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draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
Entry tags:
"๐๐๐๐" โฃ 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 โ 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 isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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. Itโs 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 โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt 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, youโll 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 heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt 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 doesnโt dissipate, though โ 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, itโs 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. Itโs 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 youโve 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, youโre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy โ this isnโt school, you arenโt 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, thatโs 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 youโve 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, youโre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy โ this isnโt school, you arenโt 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, thatโs 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ but did you find it a littleโฆ 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 didnโt 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 โ well, cake โ 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 โ but did you find it a littleโฆ 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 didnโt 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 โ well, cake โ 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
let them eat cake ;
all of this to say, when archie is done meandering around the grounds in lounge pants and a silk robe, he cleans up and dresses ridiculously for the themed party. his outfit ends up being a blend of blue and gold; familiar colors that curl his lips and remind him of home, even if those colors have dulled in his heart over the years. by the time the evening has truly gotten going, he's shed the jacket somewhere over the back of a chair and his sleeves are inappropriately rolled up, vest still intact with its intricate gold floral designs. if he ever had a wig, it's nowhere in sight now, though it's likely he rebelled against being so compliant to the dress code.
hunger drives him away from mingling and towards the over-the-top confectionary table, which had deterred his stomach earlier in the evening, if only because there had been enough of an obsession with the macabre in riverdale.
something โ someone โ else catches his eye. )
Betty.
( one word twinged with a dozen emotions - anguish, relief, affection, trepidation, a sprinkle of lust, and more. archie's brown eyes betray him, lay him out for the punishment of his crime, looking. not with an innocent glance but a heavy, treacherous, lingering and indulgent stare. clipped lace over her thigh, the squeeze of her bodice, the swell of breasts, the pink on her lips, in no particular order. a few moments can stretch into an eternity when permitted. he could lie about it, say he's just making sure everything's in its rightful place and a hair isn't misplaced on her crown, but beyond a surface worry that's quickly reassured, this isn't that. archie inhales and pulls his attention to the table and the spread before them. )
I'll take the heart. ( sentimental and grotesque in one go. he flases a sheepish enough grin, practically inviting her to carve into the body of cake before them to get a center piece. ) Unless you wanted it for yourself?
( his, maybe. he pointedly avoids betty's gaze as he grabs a champagne flute off a moving tray. )
( ooc: gestures vaguely somewhere at the S6 timeline, though i need a rewatch. )
what is riverdale timeline? she should also be season 6 oops
she sees him and feels herself pulled toward him, a moth to a flame that burns bright the color of the soft locks she wishes she could card her fingers through. he reminds her of home, of a home, dressed in bulldog blues and yellows -- ever rivervale's king. riverdale's too, once she remembered and before she was to forget. she wishes, wishes, wishes that the last memory she had of him wasn't on the floor: bleeding, bleeding, never bleeding out.
but it's the words that sting, that hurt. she swallows, looks at the cake and reaches for the knife to carve the chest before her open in a mockery of a ceremony he both survived and didn't after she'd feed him pie drugged and prepper for sacrifice. Cheryl would make a show of it, Betty is never as graceful even in her pettiness and in her wants. and she always wants him, even if he won't look at her -- won't really look.
the slice ends up on one plate with two forks before she turns to him, stepping close and her heart flutters in the way it always does as she takes the sight of him in; there's a fire in her gut, a sense of danger even as Archie avoids her gaze. ) That's a little morbid. Isn't it, Arch?
good point! and no worries.
Isn't all of this? ( he remarks plainly, casting his gaze out over the party. a chessboard where people can slap or kiss each other, though some of what he surveyed looked more like contact sports. the mad scramble for diamonds, bringing out the ugliness of competition in people, but mostly, yeah, the cake. )
I didn't mean anything by it. Not really. Just seemed like something I'd share with you if it was more cartoonishly decorated.
( meanings and his priorities drift when she's looking at him like that. as if there aren't people around and there isn't cake in her hands, and they aren't miles from home. )
Do you want to sit? ( or?, he doesn't ask. )
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the tightness in her chest squizes and then passes, loosens like she's letting out a breath of relief. she can see the strain in the corners of his eyes, the intention in the way he stands with shoulders broad and like her knight in shining armor. Betty doesn't need a night but she needs Archie Andrews.
the instinct to keep close returns, remains and fills her heart up as it beats in her chest. she holds the cake between them, glances down at it and makes sure the hold one the plate with one hand - thumb keeping two spoons in place. she reaches for his hand, fingers interlacing through his to tug him gently toward the arched doors that lead outside. ) The maze is more private. Come on?
