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draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
Entry tags:
𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ▣ NOVEMBER TDM
NOVEMBER 2025 TDM: INDULGENCE
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember — dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
TREAT YOURSELF
CONTENT WARNINGS: pressing of hard limits (examples including suffocation & drowning)
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
REDRUM
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
SHE THINKS SHE'S MADE OF CANDY
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw prompts (including lactation & a/b/o themes).
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
CANDIES OF THE MONTH
For an interactive game, feel free to click on whichever of the below candies appeals to your character, and reveal a (horny) side effect. Alternatively, click them all and find whichever side effect most appeals to you! Be warned — you are never going to get these stains out.
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
DIRECTORY
gwen stacy | tasm (current player, new character)
treat yourself
the spa. wearing a robe, being given an eye mask that's not, you know, his usual mask, getting a massage, the whole shebang.
weirdly, though, he hasn't really found it relaxing. actually, in fact, the whole thing kind of makes him more anxious, so he tosses some cucumbers to the floor at some point in the middle of something and goes walking.
and that is when he sees a ghost.
he freezes, right where he stands.
there are a thousand, ten thousand, questions running through his mind right now, but they generally revolve around the general sentiment of how and why before they all just get lost again, and the only things he can focus on are the sounds of his own breath and his heart pounding in his ears. she'd been dead in his arms. dead, gone. it's been, like, five, six months, he doesn't know how long it's been, maybe it's been five, six years, because the days all blur together into this one giant, horrible, miserable mess.
she's dead, gone. she's here, just as he remembers her, smiling that adorable smile that could only be gwen stacy.
he should do something.]
Uh — [he clears his throat, and nods.] Yeah. [another nod, just to affirm this to himself.] Yeah.
[okay, okay. maybe he's got this. he can bend over, pick up the cucumber, and hand it to her. easy peasy.
so he does exactly that — and he even manages a smile, to go along with it.]
Hi.
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Was a little girl's fantasy Gwen only indulged in in the middle of the night in her bedroom, when all the logistics and complications of school abroad, very far from New York, and all the times they'd broken up didn't have to be real. In the light of day, she needed to go to Oxford. By herself, for herself. It was easier to rip the bandaid and book a flight than risk seeing him again and feeling all the feelings she's feeling now, with Peter in a bathrobe handing her a hot, limp slice of cucumber while she just gapes at him a little.
Gwen does manage to shut her mouth, eventually. Blinks at him, twice. ]
I--thank you. For this. [ The cucumber. Which she holds up, to demonstrate. ] I'm gonna just--
[ Put those down on the nearest table, with someone's empty tea cups. Gwen straightens again, very aware of the mask drying on her face and her hair towel flopping a little as she purses her lips and pinches her brow, really scrutinizing him. ]
Peter Parker. Answer me honestly. Did you follow me to England?
[ There's a part of Gwen that knows something much weirder has happened to them--because she's wracked her brain for a couple of days now and can't wrap it around a scientific explanation for...all of this. The morning papers and her phone say it's 2007. Everyone else she's encountered has been a stranger. No one can tell her what happened to her flight, or her luggage, or...
But she wants him to say yes. Because it's easier. Because it's stupid of him, but it's Peter, and--for everything complicated about this, there's also warmth in her at the sight of him, from her cheeks to the tips of her toes. There always is. ]
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before he's even really thinking, he's breathing out a laugh as he watches gwen (gwen) drop that cucumber away, and it feels easier than anything has in months. it feels like coming back to himself, somehow, like he's looking on everything with new eyes.
and, like, could he be blamed, now, for looking? she manages to even make the mask and hair-in-towel thing perfect. that just defies science. and — oh, right, she's asking him something.]
What? No. [another laugh.] No, no, I know what it looks like, but —
[both of his hands are empty now, so he can hold one up in some vague gesture.]
I did not, Gwen Stacy, in fact, follow you to England. Scout's honor.
[it occurs to him that what he's doing is probably a lot closer to a vulcan salute than it is to any actual scout sign, so he just drops it. which means, now, without a cucumber and without a failed scout sign, he has nothing to do with his hands, but he'll cross that bridge.]
No following. Just went to sleep in Queens, and — poof — woke up here. I don't even have a passport.
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🎀
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Oh, um... [ She wrinkles her nose, trying not to smile. ] Like a two point five? [ No, even though Gwen said she could be honest she doesn't want to, like... offend her. ] No, three, definitely three. It just needs ears.
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[ She bites her lip against a smile, though, so Mel knows she's not actually offended. Picking up one of the smaller carving tools, ]
I have two younger brothers, you know. I should definitely be able to carve two ear-like triangles into a pumpkin after a lot of Halloweens with them.
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[ They aren't, really, but they can pretend for the sake of this. Melissa turns her own pumpkin around to show Gwen. It's definitely not professional by any means, but it's at least identifiable. ]
I haven't carved a pumpkin in, like, three years. It's actually more fun than I remembered.
