draino | "𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒" ▣ MAY TDM

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!tdm

"𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒" ▣ 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 — 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 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."

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 you’ve 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, you’re expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy — this isn’t school, you aren’t 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, that’s 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — but did you find it a little… 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 didn’t 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 — well, cake — 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

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

good morning sunshine

[Waking up hungover? Normal. Waking up not sure where he is? Likewise. The only thing of note is how fancy the place is; Iggy has fucked in plenty of ritzy homes in his time, but this is some next level shit. So he takes the painkillers and drinks the water, then lounges in bed for a few minutes, just enjoying the feel of expensive sheets.

He finally peels himself out of bed so he can use the washroom, which is when he discovers The Tub. Iggy actually squeals with delight, getting that water running pretty much immediately.

Oh, what's that? You're from the adjoining room and need to use the bathroom? No problem - except now there's a naked ginger in the bathtub, surrounded by mountains of bubbles, giggling silently to himself. When he spots the newcomer he smiles brightly.]

Hey! I don't suppose you can like, run downstairs and get me a mimosa? Or like, you got any coke?

let them eat cake

i. edible autopsy

[Oh. He loves a costume party. Maybe it's because he was born on Halloween but not allowed to celebrate until he moved out on his own, or maybe it's just that he knows how gosh darn pretty he's capable of looking. Whatever the reason, Iggy swans onto the grounds in the sluttiest Marie Antoinette getup he could find: corseted for the gods, darling, long legs out, cuffs dripping with lace. His hair is perfectly waved, his face powdered and rouged.

Yeah. He loves this shit.

He also loves free booze, and sweets. He's helping himself to the macarons when he first spots one of the cakes. It looks like a human corpse, but nobody seems to be reacting to it as such and so he assumes for a moment that only he can see it. He freezes, and waits for it to sit up and start talking to him.

Instead someone cuts into it, revealing the surprise. Iggy exhales a shaky, silent laugh.]

Oh my god, oh my god I'm so dumb, I thought that thing was real. Uhm. Are you having any?

ii. kiss with a fist

[Iggy sucks at chess. But he's drunk and he likes pink and he read Alice Through the Looking Glass once, so he's doing his best.]

I always deserved to be Queen.

[Declared as he hops to the closest diagonal square, which of course just happens to be occupied. Impishly, he eyes whoever is there up and down before leaning in for a kiss. He's only into men, but he's a lover and not a fighter - he'll only slap back if someone strikes first.]

a midnight's dream

[Another morning, another hangover. Except.... not.

Iggy wanders the halls, a silky robe draped over his skinny frame, curls disheveled and last night's mascara smudged under his eyes. Confused. Hungry, in a way that is entirely unfamiliar to someone whose usual breakfast is cigarettes and coffee.

He isn't sure what he's looking for. Until.]

Hey. You.

[He hurries over. His gaze is unsettlingly bright. Pink tongue slicks thin lips.]

I need you. You smell... delicious.

[Long fingers are already reaching, tracing a loving line along the closest forearm before he takes hold and tries to pull it up to his mouth.]

((ooc: tldr; cam boy/former medium. m/m for smut, but ota for all the weird, pls. happy to match format - brackets or prose, it's all good.]

[ John isn't sure if he's asleep or awake, has lived through too many Void hallucinations and River bubbles to believe anything he sees really matters. When he wakes he's sweaty and twisted in expensive sheets, certain he came from a nightmare he can't remember. He dreams of home — homes, really — and New Zealand is fuzzy and distant but so is Rubikykskoye, like maybe he was never really there either. Truth and reality feel blurry, his ten thousand years cloudy and muddled, and John himself stumbles through the dim corridors barefoot and a little dissociated.

Of course Ignatius is there. His sweet little vampire, predator and prey. The grief of missing him seems far away, as does the quiet anxiety that Iggy won't recognize him, and instead he just smiles quietly to see him, pitch black eyes far less unnerving when they crinkle at the corners. When Iggy takes his hand John gives it willingly; when it's raised to his mouth he doesn't pull away. Yes, love. Consume him. It wouldn't be the first time. It's like Atwood said, everyone wants to close their teeth around divinity and bite down. ]

[Iggy pops two of John's fingers in his mouth at once. Sucks. Drags his clever tongue over each digit until they're spit slick. Iggy opens his mouth then, withdraws just enough to look John in the eyes.

