"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

[ghostface]

( oh, that hit a nerve, didn't it? and danny wasn't even trying. yet? yet. )

just trying to figure out if i've fucked your daddy, no big deal.

( anyway, )

you still want this lily?

[pronounce]

( frankly, he wants him even more if god favors him, but that's neither here nor there. god killed his wife. revenge could feel good, if he's in the mood.

but a human? strange. luci has been presumptuous. )

are you an angel?

( if this is michael he's going to be so pissed fr )

[ghostface]

it'd be pretty blasphemous if i was, wouldn't it?

( 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.

[pronounce]

remember who you're talking to.

( "blasphemous." teehee. )

okay. good.
still want you.
stop talking about fucking things, you're roleplaying a virgin.

[ghostface]

isn't that still in character? ain't nothing hornier than a virgin.

[pronounce]

have you ever heard of edging?

[ghostface]

abstinence is just edging on steroids. is this critique coming from a directorial standpoint or a virgin standpoint? are you a virgin?

[pronounce]

yes, of course. there is nothing i respect more than old world morality regulations.

[ghostface]

yeah, that sounds like a witch's son to me.

( 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?

[pronounce]

( forgets to respond, for a little while. angry again — offended, really. no one understands his sense of humor, and now he’s insulted? he shouldn’t have promised not to kill him. bargains with the devil are notoriously difficult to break.

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.

[ghostface]

( do walking boots count? danny hopes so because he shows up looking like an extra from the craft or jd from heathers' less white, more murderous cousin, his wardrobe scavenged from several other wardrobes he'd raided across the mansion on arrival. to-do list, check as you go: serve cunt and grab an apple on your way out.

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.

[pronounce]

( by comparison, luci looks like a divorced father picking up kids who hate him from grade school, or adam sandler. basketball shorts and a too large shirt, stretched out at the collar. possibly stained with black ink, but being that the material is black, it's difficult to tell. tilting his head to look at danny, lucifer eyes him up and down, as if a will to live will just pop out of him somewhere, like a gopher wanting to get thwacked. surely there's some of it somewhere. no one who wants to die so much would still be alive. certainly no one in boots like that.

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.

[ghostface]

( human with a spicy little kick. if this guy won't kill him, danny will just find another. there's always another.

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. )

[pronounce]

( his tongue tuts. very naughty. ) Whoops. ( there's nothing much whoops about it. danny is more lamb than lily. lucifer is already positive it won't work — if god magic comes from a lack of sinning, danny has to be the most depleted person out here, other than the devil himself. he's a fucking liar, is what he is. an awful actor.

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.

[ghostface]

( oh, so he's a yapper.

with a face and voice like that, danny doesn't mind so much. minds even less when he scrubs his blood across his teeth like toothpaste and every ill-tempered instinct in danny wants to take him by his dark hair and lick it out again. is it a sin to want to shape out the mouth of the devil using his tongue, as a faithless servant to gods, plural intended? he wonders who luci tastes more: the entity or john. danny knows who he loved more.

it's a fantasy swiftly ruined by luci cottoning up his bloodied throat with what danny assumes must be magic, though maybe not the same magic john would've used. his mouth pulls down at the corners, sulky, gingerly probing his skin for a pinpoint scar. nothing. figures. maybe the only difference between god and the devil is the accent.

but luci says to follow close, so danny tags his heels when he asks, the cat's tail of his long coat swooping out behind him and bringing up the rear like a trysail. )

I've already been marked by a couple different beasts, so I ain't got much of an immortal soul left to save. ( had immortality in spades, though, once. twice, technically, if he considers the duchess' generosity an extension of what the entity gave him, her marker on his hand and her marker in his head, respectively. this is an experiment for him, too.

he swats away an encroaching branch from a bush less immaculately manicured than the others, ducks under another. )

Shouldn't you want that, anyway? I thought that was your whole deal, corrupting the innocent and making use out of the not-so-innocent. ( as they stride deeper into the dark, luci at the charge and danny behind him, he plucks a small leaf from luci's shiny curls and puts it on his tongue, swallowing it whole. ) Or is it not as fun 'cause I'm already all porked up and fat on ( cum, dick, pussy, ungodliness ) sin?

[pronounce]

( a couple different beasts has luci hemming and hawing, figuring that must be whatever he tasted in his blood. definitely something strange. demon maybe? no, he'd recognize that. some new product of god's? he glimpses back over his shoulder briefly, intrigued by the idea, except that he's jumping to conclusions again and has little to no basis for it. still and still. if humans were made in god's image, what image would a child who leans into a knife's blade be made from? me, lucifer thinks. is insulted. is briefly touched. remembers he's still assuming things. stops. )

Mm. Yeah. ( he looks forward again, wobbling his head. ) Well — no. Hm. ( shrugging his shoulders. ) My nature is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. Things just are. On occasion, they aren't. It's one of the two, so you're either right or wrong either way. So am I. So is anyone. There is a certain magic inside of sacrifice, which is really just suffering. You can't get anything off someone who wants to suffer, or likes to lose. It's paradoxical. If you don't have empathy for the Lamb, the blood means nothing.