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TREAT YOURSELF
He's given a towel and a point in the right direction. Real, real helpful. Oh, and then a change of clothes. He doesn't need a robe. They insist. Fine. He gets a locker, deposits not-his-clothing, and changes into his robe. It is beautiful, he decides, as he walks by the big windows overlooking the gardens and grounds.
After poking his head in the wrong room and getting an eyeful, he finds the room with the jacuzzi. And discovers that that's also a hot tub.
Stripping down into provided swim trunks. Far too short for him, very eighties, he steps down into the water and lets himself sink. While his eyes are closed, he hears a plop. He pops one, then the other, open.
He didn't know it was coed. He doesn't hate it. He looks up at Gwen.
Questioning, he doesn't actually say anything. It's weird, but cute and so he maneuvers to her side of the tub and reaches down. He presents the cucumber to her, resting an arm on the edge. )
For your eyes, right? It eliminates puffyness.
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Yeah, yep, pretty sure. Maybe not so much now that it's boiled, since that would just--make you puffier. Instead of cooling. [ Very smooth, Stacy. ]
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( The boy next door always comes out so easily when he wants it to, even if she didn't grow up with him. )
I'm Billy. You look pampered.
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Uh – well. Maybe one of those…wrinkly naked cats? [a little chuckle, then bella leans forward, scrunching her shoulders so her chest doesn’t spill too far over her skimpy top, tracing out her idea with her fingertip:] If you, uh, carved this part out too, you could maybe make it a bunny? White rabbit, keep it on theme?
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[ Gwen's keeping her eyes very politely above the other girl's neckline, but it helps to have pumpkin advice to focus on. She holds her pumpkin out to get the artist's eye view, or something, thinking through how to implement those cuts. ]
You know, I can't believe I didn't think about a rabbit. Thanks, um... [ She purses her lips, gaze flicking accidentally to her low-cut top and then back to her face, waiting for a name. ]
made of candy
Sorry, I, uhm — I thought this was a different room.
[ Figures that a house that likes to turn its guests around would do the same in all its sections. Her gaze takes a small detour to read Detention with Miss Stacy, then back to the girl casting a look right back at her. ]
I'm... guessing you're Miss Stacy?
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It's entirely possible she looks so tall because Gwen is seated, or it's the pretty pink heels she has on, or--she's just really tall. Gwen peers at her over her (non-prescription) glasses, then pushes back from the desk to stand. Okay, that's a good five inches taller before the heels.
Clearing her throat, Gwen sticks her lollipop in an empty Teacher's Pet mug on the desk, tongue still sugar-sweet. ]
That's right. And I'm guessing you're in for a...dress code violation? [ Never mind the fact that the hem of Gwen's skirt barely reaches mid-thigh. ]
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Cellar carries onward anyway. She already did the school girl thing months ago, and when she shuts the door, it's with her hands behind her back, biting her lower lip like she's either longing or still deciding whether this is a good idea. Fuck it, right? That's the spirit required to survive this place. Gwen seems nice, at least. That's code for attractive. ]
Guess I am.
[ Letting go of the doorknob, Cellar takes one step forward, then another, arms folded so her hands daintily clasp in front of her stomach. ]
They— [ Second-guessing. Fuck it, part two. ] —told me I needed to take it all off.
treat yourself - wolf edition (at first? idk)
At Gwen's voice, the ears perk and amber eyes flutter to her direction. Hope has the benefit of retaining her intellect while in wolf form, so she understands the request. Still...she's a wolf. She makes her way towards Gwen (pleasedontrunpleasedontrun) and dives into the water, delicately picking the cucumber with her front teeth. She surfaces, and drops it in front of her.
...and then just stares at her. Pretty girl, smells good. This place is doing something to her wolf brain. ]
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She does not take the cucumber. She puts a hand out in front of her, voice pitched somewhere in the squeaky range. ]
Stay? Stay right. There. Don't move.
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The wolf dives into the water, and when she emerges...it's a human again. Hope stands in the middle of the jacuzzi, very much human, very much naked. She spouts water, moves her hair from her face, and tries for a smile. ]
Hey- I'm sorry. I had forgotten that not everyone thinks a big wolf is cuter than it is scary.
[ She lifts a hand and waves, sheepishly. This is so embarrassing. ]
Hi? I'm Hope.
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ash, aware of what it looks like to be a broad and understandingly intimidating man in the back seat with a young, innocent looking girl, tries to keep to himself, drawing his gaze away from her, not sprawling in his seat. his eyes go mostly upwards to a sky that darkens as they ride, splattered with crystal stars somewhere up high, easier to see here than back in d.c., where the sky is dark and empty. because of this, he doesn't really notice when the temperature drops, unthinking of his companion's choice of clothes. it's only when gwen's teeth start chattering that he remembers, blinking down to look at her, frowning to himself.
after waiting exactly one second, ash stands up and crosses the trunk, taking a seat next to her after shrugging off his jacket, smoothly settling it over her shoulders. he keeps his arm around her, rubbing up and down her bicep. when she looks at him, he just grins — there's something slightly juvenile about it, a colgate smile, some part of ash that's never really grown out of being the boy next door. )
You're doing me a favor. I run hot.
