"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

2

[break]

[ Daniel's kinda been following this guy around the party; not creepily, not lurking directly in corridors outside his bathroom breaks, he just thinks Matt interesting stuff to say, so whenever he's chatting in a group Daniel joins that one too. Wanders over to the same dessert table, listening with - well, an interest that would once have been a lot more sceptical - to whatever Matt has to say about esoteric principles and fae rules and his opinions on this place in general. He's young, but so's fucking everyobe here, and he has an energy Daniel's drawn to.

Occasionally he engages, some barb or another, but only ever as part of a group conversation. Daniel's most distinctive feature, aside from his sarcasm, is that he's older than a lot of people here, but not everyone, given the patriarch of the household is about his age and his chums are likely mingling.

This idle socializing means he's right there and watching when Matt suddenly starts to splutter. Daniel catches on immediately — nearly did the same thing himself an hour earlier, even if he isn't playing the diamond game — and he immediately slaps Matt hard between the shoulder blades, putting another hand on his chest to make sure that smack, and the next, don't send him flying into the cake. ]

That's it, cough it up.

[ He'll bend Matt forward a little if he has to, shocking confidence as he hits him until the diamond makes itself known again. ]

[semicharmed]

[ Matt hates to be suspicious. But he does sort of wonder about Daniel.

He's not exactly the "don't trust anyone over 30" type, but in this crowd, Daniel's age makes him stick out. Is he one of their hosts, sent to mingle with the captive audience? It's the sarcasm that puts Matt at ease more than anything else. There's an outsider quality to it. Matt can't say exactly what it is that makes him think that; all he knows is it's not a quality he associates with cotillion parents or the Jamisons' asshole friends.

He's right on the verge of saying something to him--possibly an inquiry about whether he recognizes the second cake to the right, or possibly a more conventional "I'm Matt"--when he takes that ill-fated swig and something lodges in his throat.

Matt tries to say I can't talk, which goes about as well as one might expect. Fortunately, Daniel seems to understand. It feels like there's no hesitation at all between the moment Matt realizes he's choking and the moment that Daniel just--

Whacks the shit out of him.

It'd be enough to stun him under normal circumstances. Like, have older men hit him with this level of confidence before? For sure. The context is usually a little more fun, however. Matt bends, not sure whether he's angling down of his own accord or if the other man's moving him, and thank God/Kali/Aphrodite, the diamond pops free. It sparkles through the air and skitters under the table, leaving Matt gasping. ]

[break]

[ Daniel ignores the glittering rock for the moment — let someone else chase it if they want it — and focuses instead on fumbling for someone else's half-empty water glass with a shaky hand and lifting it up in offer. The other is still on Matt's back in between his shoulderblades, soothing little circles over the heat that might later bruise. ]

Choking's pretty much the most embarrassing way you can die. You good? Didn't cut your throat?

[semicharmed]

[ A glass appears before him, and Matt takes it gratefully. (His original drink flew from his hand at the same time as the diamond flew from his mouth, and is currently rolling to a stop under the table.) He drinks, becoming cognizant as he does of Daniel’s gentle, repetitive touch. The contact soothes some of the tension out of his shoulders. From there, he breathes out on a long, soft sigh.

And his gaze slides sideways to Daniel. Watery, but amused. Choking really is an embarrassing way to die. ]

I don’t think I got cut, [ he confirms. ] I’m okay.

[ After a beat, a hoarse laugh. ] God, thank you. I know they’re doing this scavenger hunt thing— [ The fingers of his free hand flutter dismissively. ] —but I figured it’d be, uh. Optional.

[ He takes another sip of water. Come to think, most everything around here is some form of mandatory. ]

[break]

Yeah. No. You're here, so you're playing their game. Gimme a sec.

[ No more warm touch. He's changed his mind about the diamond, ducks under the table and gropes around to find it - nearly gets his hand skewered by a stiletto - before finally straightening again with a pained groan at the creak of old bones. The spit slick little gem brandished between two fingers. ]

There. This one almost killed you, which is a cheaper price than most people pay for diamond.

