πππππππππ ππππ. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
Entry tags:
"ππππ" β£ MAY TDM
MAY 2024 TDM
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 β 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. Prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
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 isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
LET THEM EAT CAKE
CONTENT WARNINGS: sex, drugs, alcohol.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior youβve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, youβre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy β this isnβt school, you arenβt being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, thatβs other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights β some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can β anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice β with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior youβve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, youβre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy β this isnβt school, you arenβt being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, thatβs other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights β some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can β anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice β with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, cannibalism, sex.
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes β but did you find it a littleβ¦ addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didnβt eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh β well, cake β someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes β but did you find it a littleβ¦ addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didnβt eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh β well, cake β someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
DIRECTORY
no subject
( he hasn't heard the name in awhile, but it's not difficult to place β by lucifer's count, he's more like one of those paint by numbers books, a detailed outline in all the ways he wants to be broken by someone else. it's not really luci's choice. danny at least has enough self awareness to know he's poking a bear, which means he's doing it for the thrill of it, the knowledge of what claws feel like pressed into the soft parts of his belly. luci is contrary by instinct, the reason why devil's advocates get their name β being wanted makes him want to give less, though the puzzlework of danny is some other beast altogether. he watches danny's spit slide down his dick with all the emotional involvement of a father watching a son throw his first ball. good aim. what a mouth on the kid.
( he wonders if eve would ever give him children. wonders what they would be, half seraphim and half witch and half god and half human. he wonders if they would look like danny βΒ if eve would like danny. but, well. of course she would. he's damaged and hot and horny. he checks all the boxes. )
slightly too intimate for a moment, he thinks. luci cinches a hand around danny's wrist tightly, squeezing him, removing his hand, stepping away. he throws up a boyish grin, playful as predators flashing teeth as a threat. )
Tell you what. You catch me, and I'll let you suck on it. I catch you, and I'll give you some cum.
( the poorly thought out details of a poorly written bargain β either danny sucks his cock with no reward, or he's an adjacent point to luci's pleasure. luckily it's not that important, because lucifer won't lose, though he imagines how danny plays the game will give him something to gnaw over when he tries to mentally dissect him later. for now, he jogs backwards, throwing up a hand. )
Five seconds to the hunt.
( he turns to the right and disappears in the maze. )
no subject
luci goes right. danny goes left.
on his way through the maze, he digs his thumbnail into the cut on his arm and shreds the scabbing, smearing blood over leafy filigree and in bread trail crumbs on the stone, little hansel out for a walk all on his little lonesome. he shreds his t-shirt at the hem next, wrapping his arm tight. then, in a dead-end corner: plants his boot on a bench seat, hitches up to the backrest, and vaults over a hedge.
this new pathway looks like all the rest, only darker, hedges overgrown and reaching out like thorny limbs. he slinks onto his haunches and listens, quiet as a mouse, for signs of life from his golden lion. here, kitty. )
cw: questionable consent
he stops after awhile, lost in the maze, listening closely for the sounds of danny's feet striking the earth. nothing. so β not a chase, then, which is smart enough to have a paternal fondness bloom in his chest, the seeds all planted there from danny's hands. human with a death wish, he thinks with a sigh. silly silly lily, with too many fingers in too many pies. if sound can't be relied on, and sight is obviously not a choice, luci instead shuts his eyes and takes a deep inhale, filling up his lungs, scenting the air. underneath the scent of wet earth and clipped foliage, there sits exactly what danny intended he find β the metallic twang of fresh blood, ripe as fat, juicy apples. instinctively, luci moves towards it, mouth watering. it doesn't mean he doesn't know it's a trap, it just means it's an alluring one, from an intelligent predator. all the more intrigue in the hunt.
unfortunately for danny, the game is set up against him. lucifer doesn't value an occasional loss, but he knows they're inevitable β he's as much a sore loser as one can expect from the golden boy child of god, destined to fall and keep falling for all of eternity. he therefore doesn't hold any moral high ground about cheating, doesn't mind being perceived as a snake. he calls for the golden blood inside of danny, staining his the usual red with little glimmering flecks of gold β angel blood, divisible from the human, forced up his throat and out his nose, choking him on it. the gilt sheen leftover from making out with a pollen rich lily. a distraction, sonic location, ah, there he is. luci follows the breadcrumb blood, approaches the dead end, and grins. game over, or game on?
under the hedge, a serpentine tail snags a fierce grip around his ankle, tugging danny under and back to this side. lucifer looks different β less daddy, more devil, the cross section between a black and red dragon, and the storybook picture of a devil, all fluorescent skin and sharp horns. danny's head cracks against the dirt floor, concussed, stun your enemy. luci in his oversized body takes a seat on danny's chest, shins pressing against his biceps to keep his arms pinned to the ground. a taloned, scaled hand grips his hair holding him in place, while luci's opposite hand fingers open the sheath of his cock, helping it out to full length. )
Devil takes the pot.
