𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖘. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
Entry tags:
"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."
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.
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?
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
YELL
it's not that she isn't scared of him, a little. telepathy makes his thoughts obvious to her, safely guarded as greek statues in defense of the parthenon, and parisa isn't careless enough with herself to favor brutal, violent men. it's just this feeling in her. this need, unquenchable, undeniable, needy, needy, needy. it's not unpleasant to think of her as brittle as bird bones in his strong, rough grip. what it is? threatening, hot. hotter still that he doesn't act on his baser impulses, his body her bowstring, the cake in her mouth the arrow.
parisa looks up at him coyly, suggestively, a siren of a woman who knows how to get what she wants, when she wants it, using the means available to her. cloying sweet, the flat of her tongue laves against the open cut of his wound, tasting the buttercream of his sweet flesh, teasing the hole open with a few lusty prods. )
Does that get you off, baby?
( teeth sink in, biting into the sugary skin at his hipbone, the softest cake she's ever eaten. it almost melts on her tongue, all rich decadence, all taboo implication. she doesn't mind — not this or much of anything, considering she's on her knees in a likely public area, unbothered by her own reckless abandon. she moans, pleased by the taste of him, lifting up a hand to stroke his thigh wound, fingers digging in until she hits bone, or — candy cane, maybe. )
Where else should I put my mouth?
cw: having a death wish
( once, he'd traded all the good he ever tried to be with one horrible attempted murder. and if every good thing he touched turned to shit in his hands anyway, what was the difference? )
it's not like slipping into a second skin now, thrust back into physical intimacy in semi-public, but bellamy can't find a strong enough objection to pull his pants up. some part of his soul has always wanted to be wholly consumed, to get used up and taken for all he's worth. not quite like this, he thinks dimly, though why not like this? why not by her teeth?
he can't read her mind and she doesn't need to parse his thoughts to perceive that he likes what he sees: beautiful destruction. the clarity of a gun pressed to his temple.
the psychological realization that he should be screaming, but he just swallows hard and nods acutely. )
Yes, ( a raspy confession, even with her tongue inside of him, and his head thuds back hard into pristine wallpaper. there are chunks of light caramel cake being ripped off of him and he grunts instead of roaring, transfixed by how her fingers claw into him. he's all freckles and blown pupils, dark eyelashes heavy. ) On mine.
( which is about all the warning he gives ( maybe she steps back, sees it in his mind before his muscles tense ), before he releases her by the hair and grabs under her arms, along her ribs, to scoop her to full height before him. his gaze is harsh and foreboding, longing just behind it, and he goes to kiss her. pauses directly before her mouth because it's up to her.
however, if she dodges him ( fully within her right ), his back-up plan involves biting into the curve of her shoulder to get a mouthful of something decadent — as if he could possibly tell the difference between pistachios, whipped mascarpone, or a berry concoction. )
no subject
then again, parisa doesn't really need good. not right now, at least. despite her heels, she's still short when up on her feet, reaching hands up to the sides of his head and grinning, sharp, viper smiles, because he waited, because he's kind, because his skin tastes like sugar and his kisses are just as sweet, their mouths pressing together, parisa's fist in his hair. good boy, she thinks. best boy. sweet little violent boy, a soldier in practice, a knight in his heart. her hero. her next meal. her favorite indulgence — reaching into a brain and finding something that feels almost worthwhile.
she moves, dragging him with her, pining herself to the bit of wall he just occupied, head tilted up, nipping at his tongue but not biting it off — there are uses for it yet. parisa dons a drapey, clingy dress that is equal parts tight and loose, silken against her body like the veil on a bride, the bow on a present. she moves her shoulders, the spaghetti strap falling off one, unveiling the full top of one small breast. breaking the kiss, she encourages bellamy lower, his mouth smudging her lip gloss all over her skin, down her chest, bullying him there, there, there. )
Bite, bite. ( her head rolls back, ecstasy. pain. she's never really known the difference, anyway. ) Share me. I'll be in you, you be in me. Let's.
no subject
when hell gives you a goddess, it’s probably a diversion ( see: echo ), and yet, parisa smiles at him, jagged with teeth too obvious behind her lips and bellamy swallows it down because he wants, in this moment, for everything to be simple, to be face value, to give in to something that might cease all else even if it ends with him bound to an altar. she kisses him and he licks the venom straight from the source, drinks it, because her fist is closing around the base of his skull and he wants every fatality promised by her grip and carnivorous mouth.
she spins them until she’s where he was a moment before. he can crowd her against the wall while she pinches his tongue with her teeth, hard but not hard enough on both counts. parisa is lucky that by day three, bellamy has rediscovered hygiene, that he’s changed the clothes he’s worn threadbare. he touches her with calloused palms but clean fingernails, smells vaguely of fresh linen and soap, while he covers her, obscuring her from view with his shaggy curls and his shoulders. his fingers find the other strap of her dress, hold it securely, protectively, even while he mouths a trail around her breast, circles her nipple, takes the peak between his lips and groans when he sucks. he travels between her breasts, nudges silk with his nose and bites between the swell of both, teeth scraping sternum turned pillowy cake. she tastes like honey, something he's savored ( stolen from a hive on earth ) with something bittersweet on the edge — unrefined cacoa beans, maybe.
boldly, he grabs one of her clothed thighs, raises it against him, bunching fabric in the process. is he speaking at her or into her? )
I want to taste more of you. ( which is either an incentive to sample how good she tastes from his mouth or to allow him to mirror where she had been, down on his knees, the thigh gripped over his shoulder or him letting her taste honey on him. )
no subject
he's as obvious as a blunt object covered in blood — the exact solution to a question of aggravated assault, something turned violent through proximity, through necessity. under that, he's soft, like crisp pages to an old book, bendy wood fibers springing from the pages. he wants to suffer because he wants to be punished. parisa wants him to suffer, a little, because she likes being in charge. he's perfect, perfect, perfect, this person sharpened to a blade, with rough hands and a soft mouth. parisa wedges space in between them, her back flush to the wall and her hips tucked in against his, a hand palming down his cheek to the split in her skin. two fingers hook inside the hole, her body shaking with taboo delight, scooping up a swath of saffron icing and sliding them into his mouth, giving him a taste.
she smiles at his, devastatingly beautiful, looks found either in ancient paintings behind a plexiglass shield, or the front page of pornhub under the title maybe just the tip, step bro. )
Then get on your knees and suck my clit, pretty boy.
( she encourages him, stepping back and hooking her thumb in his mouth instead, pressing him down, down. her free hand moves up the hem of her dress, bunched around her waist, flashing him what lacy nothings constitute a barely there pair of underwear. )