may or may not actually be at giving head; this is about power. Irving has none, and that is how it must be for him to be able to give in to carnality.

The fact that it benefits Goodsir's own desires is truly just a bonus.

He grabs hold of Irving's hair. His grip is firm, but not painful - it really is a doctor's touch. His voice remains as soft as ever.]

Close your lips around it - there. That's right.

[Using his hair to guide him, he encourages the rhythm of Irving's head.]

Suck. Use your tongue. You can do this, John.

cw period-typical (internalized) homophobia / #genderroles / etc

[extramuralise]

[ Simply closing his lips around Goodsir's cock is enough to make Irving's own organ twitch again keenly, the ground beneath him spotting dark with the now steady emission of fluid dripping from him like a leaky faucet. He looks embarrassed for being told how to use his mouth proactively for another man's sensual pleasure — rather than, perhaps, remain blissfully and blamelessly passive for the experience — yet so, too, is the idea of acting as such an instrument somehow perversely thrilling in a way beyond Irving's ability to understand or analyze.

Were his mouth still empty and available for speech, then he might think to ask if Goodsir would sooner prefer to close his eyes so that he could replace Irving in his mind's eye with a prettier, more delicate face: one unblemished by the telling, bare-faced scrape of stubble, and belonging upon a softer, smaller body. If only he—

No. Irving shuts down that train of thought like he's slamming a door, redirection his attentions back to Goodsir. He needs to stay in the moment rather than his own head, lest he later go on to agonize over this encounter for the rest of his waking days.

His cheeks hollow slightly as he focuses first on the sucking, then using his tongue, as if attempting both simultaneously would be simply too much for him— something that requires working up to. His tongue slides around his mouthful exploring every inch of Goodsir's prick, surprised to be finding the salty, musky taste actually quite pleasing rather than— well, he doesn't know. Slimy, sweaty, dirty...? Not that all those qualities are necessarily absent, either, yet somehow Irving does not mind them at all. ]

[mygoodsir]

[If Irving were too passive Harry wouldn't enjoy it. He wants to feel him try - the lack of skill with which he slobbers at Harry's dick isn't a turn off because it's a testament to that effort.

Goodsir lets Irving grow a little more comfortable before he starts fucking into his mouth. He's using the man roughly, but still keeps enough awareness that he doesn't choke him.]

There. This is what your deserve, John. You know it. On your knees in the dirt.

Ah. Yes.

[His hips rock a little faster. The sight of Irving looking up at him is sending him dangerously close to the edge already.]

[extramuralise]

[ Irving nods haplessly, whimpering and slavering around the bulk of Goodsir's length like some greedy, half-starved thing— which is in many ways, arguably, exactly what he is, making it even almost for the better that Goodsir's been handling him so roughly now, so as to make it only that much easier for Irving's mind to go blissfully and blankly quiet while he deludes himself with pretending like he wouldn't have otherwise wanted exactly to be used like this.

Hell, if not for his mouth currently being full, he might even be coaxed into helping degrade himself aloud, but for now, desperate nods and eager whimpers, his flushed cock bobbing hard as ever between his legs (and so much the better, too, for still remaining untouched).

He looks up again with eyes large and plaintive, glazed over with shameful lust. ]

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir has come to understand that men need an excuse. He and Irving are not terribly similar, but they are both men used to rules, whether imparted by God or man. Breaking those rules might break the man, but bending them requires only one lie to oneself. He'd learned that particular lesson on the shale.

Irving has, Goodsir realises, rather pretty eyes. It's the last coherent thought he has before he pulls his dick out of his mouth and spends all over that upturned face. Degradation, too, is something he's learned much about.]

Touch yourself.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving blinks and mildly recoils from the spray of fluid which nonetheless still hits his eager face, though mostly just by pure reflex rather than any conscious desire to actually avoid the impromptu facial. It's only natural to flinch when something is coming at your face, after all — and never mind his half-delirious moment of lizard-brain panic over the stuff getting in his beard — but as it lands, the sensation is somehow infinitely more pleasant than his own seed has ever felt drying stickily and sickeningly upon his fingers.

