"𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒" ▣ MAY TDM

[saltburnmods]

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

Comments

[nishtha]

Vampling earns an infinitesimal twitch in the corner of Armand's mouth, not quite a frown. He's used to hearing that kind of disrespect from mortals by now, courtesy of Mr Stoker and his ilk turning their stories into gothic romances and bawdy tales with far more success than his poor theatre troupe could ever have achieved, but it still grates on him.

"Five hundred years old," he offers freely, "by my last count, more or less. I have seen many mortals die in that time. Thousands. I've watched empires rise and fall. Surely you're not surprised that such a life could result in a certain.. distance."

[unconscionable]

"Yeah?" John grins, sharply wry. "Does it? Only if you're a pussy, I think. I mean, sure, at about the three hundred to five hundred mark it's probably easier to start pretending you're not human anymore. That you don't need to be sad for them because you're, like, better than them, right?"

With the obnoxious condescension of an adult speaking to a teenager who thinks they've seen everything, he stops touching Armand's chin and ruffles his hair a little. "You have to fight that, though. It's not good to lock yourself away." Paps his cheek gently, suddenly fond. Those horrible bright eyes remind him of Mercymorn — of Cristabel, who had turned passionately suicidal at five hundred, which kicked off the whole Lyctorhood thing.

[nishtha]

The condescending words are enough to make Armand's eyes first widen in shock, then narrow with distaste. He endures it, having endured far worse from less gentle hands, while training his gaze on the steady throb of John's pulse in his neck. The touch to the top of his head, to his cheek, is not so easy to ignore -- he starts, his eyes round with outrage, and snaps up a hand to grab John's wrist before he can pull his hand away.

"I do not need your advice, necromancer," he hisses, digging his thumb in hard against the collection of veins and fragile bones, feeling the stutter of his pulse. A small point to prove, against a creature who can stop death with a gesture, but Armand's pride is a thing made of jagged glass.

He sends a hook into John's mind, trawling for vulnerabilities. It's like sinking his fingers into oil-drenched sand, like tuning into queasy static on the radio. He can only get fragments, scraps of humanity floating in a tar pool of grief.

Armand's face changes; his grip slackens.

"What are you?" He repeats, now far more wary.

[unconscionable]

John has to admit, he probably deserves this reaction. Nobody likes to be treated like a kid; five hundred years is pretty respectable compared to anyone else. So he lets Armand do whatever he needs to do to feel assured.

"I'm a human. The question you're looking for is more like the shaky little how long have you been seventeen, right? I'm ten thousand and forty-two. The precision is important. There was a day and a year you were born into the world, just like every other kid in that big house."

Says the man who has forgotten his birthday. He's lecturing because it makes him feel good to pretend he knows what he's fucking doing, to be casual and patronising about the horror of simply living too, too long. His blood beats steady under Armand's fingers, an ancient vintage.

[nishtha]

Ten thousand and forty-two. An impossible number. Armand doesn't believe it at first -- but, what point would there be to lie here, of all places? What advantage would it win him, that specific number? Easy enough to lie about being one thousand or more. Ten? No, it's too ridiculous, too high. Unless it's true.

And if it's true --

Armand lets go of him, abruptly. A shiver of movement and he's moved back a few steps in the grass, though he suspects the distance is as meaningless to John as it is to himself. Then he sinks, abruptly, to both knees, and bows his head. Reeling, internally.

"Parce mihi domine, nihil enim sunt dies mei," he murmurs, Marius' voice intoning the words in his mind.

[unconscionable]

"Desino geniflucti," John says, closing the distance between them again. "Come on, get up. I'm not going to kill you." It's not some special privilege; maybe now Armand can see the benefits of having mercy on the cattle. "Especially not when that's the hottest thing you've done since we met." For all his sheepish refusal of this sudden worship, he does really like it. But he feels guilty when it's for real. Offers Armand a hand up that he probably doesn't need, his palm warm and a little work-rough.

[nishtha]

Understanding, from the position of coven leader, what it is to claim unworthy worship, Armand takes his hand -- but lightly, not really leaning on it. More to take it, and hold those warm blunt fingers in his, examining them as he straightens up once more. A human hand capable of doing the work of God. With a quick glance at his face, Armand turns John's hand over, smoothing his thumb across his palm, tracing the lines of it down to his wrist.