[ He hands it over, since Matt did find it. ]

[semicharmed]

[ Despite the alcohol heating his belly and loosening his limbs, Matt feels a cold plunge of dread. He's been musing about curses and the rules of magical captivity since he got here, but that just put an intellectual distance between himself and the immovable truth. One that falls hopelessly away as soon as Daniel says playing their game. By the time Matt manages to protest--"Really, don't worry about it"--Daniel is already on his knees, dodging a gaggle of party-goers as they slice into the cake. He comes back up with the diamond. Holds it out.

I don't want it, Matt wants to say. Except he thinks if he starts saying it, he won't be able to stop. I don't want this party, I don't want this house, I don't want this suit and this fucking tie--

He's gotta keep calm. After all, he's a witch, with vast and spooky powers that terrify polite society. These people should be scared of him.

... Even in his head, it doesn't sound convincing. He reaches to pluck the diamond from Daniel's fingers. ]

Not exactly conflict free, [ Matt notes dryly. He regards the older man with a searching expression, deciding after a moment, ] I think I'd like a little fresh air, actually. If you wanna join ...?

[break]

Sure.

[ Daniel can't deny it'll be a relief to get a break from this environment; he's lucky the music hasn't given him a goddamn migraine so far.

He peels a large glass bottle of sparkling water off one of the tables like it's champagne. Waits until they've pushed awkwardly through the crowd and onto the long empty balcony to talk again, wandering down the length of it to the stairs, bottle tight in both hands because they can't be trusted with glass. ]

It's really the diamonds more than anything. The wilful obliviousness it takes to throw them around like bread crumbs. It's worse than if they just shot bills out of canons.

[ His tone is light, even if his words are bitter; nothing rich people do will ever surprise him anymore, and he knows there's no point wasting his anger. It's just a brittle observation. When they reach the stairs, he doesn't walk down onto the lawn but eases himself down onto them to sit. ]

[semicharmed]

[ All parties, even the most enjoyable, are a countdown until Matt sneaks off somewhere for a breather. Either alone or with company. And while he's not sure this is the most stressful party he's ever been to, that's only because he hasn't yet heard any screaming fights. So his relief as they break into the night air is like the kind that comes from surfacing from underwater. ]

The diamonds are a symptom of a deeper malaise, [ Matt says mordantly. Quietly appreciative for the "bread crumbs" turn of phrase. ] But it's true ... they're awfully flashy.

[ He half-extends a hand as Daniel starts to sink down, then second-guesses. Maybe it'd come off patronizing? In the end, he simply drops onto the stairs beside him, landing in an easy sprawl. The water scarcely sloshes in his glass. ]

I'm Matt, by the way, [ he says. ] I don't know if I got around to mentioning.

What game do you think this is?

[break]

Exploitation. Wealthy people don't just open up their homes and spend their money unless they think they're getting something out of it.

[ He puts the glass bottle carefully down on the step between his thighs, and then opens it; carbon hisses as the seal cracks. ]

Are we charity cases? Temporary entertainment? Are the cakes symbolic of their plans to fatten us up for literal slaughter?

[ There's a metaphor here, something bringing the breadcrumbs together with Hansel and Gretel, bread and circuses, but he'd need his laptop or notepad to really tease it out and he's too carried away on his topic to think about how he should be getting this down. Carried away enough he hasn't even offered his own name in return — he'll get there. ]

[semicharmed]

God, the cakes, [ Matt grouses. He does notice that the other man doesn't share his own name, but thinks fleetingly that he might not trust the random strangers he's encountered in these halls. Fair enough. Besides which, Matt's quickly distracted by the hypotheticals. ]

Honestly, that all sounds plausible to me. [ He takes another sip of water. His throat nearly feels normal again. ] Doable, at least. I haven't seen that much by way of weaponry, but maybe the most dangerous game is a bring-your-own-weapons scenario.

[break]

Hope you've got some weapons in mind, then. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but I don't really feel like testing that out.

[ He leans over, and now he offers a hand, casual but polite. ]

Daniel Molloy. Investigative journalist.

[ See, he got there! He just wanted to be snarky first. Sometimes his introduction ends conversations, especially at parties like this one. ]

[semicharmed]

[ Matt's eyebrows arch--intrigued by the given occupation, not at all put off. For a moment, he nourishes the hope that Daniel is here on purpose, infiltrating. Capable of dispensing clues and ushering them towards the exits.