( he decides. i win. as expected. his cock is as strange as the rest of him, oddly colored, weirdly formed, glowing red hot with steam. he strokes himself, squeezes a pearly drop of burning devil cum onto danny's pink mouth β he looks like a baroque painting, soft, sad eyes, pretty little cherubic features, painted with gold and pearls. )
no subject
Wait, ( whimpered, tongue gone novocaine numb. danny's booted heels hook into the dirt, hips and spine arching sluttily, bucking into the body on top of him in an attempt to unseat this harlequin serpent beast, or at least lift his knees from his biceps, or drop his strange cock down the slide of danny's chest into his mouth. ) Wait, wait β wait.
( oh, his daddy's gonna be fuckin' pissed, maybe, probably, another reason on a very long list of reasons to be pissed with danny. god shouldn't keep snakes as sons. dogs, neither. kittens? no. the weight on his chest refuses to budge, and a sweat-sticky danny snarls, kitten canines ornated in gold and red, snapping for a greedy second helping of cock, cum, blood. his eyes refuse to focus, pupils blown cosmic black, his daddy's eyes. that'd be the concussion, probably. what the fuck is he even looking at? danny thinks he would've remembered if he'd looked like that the whole time. )
You fuckin' cheated.
( affronted, like danny hasn't cheated in every game of tag he's ever played. his wobbly gaze swims down, squinting hard at luci's cock: steam tendrils from his cockhead like smoke from a dragon's nose. that'd clean him out, surely. refinement by fire, an interdimensional telephone call to his lost daddy. look how naughty i'm being, come punish me, come lay waste, come cum. )
I want it inside me, you fuckin' cunt cheater. ( he goes from feral to weepy in a flashbang second, bottom lip quivering provocatively, dangerously plump and wet. danny squirms, flexing his thighs, and humps the air. ) You wanna be my daddy for a little bit? I'm hungry.
no subject
there's a degree of quiet interaction going on. invisible words on unstamped envelopes β the great irony of ironies is that luci loves god's creations, loves flowers and small things, loves picking them apart and putting them back together, pressing his name next to god's in an effort of comparison, as a way of being close. and yet. here is a body, a god's son, an open hole and a bleeding heart, and it's all salted ground, all lost potential. satan, there is no room for you here, too loved is he by daddy dear. nothing here shall grow, so say the angels, amen.
not a human, he thinks. not not a human, he thinks. )
No. ( he says. lost in translation: the implications of pride he has in danny, jealousy of danny, attracted to danny's quivering lips and watery eyes. that there are no little bits or pussyfooted steps when it comes to luci β there ares and there are nots. if you want a father, be a son. i'm not your battering ram, i'm your enemy. i'll make you. i'll ruin you. i am your Father. ) Don't be a sore loser.
( little to do with in now βΒ it might've been a long time for luci, he doesn't really keep track, and time is all flexible anyway. the tip of his devil cock goes ashy from burning, flakes of peeling skin waft away on a breeze. he angles his dick down, grunting, splattering an oil burn of cum across his mouth and cheeks, scarring cumshot, danny's skin pink and raw from the burn of it. orgasms are relief, an enforced reality check. it breaks whatever unmanageable trance luci had been in, swells his form back to the image of a human, and has him lazily slipping off danny, onto his back in the dirt path. panting. counting the clouds in the sky.
when he turns his head he's a little surprised to see someone there. oh, right. moving up on an elbow, he looks down at lily, chagrined. )
You're not dead, are you?
no subject
worse: it's over, and he's still alive. daddies are the worst. yes, all daddies.
hands freed, danny squeezes his dick through his jeans and twists cruelly, one leg deer-kicking in protest, whimpering through the pain, the immeasurable grief. he flips onto his front, licking the dirt, the leftover dribbles of luci's cum and the spilled ash from his cock that wasn't greedily swept away by the wind, and rides his hips into the ground. furious, devastated, tantruming his way to an orgasm. no one understands. no one cares.
through a mouth full of dirt and ash, miserably, ) No.
( he's not dead, that's not how his story ever ends because his story never ends. danny's epilogue is that he always gets to live, again and again and again. he fucks a shallow divot into the ground until he busts messily in his jeans, imagining luci's (john's? both?) face in his fly instead. )
no subject
the moment passes. luci chooses to forget the revelation this time, taking the thought and plopping it into his brain's recycling bin just like that. click. a hand reaches over, paternally clapping the back of danny's head, an agonizing second of having his butter soft hair filtering through his fingers like feathers on wings. )
Good boy.
( suspiciously shy the second the words leave his mouth, luci gives him a little push back into the dirt, rolling back on top of him. a smaller transformation, as lucifer would rather not deal with the consequences of his actions, has a tiny, purring kitten laying down in the center of his back, black fur and red eyes, sharp claws kneading against his shoulders. luci moves his tiny kitty head to cradle in the space of danny's neck, pawing over him until he can rub a sandpapery tongue over his cumshot burns β which all need to be healed up, if he doesn't want the scar of it to forevermore detail what the devil did to danny, while looking like his father. )