"I am but a child, in your eyes," he says, speaking carefully, working through it for himself. It's a strange experience for him, out on this strange lawn, with a party throbbing behind them. Calculating and wary, he meets John's eyes. "Careless, like a child, in my threats. I ask for your forgiveness nevertheless, Master."

[unconscionable]

"Sure," says John, just glad to be on the same page now. To be clear about which of them is scary — which of them is in control of this situation.

He's just as interested in Armand's hands, a little flirty still in how he plays their fingers together. They're cold: on a whim that is still lightly cruel, he flushes them with blood even though Armand claimed earlier he'd need to feed soon, and this likely expedites that timeline. But selfishly, John warms his hand to hold anyway. Wonders how much function he could bring back to the undead body, if he could get bone marrow providing blood cells. It hadn't worked with Eddie, but he hadn't had a lot of room to experiment.

"I prefer John," he says seriously. "Teacher, if you must. To be honest, I have a lot of annoying titles and I'm not looking to add Master."

[nishtha]

The interruption to the usual tidal surge of blood in Armand's veins is noticeable. His lips part as he draws in a breath, surprised and fascinated at the feeling of warmth flowing into his skin, his slow-beating heart speeding up a little to compensate for the loss.

"Teacher," he breathes. "Maestro." So he'd named Marius, centuries ago. He holds John's hand in both of his, thumbs over his wrist. The same sharp and perfect thumbnail that had pierced the girl's throat tilts and presses into John's skin, over the beat of his pulse. Armand holds his gaze steadily.

"And if I spilled your blood, Maestro? Would you rescue yourself?"

[unconscionable]

"Not really as a conscious choice," John admits. God, he finds he wants to try, though. Danny had torn his throat open and it had fixed itself up, but maybe Armand could do enough damage to really keep him gone a while.

But thinking about Danny means he has to acknowledge all the reasons he shouldn't do something like that, a speck of heat in the empty void. John shrugs a loose shoulder: "I'd prefer all my blood stay where it is right now, though, please. If you want to keep your pretty nails."

[nishtha]

Somewhere in the void-darkness of his mind, a sense of regret. Armand understands it. All immortal creatures feel it after enough time, a desire for quiet that lasts beyond a simple slumber. The call of the fire. He's felt it himself, in Rome after losing Marius, in the dank catacombs beneath Paris, during long haze-shrouded nights in Los Angeles. It's that understanding, and the memory of the slowly spinning sphere of blood, that keeps him from acting on his desires.

For now, at least.

Armand nods solemnly, folding one hand over the top of John's in silent benediction for a moment before he releases him.

"You're looking for someone," he hazards, better than a guess, searching the black pools of John's eyes with his own lambent gaze.

[unconscionable]

"Waiting," corrects John. He doesn't need to look. He'll know when House is here. "For my husband. If we were just in the Void, if this is another shared hallucination, he'd be here too."

He doesn't know what the point of telling Armand is, given it's not like he can help get House here.

[nishtha]

A simple answer, the kind of simplicity that's also beautiful, and that strikes a precise note of pure jealousy in Armand's heart, like the ringing of a glass before it shatters into pieces. His expression falters a little, brow furrowing, the boy showing through the mask of the immortal.

Nobody has ever waited for him.

He swallows and glances away for a moment, as if merely interested in the party going on beyond them.

"I hope that your loyalty is rewarded," he says, summoning the mask once more, looking back at John.

[unconscionable]

"Thanks," John says, looking back towards the party himself. His rakish decision go go conquer the maze is starting to appeal less, which means he's starting to sober up, which means he's going to turn and start heading back across the short-clipped grass to the lights. "Hey," he says, "Can you drink without killing someone?" Since Armand still needs blood. John won't offer his own, but he'll consider offering Danny.

[nishtha]

"I can," Armand replies, with an interested tilt of his head as he turns to follow along with John. His hands slide into the pockets of his trousers. "I'm not an animal who gets so lost in the blood that he cannot hold back when he needs to."

His gaze roves idly over John's profile, taking note of his individual features. Listening to the steady beat of his heart. What, he wonders, would make it race.

[unconscionable]

"Danny Johnson," John says as he ambles along, emphasising that last name very particularly. Offering up his darling boy so casually. "He'll enjoy it." And Danny loves to talk about how great and powerful his daddy is, which also works for him. "Easy blood if you want to stay under the radar."