Though context clues indicate that's probably not the case. ]

Nice to meet you. [ Matt takes his hand and shakes. His own grip is sure, fluid, of a perfectly polite duration. He seems to know when Daniel's going to start pulling back, and matches him. ] In terms of weapons ... [ An apologetic grimace. ] I tend to think of myself as more of a lover than a fighter, but I guess needs must. I'll brainstorm.

[ Wards might be a good start, he's good at those. But he's not sure who around here he can trust with the knowledge of his capabilities. Although now that he thinks about it, maybe their hosts already know. Maybe his powers are the reason they've recruited him into whatever this is.

Feeling stifled, Matt realizes: why the fuck is he even still wearing this tie? He reaches up to start loosening it. ]

[break]

[ Daniel watches this, briefly, gaze lingering a second before he decides to take a drink of his pilfered sparkling water. It's awkward, lifting the glass bottle with both hands again, concentrating on not trembling or slipping so he can take some long mouthfuls. Pretend it's something stronger. Put the bottle down again carefully. Time was he would have done that one-handed without a second thought. ]

I'm told I'm a great sounding board.

[ If he wants to brainstorm aloud. Daniel looks out into the darkness, across the violent ecological nightmare of the empty lawns. ]

Though if it goes that way you'll need to be good. Really good. I know a guy staying here who'd make Ghengis Khan look like a kitten.

[semicharmed]

[ For a moment, Matt's brows climb again, puzzled. ] In the sense of--

[ Then: realization. He laughs. ]

Oh my God. [ One-handed, he unloops the knot of his tie and casts the thing down, ultra-normative Christmas cheer and all. Flicks open the top button of his shirt and shoots Daniel a lopsided smile. ] Well, it's not a competition, is it? More of a collaboration. Or a conversation. Pas-de-deux or trois ...

[ Matt takes one last drink from his glass, draining it. He offers it to Daniel. ]

If you don't mind sharing germs.

[break]

More like Folie á deux in this place.

[ New York accent painfully mangling the French as he watches the garish tie sail away. He takes the glass, a little touched for a bevy of complicated reasons. Slides it across the stair, tops it up and puts the bottle aside. Matt doesn't say anything about his struggles with manual dexterity, and neither does Daniel, aside from: ]

Thanks.

[ Flat. Meaning it. ]

I get it, you're talking us versus them. I'm thinking us versus us. People will do a lot of crazy things for a diamond.

[semicharmed]

[ Matt huffs, amused and approving, before "us versus us" gets him looking a little sheepish. He should've thought of that. But he's not surprised that he didn't. ]

Right. [ It's not that his mother wouldn't do crazy things for diamonds, especially not prestigious ones. But she's more into charm offensives and legal maneuvers. The publicness of this place, the nakedness of its largesse, would make her eyes roll. ] Well, maybe that's part of the point for our hosts. They get to feel charitable, all while their worst stereotypes about the grasping underclasses get confirmed.

[ Matt frowns. "A good sounding board," Daniel says. Part of Matt wants to take him up on it. He's just not sure. ]

[break]

Yeah.

[ There's not really any point speculating further. Though he's still thinking about Louis telling him not to eat the cake.

He takes a drink from their now shared glass unflinchingly, passes it back. ]

You sound like you've got some familiarity with that kind of thing. Spend a lot of time at parties like these?

[ He'd seemed competent at navigating them earlier, his smalltalk what drew Daniel in, but the tossing of the tie speaks to some ennui. However much or little Matt wants to tell him is fine; Daniel just likes listening to people talk about themselves. ]

[semicharmed]

[ Matt takes the glass, pulling a face. He's disappointed in himself for being so immediately clockable. Once a trust fund baby, always a trust fund baby, he supposes. ]

I did my time, yeah. [ He sips. ] My parents threw a lot of dinner parties when we were kids. Still do, I'm sure.

[ With one more sip, he hands the glass back. His jacket, too, has started to feel stifling. Matt peels it off, leaving him in waistcoat and button-up. His sleeves are already rolled past the elbow, his one small act of rebellion against the evening's dress code. ]

What about you? You said you're an investigative journalist. Do you have an area of focus? Corporate corruption, the environment, those complicated human interest pieces where everybody picks a side ...?