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is the reality of this all distressing? yes, absolutely. is it the first time they've been plucked out of reality and into madness? not exactly. from clifford blossom being okay with shooting his own kid to the black hood, to honestly everything else, no stop gaps. he does have a difficult time digesting the terror, conceptualizing it with his actions when he has a genius in his company, regardless of whether betty is next to him or poured over a cork push pin board with red string. )
Yeah. Anywhere. You know that.
( but he takes her hand and then maybe her waist, encircling betty closer to him, as they enter the hedge maze. a peculiar choice, compared to their rooms, but not necessarily objectionable. )
Are we actually eating cake? ( god, he wants to feed her forkfuls. )
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( there's no pretending, just the two of them heading out into the fresh air.
i'm glad you're here, she wants to say. she will, later, but when the night has passed and she's dragged him to the bedroom she'd woken up in to bury underneath the safety of the weighted blankets. maybe then it'll all sink in, feel less like a fever dream. then again, when have they ever woken up from the horrors back home in their sleepy little town?
it's chillier outside and Betty leans into Archie; the dress barely covers her legs, the fabric sheer and does little for anything else. her nipples harden with the cold, goosebumps run up her arms. Archie, luckily, is a heater in his own right. there's a bench in the hedge maze, one tucked away in a corner that feels private with its tall columns and rose bushes towering near by. Betty turns to face him, tilts her head and there's a spark of mischief in her eyes that's saved for him. ) What else are you suggesting we do, Archie Andrews?
( she'll follow his lead. )
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( but it's amazing how the vest is coming off, how he's shrugging out of his dress shirt. how said dress shirt is about to be offered to her, draped over her shoulders, unless she stops him. his jacket is long gone, so there's no hope for that, but he can give this. he sits on the bench, albeit with the bench between his legs and one thigh on either side of the stone, which probably puts betty in a weird place. he isn't shy and he isn't timid in his feelings, in that ( if she's open to the boldness ), he will draw her into his lap, as much because he wants to as to keep her warm in the night chill. cake forgotten behind them or somehow, preserved in betty's hands all this time, either way. )
Just, uh. I want to kiss you.
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but that makes her pause even as she settles in front of him, mirror how he's sitting with his shirt over her shoulders and gaze tracing the lines of muscle up his stomach, his chest, up to his face. the cake rests between them now, plate forgotten, as she lifts her hands to cup his cheeks, traces her thumb over Archi's cheekbone with a wrinkle of worry between her brows.
she tries to read his face, tries to figure it out but worry seizes in her chest and she can't push it away and just say -- you can. ) Humor me for a moment, okay? Where are we from and what's the last thing you remember?
( and maybe that's not the strangest thing she could ask him, not when they've dealt with murder and cults and crazy nuns. )
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( forever. but since that feels like an out of place amendment, archie ducks his head. shirtless, cold in the heat of the night's events, chilled but not shivering, because he's thinking about her hands upon him. how she cradles his face, the way she grazes his cheekbones. )
You were coming over tonight, which is not specific? We were- maybe not living together, because I hadn't asked, exactly, I don't think? But- I wanted you to. I wanted you at my house all the time. After Polly, and your mom, and Veronica. ( because ronnie is a specific nickname. ) But whether you want to or not, that still matters.
Is this okay?
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she's still leaning into him, tilting his chin up and a little more insistent this time: ) And we're giving it a shot back home? In Rivervale...?
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rivervale, something that existed in his dreams, isn't a part of reality. he doesn't lean into betty, doesn't keep his lips a breath away from hers, though he wants to. )
In Riverdale. Betty? We're from Riverdale.
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she could tell him he's wrong, that that's not where she's from -- that it's not where he's from either. that they'd moved into together, he'd asked, and that they were ready to be husband and wife.
she kisses him instead, hands on Archie's face and determination that if she can close the gap, if they sweep this under the rug for just a moment maybe she can wake up in a familiar bed in his arms instead of in this strange place where a heart-shaped cake is melting between them. )
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archie smiles into her mouth and pulls her down, hard against his lap, licks into her mouth. ) I missed this.
( it's possible he's trying to do something about it with wandering fingers at the small of her back, looking for clasps. he's easily hindered, though. )
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his hands on her back have her arching forward before she sits back, reaching to catch his wrist to pull his hand from where it's fumbling. she guides it to her front, to her breast over the lace. the dress can be pulled down; the skirt pulled up. ) I'm all yours.
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archie knows how easy it is to get her nipple to harden, how they could probably get away with a lot before anyone stumbled on them and they wouldn't even have to take off all their clothes.
he hesitates with betty in his lap, in the maze on a bench, but not enough to put a stop to things. ) You have no idea how badly I want all of you.
( probably some idea since he lasted all of five minutes until he was touching her. )
Are you okay with that, out here?