Beautiful eyes. Inhuman.]

I know you.

[He can't. But part of him does anyway. He is a man whose soul has never been properly anchored, and to whom odd fragments of memory (not always his own) occur to frequently.

Iggy doesn't know this man, but his eyes remind him that he loves him. Will always love him.

Iggy puts John's fingers back in his mouth and bites down at the first knuckles. No fangs here - any sharpness is just from not having a dedicated orthodontist as a kid.

John's fingers taste, he thinks, like cream and jam. He pulls back, chewing, expression ecstatic. He studies John's hand, now down two fingertips.

Iggy smiles, bright as the summer sun.]

May I kiss you? And would you like to eat me at all?

[ John doesn't bother answering either of those questions aloud. The things he wants to do to Iggy do not involve devouring, but he also isn't at all perturbed to watch his fingers come back lesser. It feels syrupy-sweet pleasant, no pain at all. Still, those disfigured fingers are very careful when his hand cups Iggy's face.

John leans in and kisses him, slow, his beard bristling across Iggy's mouth. Deep affection that when he breaks back pulls a small smile over his features. ]

You look hungry.

[ Something in the eyes. John thinks there's something very erotically Catholic in offering himself up, cake instead of bread instead of flesh. ]

Don't you want a little more?

[Iggy's lips part softly under that kiss, tongue chasing John's, wet and warm and impossibly familiar. Has he ever been kissed like this? He's not sure. He doesn't think so.

His eyelids flutter open in time to see that smile.]

Oh, yes.

[A breathy little whine. Iggy's fingers spider up to push through John's hair.]

I'm so hungry. And I feel so strange, so...

[He swallows, shakes his head minutely. Iggy's other hand holds the one John has cupping his face, keeping it steady as he turns to kiss the palm. Again. Licks a stripe from wrist to truncated index finger.

Slowly, he puts John's little finger in his mouth. Again, he sucks. Tongue fucks it. Bites, this time at the root. His dick twitches as the entire thing comes off, a confectionery miracle that he chews slowly.

Iggy studies John's strange eyes as he swallows.]

You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

[He turns his face back to John's hand, kissing it, licking, nibbling his way over his wrist and down his forearm. He takes a shallow bite from the flesh just above the bend in his elbow and groans obscenely.

Iggy presses closer, relinquishing John's arm so that he can instead kiss his mouth again and again. He sucks at his tongue and fumbles for John's intact hand, pushing it between his legs. His dick is swollen now, throbbing.]

Do you want me on my knees? I can do that for you.

[It feels like worship.]

Even if it isn't real, I'm not sure I want to eat it.

[ This is the strangest party that Steve's been to, but honestly, he's more used to declining invitations. Somehow, he couldn't leave this estate, and despite his better judgement, he's here dressed to the nines in something he thinks might've last been fashionable in 1792.

The embroidery on his tailcoat is impeccable, but also, not exactly his usual wardrobe choice. He looks a little bit like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. ]

But the cupcakes and cookies - I don't think those are. Anatomically correct.

No? [Iggy leans in to inhale the scent.]

It sure smells good.

[But he leans back and looks at Steve, smiling.]

You wanna split some macarons? They're amazing. So are you, oh my goodness. Love the fit!

Sure, I'll go find a knife.

[ And then, he smiles, albeit sheepishly, because normally he doesn't know how to respond to comments about his appearance. ]

Oh, the clothes? Just found them in the closet. They were the only things that fit.

[ And that shouldn't be surprising - the man's got a ridiculous shoulder to waist ratio, and the silhouette of the time really emphasizes his strength and where he's trim. ]

Not to make it a contest, but I think you look better.

[ Iggy just exudes the kind of confidence in this outfit that Steve decidedly does not. He looks good, yes, but also that he might have selected to wear this even if it wasn't a costume party. If he'd said he'd grown up on the grounds of Saltburnt, Steve might believe him. ]

You fill them out fantastically! [Have a delicate hand on your bicep for a moment, Steve.

He takes it back so he can do a little turn, showing the dress off properly. The slit at the front means not much is left to the imagination.]

Thank you! Here, come, come.

[He tugs at Steve's arm, leading him to a tower of macarons. Iggy selects a mint green one and bites it in half. He rolls his eyes ecstaticly.]

This is so good! Here, try!

[He's very enthusiastic.]