His tongue shyly skirts out from between his full and swollen lips in order to clean them of any excess spend before it, too, begins to congeal, eyes once again shining widely up at Goodsir like two pale, glassy moons. ]

I... I can't, [ he protests weakly, miserably, trying to make some halfhearted argument against masturbation to even just himself, this time. Clearly it doesn't work, though, because he almost immediately follows up with the soft-spoken question of: ] W-where? Tell me—

[ The vines loosen around his wrists just enough to tease at the possibility of his eventual freedom, allowing him enough range of movement to move one hand between his legs to cup his balls as a midpoint between one locus and the other. ]

Please t-tell me where.

Samaritan to sin

[holyposition]

[ Tim is, for the most part, enjoying the festivities. Tug of wars and relay races and “who can make the best smore’s” contests all remind him of simpler times, a happy childhood spent on Boy Scouts trips and youth ministry team building exercises, before the complexities of adulthood and Washington and Saltburnt. You couldn’t pay him to spit honey into someone’s mouth, but Hawk had convinced him to play that little scavenger hunt, which was mostly tickling and kissing in places that could still be covered by his short denim shorts. He's not the one with the exhibitionist streak, but there are times when healthy compromises have to be made.

The murder games, however, are not his cup of tea. They seem in poor taste, given how close they’re coming up on the anniversary of their actual murder games, so Tim has politely declined to participate, citing his need to help out in the supply tent, or the library tent, or any other place requiring a helping hand. He’s crossing the lawn now with a few books in hand, muttering under his breath something about the carelessness of leaving books by the lake to get wet and covered in sand, when the fake blood cannon starts blowing people away in front of him. ]

Hey! You guys need to watch where you’re shooting that thing!

[ He sounds more ‘shrill librarian’ than ‘authority figure’, but someone waves in what seems to be a peaceful gesture, which...just has to be good enough. Tim looks down at the fallen victim and offers a hand to help him to his feet, cross necklace spilling out of his tank top. ]

Don’t worry, it’s fake. Are you okay?

[extramuralise]

[ Irving shakily allows himself to be helped back up to his feet, his posture all but broadcasting the sheer immensity of his discomfort to be dressed so scantily— something which the deluge of paint ironically does somewhat help to obscure, however distastefully. He clutches his own cross necklace in a trembling fist at the base of his throat, looking at Tim — his saviour — with some confused mixture of glossy-eyed gratitude and prey animal skittishness. ]

I-I don't know, [ he says slowly, looking himself over uncertainly. ] I've just been shot with something.

[holyposition]

[ It’s immediately apparent that Irving is uncomfortable, but Tim doesn’t think anything of it. He's a new face, and not the first to arrive here moments before a house fire, making him displaced twice over before he fully knows what’s going on. He's been here for some time, long enough to be nearly desensitized to much of it, but he remembers how it felt when he arrived. It's a lot to take in.

His smile is friendly, bringing his hand to his nose, where some of the red splatter rubbed off while he was helping Irving up. ]

I think it’s just syrup and dye. Fake blood so they can pretend to kill each other.

[ With a roll of his eyes. ]

There’s spare clothes in the supply tent, if you need a change.

[extramuralise]

How ghastly.

[ Irving looks properly dismayed at the very notion of these games, but perhaps not more so than he is to be covered in paint— or syrup, or dye, or whatever else this awful substance happens to be.

Thankfully the only clothing that's been ruined is nothing he could care less about being stained, but for the fact he still has to wear it, so his expression brightens slightly at being told spare clothes are available for changing into. Granted he'll likely need to shower off first, though, if he doesn't also want to dirty the new clothes as well, but frankly, so be it; given what he's already wearing, he might as well be be fully nude. ]

And yes, clearly I do— even before this happened, I needed one. [ A change of clothes, that is. ] Will you show me where I'm meant to go?