( she can confirm that — heat seeps in from his body to hers with how he's pressed against her, again drawing his eyes heavenward. polite. )
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Gwen just has Peter, and Peter--is doing a really impressive job of avoiding her. And she can't even blame him, because she broke things off this time. Except when she broke things off, it was because she knew she would be in England and he would be in New York and the distance felt like it would be insurmountable, and now they're both in alternate universe England and the distance between them is maybe a quarter mile, tops, at any given moment.
It's a little hard to stew on her very confusing breakup when there's a really handsome guy on the other side of their otherwise-empty hayride, giving her a gentleman's amount of distance. She meets his gaze with a shy smile, once or twice, and otherwise tries to enjoy the scenery and the stars until the drop in temperature has her knees pressed together, shoulders drawn up as she wraps her arms around herself, shivering.
And the very handsome guy comes to her rescue, because of course he does, the lining of his jacket still warm from his body, a pleasant shiver running through her as her own body adjusts to fresh heat, nose and ears pink. The air is crisp and the truck smells like hay, but Ash has that boy-smell that makes Gwen feel a little like a school girl, biting the inside of her lip as he rubs her arm to warm her up. ]
Oh. [ She should say more than oh. Maybe something like-- ] Thank you. I left my pea coat in New York, I guess.
[ Gwen pulls Ash's coat more snugly around her and smiles a little, tipping her head to get a better look at him while he looks up at the stars. ]
I'm Gwen. Stacy. Gwen Stacy. You must be the furnace I paid our driver extra for.
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she does, in the way of all innocent, beautiful blonde women, remind him of greer — hair so pale it's almost silver, little pieces of moonlight highlighting the top of her head next to her bow. greer had been very young when he first met her too, though to be fair ash had also been nearly half the age he is now. the questionable ethics of quick math — he doesn't know gwen's age, but he certainly looks like he could be her young father, just a handful years off from lyr, ash's actual eighteen year old son. the point is, they might look like father and daughter sitting beside each other, if not for the way ash can't help but compare her to his young bride, and the way he rubs her arms, decidedly not paternal.
still, it's not really the place to make a come on, when there's no real exit except for waiting out the ride. ash would obviously never take advantage of her, but she has no real way of knowing that. (which is, in its own way, problematically exciting. ash doesn't like to look at these parts of himself too closely, though they are always present, waiting for acknowledgement.) so, innocent it stays, ash sending her a small wink, laughing at her joke. )
Exactly right. When I'm off the clock, I go by Maxen Ashley Colchester. ( he huffs a laugh, at the verbosity of his name. it makes him sound a lot fancier than he is. ) Just Ash to women I take hayrides with, though. Are you having a nice night? Aside from the cold.
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made of candy;
Curiosity leads her into one of the playrooms first, without waiting to see if either Ash or Embry follows, but it turns out that the door she selects doesn't lead to an empty space, not really. The stage has been set, complete with students' desks and a blackboard, and Greer bites back a knowing smile, ducking her head in what she knows will read as a more deferential manner as she makes her way down the rows of desks and slides into a seat toward the front of the classroom, knees pressed together and hands carefully clasped in her lap. ]
Miss Stacy?
[ She can make herself sound more timid than she feels, but a little amusement slips in regardless as she dares to lift her gaze — to look at the younger woman sitting behind the teacher's desk who could very well resemble Greer herself, from the right angle. Is that the reason she felt drawn to this room, above all the others? Perhaps it's not the right moment to raise that subject, but Greer suspects it might be better for her to wait, to be given permission to speak, before posing a more direct question. ]
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Gwen straightens in her seat, smooths her own skirt down, pen in hand. She is used to tutoring, and wrangling the other interns at work, so taking on a position of authority isn't completely foreign to her. It's just different with someone older, when she's used to taking cues from her teachers and managers, deferring to them.
Still, she can play. She can pretend. An expectant lift of her brows, as she addresses her, ]
Yes, Miss...?
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redrum.
I think a solid 3.5? You'd tip towards a 4 if you can make the ears pointier.
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he hasn't touched the whiskey, but when he notices silence has sat for far too long with no answer for gwen's question, he looks at her. elias is very much not dressed for the occasion, entirely in civilian clothing. boots, jeans, and a very worn oversized jacket over a long-sleeved shirt. he squints at her, rocking back on his heels and shrugging,]
Uh, [and he hasn't even looked at the pumpkin, barely clocking gwen in his peripheral. he's distracted, playing off his discomfort with a why are you asking me frown.] it's a cat.