[ He lets himself be dragged around, mostly bewildered but also just a little bit charmed at how Iggy takes to him right away, acting comfortably like they're old friends when Steve doesn't even know his name.

Slowly, he takes the proffered macaron. It's good, but very sweet. ]

I like how the mint comes through.

[ His reaction is much more subdued, but he scans and selects a purple one to try, taking a bite and offering it to Iggy. ]

Guess what flavor it is.

Mmhmmmm.

[And Iggy just opens his mouth for Steve to feed him. He takes a bite, chews, eyes closing a little as he considers it.]

Lavender. Totally. I like that! It's delicate! Subtle. ...half like me.

[He hunts around on the table for a glass of champagne.]

What do you call yourself, cutie?

I really need to know what part of you is supposed to be subtle.

[ It's a little strange for him to be feeding this stranger, honestly, but he's not all that pressed about it. Honestly, he still thinks maybe all of this is just a funny dream. ]

Steve.

[ The other thing is, of course, that no one here recognizes him, even though he's one of the most famous faces on the planet. That just lends credence to his dream theory. ]

And what do I call you?

Exactly. I'm delicate. Not subtle. But I can be discreet!

[Iggy smiles. He radiates a good cheer that isn't just from all the champagne.]

Iggy. It's short for Ignatius. Isn't that just awful?

Gosh, you're terribly cute. You married? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Situationship?

Uh - single.

[ He says, but he looks a little sad about it.

He's very happy to move on from this topic, though, and to have something else to move onto. ]

It's nice to meet you, Iggy. I don't think it's such a bad name. It's pretty strong. Did you just get here too?

Me too.

[Iggy drops a tipsy little curtsy.]

You think? My mom originally wanted to name me Ivan, so I guess it could be worse.

Uh huh. Woke up in a nice bed with no idea how I got here, which isn't terribly unusual.

You think they're gonna hunt us for sport or something?

Ivan's not bad either. Guessing she really likes the letter I.

[ But then he nearly chokes on a black sesame macaron when Iggy says that. ]

If they do, they've got another think coming.

What makes you think that's what they're going to do?

I guess so!

Oh yeah? You got some sort of fighting moves?

[He shrugs delicately and finds himself a new glass of champagne.]

Rich people are weird. I mean, they're putting all of us up here, you know? If it were just a party, hey, no big deal. But we all have rooms and clothes and blah blah blah...

Or maybe it's just a run of the mill orgy. That would be preferable. Orgies I can handle, but running? Look at me, I'll be dead right away!

Well, the first thing I'd do if we had to run is ditch the skirts.

[ They're a lot; they'll bog him down. ]

It's also my experience that rich people have a lot more rooms and clothes than they know what to do with, so I wouldn't say that part's strange.

But if they brought us all here to die, we probably shouldn't eat anything they give us.

[ Which is not an entertaining way to die, but the food and drink might be laced with something. This dream is getting very strange. ]

You know a lot of rich people, sweetie?

[Iggy absorbs this wisdom.]

Huh.

[Then he grabs another macaron and takes a bite.]

You ever been to an orgy?

[ Steve nearly spits out the bite he took as Iggy asks that question. ]

No, can't say I have.

[ But, as he thinks this is a dream, he's also thinking that his imagination is so overactive. Why else would he have made up someone like Iggy? He doesn't know anyone like him in real life. ]

Do you think they're going to have us be in one?

[Iggy shrugs and gives Steve a flirty little grin.]

Dunno. I wouldn't be opposed.

I could look after you, if it happens. Walk you through the etiquette.

...did I mention that you're really cute?

I think I might decline. No offense.

[ Especially since Iggy had just called him cute. oh no, how does he make this less awkward? ]

--It's just. Not usually the kind of thing I do.

[ Hopefully that comes through. He doesn't want to outright reject his new friend, but, this is all a bit forward for him. ]

[Iggy looks at Steve with bright, friendly eyes.]

No offense taken.

I guess you'd just go back to your room if something like that broke out?

Oh, yes. Or - try to leave again.

[ But that might be worse, honestly. He just doesn't think he wants to take part. He's hoping he doesn't get that drunk tonight. ]

I still haven't figured out why we're here.

[Iggy shrugs and sips more champagne.]

Who cares? We're here. It's a party. We should be having fun.

[He looks at Steve curiously.]

Do you not know how to have fun?

Ignatius "Iggy" Melville | OC

(cw: unreality/dissociation + thread-wide vore warning )

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