[holyposition]

I don’t mean to scare you, but we should count ourselves lucky that people are only pretending.

[ Is Tim participating in the Jason Voorhees impersonations? Of course not. But it’s hardly the worst this place has offered up. Half the manor burning down is practically a vacation. ]

Oh, of course. It’s over here. I’m Tim. [ Offering him a hand to shake - firm, but not effortlessly so, the kind of self-conscious overcompensating of a man concerned his masculinity may be called into question. It goes back further than the short jean shorts. ] I like your necklace.

[ Smiling at Irving's cross, before turning his head with a smile and leading him across the camp. ]

There's not a lot of faithful here.

[extramuralise]

Oh... yes, [ Irving adds after a brief, blanching pause. ] So I can imagine. Is it... common, here?

[ Victorian England is full of crime with plenty of murder, to be sure, so this is perhaps not even the most shocking detail he's heard thus far, apart from how abjectly distressing it is to learn.

Well, and also that this place would not have actually stricken Irving as particularly crime-ridden, moral indecencies aside: it isn't exactly central London, after all. Isn't this a private estate? Isn't — well, wasn't — the manor that just burned down someone's country residence?

So many questions he could ask, but luckily for Tim, Irving is just as overwhelmed by the mere prospect of asking (and then getting answers to) them all, so he instead lets himself smile faintly and touch his necklace with the hand that doesn't reach out to shake Tim's proffered one. ]

Yes, I... er, I gathered that. [ No offense. He clears his throat. ] But you are a Christian yourself then, sir?

[holyposition]

[ How to put this delicately... ]

There are sometimes compulsions, towards violent or indecent behavior. Drugs in the air, or...something, we're not really sure how it happens.

[ Since his purgatory and/or 'tests from God' theory has been shot down over and over again, even when there's no other explanation that makes a lick of sense, as far as he's concerned.

But, no offense taken. ]

Uh huh. Catholic. There's a small handful of us, but we'd be happy to have you, no matter what. We can't really afford to be picky.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving keeps a light grip upon his necklace within a loose and vaguely trembling fist, though less like he's clutching pearls and more in the way one might hold close a teddy bear or security blanket— something to help provide a modicum of comfort even through the most devastating of circumstances.

Not that these circumstances... necessarily seem to quite qualify, although Irving wouldn't really know how else to describe them, either; the sheer impossibility of it all, for one thing — especially as someone who obviously very much does not believe in Limbo or purgatory — which is already rather understandably devastating in its own right, if perhaps not in the most strictly literal "worse than" sense. ]

Compulsions, [ he echoes, voice gone flat in a way that suggests he may certainly understand the implications behind the word, though remains loathe to actually consider them. ] And when you say "violent" or "indecent"...

[ But then his nose wrinkles as if in preemptive rejection of whatever answer Tim might give him, because indeed, Irving truly is not so complete a fool as to not be capable of connecting the dots well enough from here between what Tim is telling him and what he has himself already experienced.

And are not there not, in fact, drugs which are perfectly capable of doing that very thing? Not that any man or woman will often need any further help with becoming violent than simply whatever they'll likely find at the bottom of a bottle, yet for many even that can be merely but a starting point. As for indecency...

... Well, obviously Irving wouldn't have any idea about that, but he's heard more than enough sordid barroom tales from the mouths of sailors to believe it sight unseen.

He shakes his head, looking dazed, troubled, and probably more so than even he yet realizes, since still very little will have actually sunken in. ]

Well, by no means feel as though you all need force yourselves to welcome any actual Christians among your number, [ he says a bit coolly, preferring for now to channel his emotions towards the petty religious bickering rather than the rest of it. To be fair: We can't really afford to be picky? Frankly a bit rude! ] And who is we? Have you a chapel to worship in, then?

[ (Not that he would be terribly surprised on an estate this large, though.) ]