𝖘𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖘. (
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draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
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"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
network, un: dogowa
no subject
who says it's short for anything?
roleplay might work. are you believable? a good actor?
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( it's like isobel with a z. )
i'm a very good actor, but i can't be held responsible for any tenth-dimensional hell portals tossing me up on a slab might open up.
( because he literally does not have a virginal organ in him. )
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honestly that would probably be best case scenario. ( because he's the king of hell, and portals to hell are like nice little bus stops, conveniently laid out. getting a hell portal means getting the fuck out of dodge. but — it's not because he wants to kill him. clarification, ) i won't let anything happen to you, i mean. no worries.
say something virginal. or virtuous. or holy.
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( he's never dropped anything in his life. )
you ain't gonna kill me? ( that's less fun. ) i am a rose of sharon, a lily of the valleys.
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stands for lucifer
( not actually that hard to say, in the long run. humanity is a blip. if dad could reach him here, it's not like he'd come. )
um
( luci has met a lot of sacrifices in his day, most of them willing(ish) but none of them outright wanting to die. he probably has a baker's dozen in hell right now, kept on standby for when the going gets tough. all future corpses, probably, but that's the bargain they made. not often you meet some stranger who's hankering for death so badly, he isn't even willing to barter and sell it away. )
perfect. you'll work, lily.
no, i won't kill you.
( yet? yet. )
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lucifer lucifer or lucifer like you got your ass demolished by some guy who called himself god and decided you wanted a cool name too?
1/2
2/2
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the son must surpass the father. must try. the cosmos is always killing stars.
perhaps he should not trauma dump to strangers on the internet. he already promised he wouldn't kill him. deep breath. he's fine now. should not mention god if he doesn't want to get upset. his fault. )
good for you
( fuck you, he means. and your god. anyhoot. )
to answer your question, it doesn't matter. witches name their children lucifer all the time. it means mostly nothing.
no subject
just trying to figure out if i've fucked your daddy, no big deal.
( anyway, )
you still want this lily?
no subject
but a human? strange. luci has been presumptuous. )
are you an angel?
( if this is michael he's going to be so pissed fr )
no subject
( bedding god as something holy, sipping from the chalice of his righteous dick. the entity had called him ungovernable; john had called him kitten or cavalier. his daddy had called him nothing. what is he now? )
nah, i'm just a dog.
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( "blasphemous." teehee. )
okay. good.
still want you.
stop talking about fucking things, you're roleplaying a virgin.
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( mostly means nothing, mostly says nothing, except god is dead which is so bold and outrageous of a statement it had to have come from somewhere true, at least to him. it doesn't matter. danny's good at saying nothing, too. )
where do you want my unfucked virginal vessel?
no subject
except, he gets over it. swiftly. maybe he also doesn’t understand danny’s humor. maybe danny is a piece of shit. luci has known him as words on a screen for all of fifteen minutes, and even he knows about his death wish, a younger version of himself playing with fire. eventually, )
meet outside the maze, lily. bring walking shoes.
no subject
at the mouth of the maze, danny takes his place by lucifer's side and gnaws a crisp bite out of his shiny red apple. his eyes only twitch once, a blink-and-you-miss-it microscopic bow of his lashes that says i know what worship is but i ain't good at it. of course lucifer wears his face, or something uncannily similar to it. danny always imagined his hell would look exactly like his heaven used to: full of john, king of kings of naughty boys and butchers. )
You can kill me if you really want to, ( in lieu of a greeting, sweet little gaslighter, like it was luci's idea all along and not what gets danny hard. he chews the stem from his apple, spits it at luci's fallen feet boorishly. shrugs widely. ) I'll come back anyway.
( well. )
Probably.
no subject
leaning in, he ducks too close into danny's personal space, and sniffs him at the neck. )
You smell human.
( humans don't pop back up once you kill them. demons do. mint leaves do. angels do. god probably does. little boys? not so much. )
I don't want you dead. If you have to know, it's a waste of blood. ( donning an expression close to shy, he reaches a hand out to palm the back of danny's head comfortingly, a priest to a sinner's confession. he has soft, thick hair — a good contrast to the claw that suddenly juts out of lucifer's thumb, pressed up against danny's cheek. despite the sharpness of it, it's not at all a threat. luci looks at him almost affectionately, the corner of his mouth quirking. ) Be the virgin for me now, lily? You'll need to convince the dirt.
no subject
he pockets the apple, a huge browning chunk taken out of the center and all, as a snack for later, in case this escapade runs a little long and either of them gets peckish, beggars can't be choosers. the hand at his hair and face startles him into headlight stillness, chin tilted into luci's broad palm. you feel human, he almost counters pettily, but this cat catches danny by the tongue — or by the cheek, kitty-claw-out-of-nothing denting danny's skin bleached white.
danny's chin tilts higher, scoring luci's claw from cheek to chin to throat and little human pulse-point throbbing away. you can't give danny johnson something pointy and not expect him to impale himself on it, so that's what he does, leaning in until luci's needle pick of a talon spills first blood of the night, licked up into danny's collar.
just a bit, for the dopamine. )
You be the thorn, then. ( and he'll be the lily. danny slants him a lopsided grin, cheeky, boyish, bloody. ) Now lead me into temptation and deliver me to evil, Lucy with an I.
( or, you know, show him what to do. )
no subject
ordinarily, finding what people want most is part of the game for luci. everyone knows about the bargains, his manipulation, the way you can't blame literal satan for being a devil. in this particular case, knowing danny wants to bleed makes lucifer want to give it to him less — delayed gratification, for the boy with a death wish. edging. an interesting change of pace. )
I'm familiar with the role.
( a sluggish trail of blood spills from the cut in his neck, lucifer scooping it up on a scaley thumb and pulling back from him, looking at the blood closely. his hand goes back to normal, dark skin, thumb rubbing his life's blood against his first two fingers, looking for some invisible tell of magical success. after a beat, he pops his thumb in his mouth, rubbing danny's blood against his teeth. )
Are you really so dedicated to corruption? ( it had taken effort, but hadn't really been challenging to seduce eve to the fruit of knowledge. probably, that's the difference between her and danny — she still had a fisted grip on her own innocence, and willingly let it go for power. ) Most people worry after their immortal soul, and turn from the Devil. "They triumphed over him," — that's me — "by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; they did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death."
Neither do you, but for different reason. The only death to face is your own. A very interesting puzzle. ( he touches danny's neck again and heals the open wound with a wiggle of his fingers, wondering if that hurts more than the pain of penetration. this is an experiment in more ways than one. ) Follow close. We'll trick the sky, next.
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cw: incest, patricide
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cw: gross
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cw: past guro ref
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cw: questionable consent
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