[nishtha]

"Mm," Armand hums agreeably, with a thoughtful smile. The name spoken so easily, but with pride, a man relishing the chance to talk about his favoured boy. Danny Johnson is both sacrifice and champion, carrying John's name into the maw of a hungry vampire. A donation.

Fractured memory: had Marius ever spoken of him in the same way, to his clients and friends, with the same wistful note of fondness? No. Set it aside.

"I don't eat often. At my age, there is no need, unless I have been exerting myself. But when I feed, I prefer to hunt for it. It's a way we honor the blood. Tell me -- your misbegotten child, the proud son of your House but not your loins -- will he run for me?"

[unconscionable]

"He's more of a predator than prey," John admits with a shrug, because he isn't sure. Danny generally doesn't make him chase; he does what he's told. "His sister Jem would think that's the hottest thing in the world, though, so take your pick." A casual benevolence, partially some kink thing with the so-called kids and partially because he does feel a little concerned Armand's going to slaughter someone. It's reassuring that he doesn't often need to feed: that girl in the party had been a little show just for John. He can appreciate that. Maybe he's also showing off a little with these offers. Maybe it's also a snub. Here are my weaknesses; do your worst.

[nishtha]

Like a bared throat, head tilted to accept the bite. Armand is many things up to and including patient, cautious, thoughtful, but he can't deny the draw of it. Maybe it's an offer, or maybe it's a threat. John demonstrating his power by stretching out his hand, benevolent, telling him not to kneel. Giving him his children instead. No need to be concerned by another predator in his den.

"Perhaps I will take them both in front of you," he says, testing his theory with a glance aside at John. "Would you like that, Maestro? You can kiss the blood off their faces when I'm done with them."

[unconscionable]

John's dick twitches, reacting with bodily interest as he imagines that. Heartbeat quickened, just as Armand wanted, and it's not the pace of their walk.

"Bite them?" he asks lightly, "Or fuck them. No wrong answers, really. I like seeing my kids have a good time."

[nishtha]

It's a pleasant compliment. Armand doesn't hide the smile that spreads across his face, not entirely due to John's words. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, eyeing the dark edifice of the manor house and the flickering lights of the party. Music thumps and rattles from somewhere inside, unfamiliar modern songs.

"One, and then the other. They may choose the order." He turns his gaze back to John. "Do you enjoy watching them in such circumstances? Their tender father, eager to wet his fingers in their blood."

[unconscionable]

"They're not my kids by blood," John says, fairly certain Armand's established that but wanting to make it really clear it's not a shame point. "We were fucking before we were family." Jem, especially, is more his girlfriend than his daughter, but girlfriend as a category scares him so it's easier to lean on the kink stuff and the age gap.

Armand is probably just being melodramatic, though. "I just want them to have a good time," John says, lightly callous as to what Armand was. Those luminous orange eyes in the darkness... he stops again. Rewinds the conversation in his head, eyes narrowed, trying to decide if Armand is hitting on him.

[nishtha]

Truthfully, Armand may not have minded if they were. Five hundred years is plenty of time for perversions of the flesh, as much as he lives a quiet and relatively domestic life these days. He stops when John does, obedient, though there's a brief spark of mischief in his gaze.

"And what of you, beloved father? Master of Death?" He takes a slow, deliberate step closer. Lets the gift blossom between them, an enhancement of his words, making them seductive, ensorcelling. "Are you having a good time?"

[unconscionable]

He's so pretty it's unnerving, voice like honey, weaving through the endless voids of John that nobody's ever been able to fill. Beautiful serpent. But pretty flattery isn't what does it for John.

"Nope," he admits. Walked out to the maze, didn't make it all the way there. Full of Doritos and sadness. Sobering up. He stands there with his hip cocked a little, feet apart, gaze an infinite weight. "Maybe if you get back on your knees, Armand." Still mangling his name.

[nishtha]

"Is that how you take them, your beautiful children who enjoy being chased? On their knees?"

Moving forward, but under his own power, making his own choice. Arranging it, allowing the casual humiliation that isn't quite a humiliation. Like this, it feels like a gift being given, it's not quite so bad. Just the ghostly feeling of Marius' hand on his shoulder, the fractured memories, and he can ignore that. He sinks to his knees in the cool grass of the lawn, not quite as quickly and easily as he would do so for Louis.

He looks up at John, eyes wide.

"Tell me, if I bit your manhood off and swallowed it, would it regrow?"