[break]

Whatever paid the bills. Hard to separate it out — in the nineties, if you wrote about corporate corruption you were writing about the environment. Oil spills, acid rain, deforestation.

[ He counts them out on his fingers, sounding emphatically disgusted by them all, but then gives a self-deprecating wave of that same hand as if to dismiss the passions of youth. ]

Two thousands I became all about intelligence. CIA scandals. Russian hackers. Snowden. Facebook selling your data.

[ He leans back on an elbow, lets himself cast a professional eye over Matt's lanky frame (and that's all it is, right, a lifelong fascination with people, regardless of how many clothes they have on or how nice their forearms are, their wrists.) ]

Assuming mommy and daddy aren't feeding you at parties anymore, what do you do? My guess is... something in academics.

[semicharmed]

[ Matt's got an expressive bearing, a quality that lives partly in his face and the rest in his posture, his limbs. How his fingers move. Right now, they trail absently over the step they're sitting on, exploring its textures. Matt's intrigued by the environmental angle over intelligence, though he listens attentively to the full explanation. It's true, everything is interconnected. Data and technology come back to the environment too, eventually--just look at crypto.

Luckily for Daniel, Matt isn't the best at noticing when other people are checking him out. At the (correct) guess, he laughs softly. Shoots Daniel a look, somewhere between ruffled and amused. (The phrase mommy and daddy comes the closest to genuinely needling him, but he's been drinking a little too much for it to really sting.) His fingers' lazing loops turn staccato, striking up a tap, tap, tap. ]

Grad school. For urban planning. I'm starting this fall. [ His eyes narrow in suspicion, lips quirking crookedly. ] What gave it away?

[break]

Mostly listening to you explaining concepts from theological philosophy to drunk people. You're young, you're smart, and you're out here with an old man instead of in there chasing more diamonds. Gotta be a book guy.

[ Sometimes he feels a bit like Poirot overexplaining in the final chapter, a magician showing the cards up his sleeve. It's his job to figure things out about people, to read them in the moment, get a good gut read. Having to pick apart why he made that call is a little awkward but he still respectfully does it. Fortunately it's nothing too sharp. He could have just directly called Matt a nerd and been done. ]

[semicharmed]

[ Revealing the trick is supposed to ruin it, but not for Matt. He seems relieved, like maybe he was expecting Daniel to tell him that some mask had slipped. The set of his shoulders eases, and his half-grimacing smile resolves into a small grin. ]

Guilty as charged, [ he allows. ] Though after that one diamond almost killed me, I think staying out here with the guy who saved my life is the rational choice.

[ A pause, as Matt reaches for the water bottle to top off the glass. ]

Okay, I hear it.

[break]

[ Daniel gives an amused little huff, one eyebrow raised, face creased with a kind of fond judgement. ]

Yeah.

[ It's hearable.

Not that he particularly minds it. ]

Don't get self-conscious on me. I am, as the kids say, here for it. Tell me all about urban planning. You like Jane Jacobs?

[semicharmed]

[ Matt's surprised into a laugh that verges on a giggle. Not the suavest or masc-est of his natural laughs, but what can you do. He sets the bottle down, picks up the glass, sips. ]

Obviously Jane Jacobs, she's the original. For recent stuff, Janette Sadik-Khan--she used to be the transportation commissioner in New York, she wrote "Streetfight."

Of course, I'm just starting out. I'm sure after my first semester I'll have a way longer list.

[ Assuming he can make it past the front gate of this place, of course. Amazing that just yesterday, his biggest problem was student loans.

Matt offers Daniel the glass. ]

[break]

[ Daniel takes it — carefully, always carefully, there's no physical motion he doesn't have to reckon with in the doing. His hands shake, but he doesn't spill as he sips. ]

Don't get bogged down in theory and lose your voice, though. If you're getting into this because you've got ideas, visions - write those down early, stay true to them. I still come back to my early work, even if it's painfully bad.

[ Another sip. Sparkling water still feels hedonistic even though he has a dusty sodastream on a shelf in his kitchen. Something about this, the passing back and forth, feels like the camaraderie of a bottle even if his BAC is zero. It's nice. ]

Sorry, sorry. The problem with getting old is you try and make all your experience meaningful by turning it into unwanted advice. I haven't even done postgrad, my Masters was honorary, what do I know, huh?