( is that lily? at a certain point lucifer is more or less just talking his rambling thoughts out loud, rather than directing it at danny. sheepish again, he flashes a grin over his shoulder, every tooth outlined by danny's blood, red and vibrant. luci's blood doesn't look like that. he wasn't made in god's image. )

I forgot what we were talking about, but I'd never call you fat. I'm not rude, just evil. Can you come here? ( at the break in the center of the maze sits the domineering statue of the minotaur, and lucifer isn't necessarily sure why, but part of it feels alive. it's probably just big. he positions danny where he wants him, extending his arm in luci's direction, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket. ) Say a secret. Preferably a juicy one. ( while a reptilian claw juts from his thumb again, carving his arm in a straight line from elbow to wrist. not deep enough to bleed out, but a healthy bubbling of blood surfaces, picked up by luci's pointer finger. at the base of the statue, he starts drawing out archaic runes — sweeping, witchy lines.

and lucifer's back gets sticky and wet with his own blood, a byproduct of magic usage. soaked into his shirt it looks nothing more than wet, but does oddly glimmer in direct sunlight — the gilded morning star's angelic, magic blood, born from the stumps of two torn wings. )

cw: incest, patricide

[ghostface]

( danny figures that must be some kind of right, because isn't that what the entity wanted? suffering, but only delivered to her mouth drenched in fear, her favorite condiment. danny's not afraid to die, never has been. danny's afraid of never being able to die again.

the secret is a little harder — not because he has none, but because he has too many. danny thinks about it as he watches luci work. when i was seventeen, i killed my daddy is always a good one, a real killjoy at parties. i dream about fucking my daddy is, too, or the more recent i murdered my boyfriend. there's no winning in a game of horrifying secret chicken against danny johnson, usually, except when you're playing chicken against the literal devil. luci has shy eyes, but danny guesses it's an act. the king cobra doesn't need to prove that it's a fucking king to a rattlesnake; it just is.

blood rolls down his arm and siphons off his fingertips, hitting the pavement with a rhythmic plip in threes. his eyes jerk, following a shard of pink-orange evening sunlight onto the crown of luci's dark head. he's bleeding. has he been bleeding this whole time, on his back where danny couldn't see? is it the magic? does he sweat blood like john?

his blood-slippery fingers graze luci's collar, then the first few vertebrae of his spine. he smears his blood and luci's both into his gums, and says, monotonously, ) You look like my father.

( one of them, anyway. his secret. )

[pronounce]

( his brain snags, loose thread thoughts. mid motion, he feels danny's fingers on his neck, prickling all the way down his spine like a rankled kitten. he stiffens, then gets back to task. the runes glow in a faint reddish light, but it's small and slight and doesn't have much effect, causing a pout to mar luci's mouth, kissing his teeth. luckily, he's not too disappointed when he has a new thing to poke at, so he tilts his head up to danny, flashing another draconic smile. )

Handsome Devil, is he?

( this is devil dad humor. he invented the tight five.

in any case, danny looks like the kid with his hand in the cookie jar, a small dusting of gold on his cupid's bow. a lot of damage could be done with luci's blood, but he doesn't mind chaos, and isn't sure he intended to be anything other than curious, which lucifer potentially also invented. he was, at least, a trailblazer. lines get blurred. he tuts his tongue, lifting his finger still partly coated in danny's blood, and wags it at him. )

You shouldn't have done that. ( not entirely sure why. can't remember. he'll probably have hellish nightmares tonight, or accidentally light something on fire with a thought. lucifer stands up, dusting off his knees, smudging blood on his shorts. ) If a man meets the Leviathan in a field, and drinks of the Devil's cup without first knowing the consequences, would you say that man is a smart man?

( almost professorially, luci tucks his hands behind his back and starts to circle danny and the minotaur both, though one has his attention a bit more than the other. )

[ghostface]

( danny doesn't feel any different. mostly he just feels hungry, and he thinks about that apple still in his pocket, browning away. he hooks his fingers into his cheek like he's bridling a horse, forking luci's blood deeper into his soft palate, all spite and curiosity and the not-dead-yet cat. his teeth scrape his knuckles clean. he wants seconds. )

I'd say that man is human, ( unhesitating, decisively. then, more thoughtfully: ) You taste kinda syrupy.

( like something he'd want in his mouth regularly, over pancakes, hold the whipped cream.

his eyes skim the sky, watching for hell portals or tentacles or twin black holes set in the face of a man-who-is-not-a-man. house was right about one thing: hope is a dead, rotten thing. no one's coming for him. here's where the sadness would go, if danny could feel anything. mostly he just feels hungry.

he looks at the minotaur's monster cock and debates putting that in his mouth, too. then he looks at luci, pacing prim circles around the statue and danny. )

— Ain't shit, huh?

( which could be a sorry or a i guess i can't play the virgin after all, if you squint. )

[pronounce]

Hu-man.

( he says, drawing out the word. tasting it on his tongue. tumultuous relationship, between he and humans — each a byproduct of their father's creativity, siblings in a certain light. in some ways, he's been jealous. in others, enamored. pitying, sometimes. and humans think they made the whole spectrum of emotions, simply because they've never borne witness to an angel feeling the entire rung of feeling all at once.

it's what he sees when he looks at danny — brother and son. it is very human. it's also what lucifer might do, if he was curious enough, possibly because he's the most human of all the angels, which is why he fell. he nods his approval, as if to say point to lily. )

I don't give up so easily. ( the spell didn't work, but that's certainly never stopped luci before. it took inspiration to get out of heaven the first time. ) And thank you, about my blood. It pleases me to receive compliments. You can have some more, if you like. I'm curious about what it would do to you, but not enough to insist.

( he pulls off his shirt from a collar grip at the back of his neck, a hard yank to get rid of the sticking from already dried wet. there are two gorges in his back — even lines even spaced apart with no real mystery to them, given the tufted bits of patchy, fluffily white feathers poking out on either side. his blood is so gold it's almost powder, almost glitter, almost liberace inspired. the only thing missing is the piano. )

[ghostface]

( certainly this is not so unlike eve and the apple, though danny's already got an apple. maybe the tree of knowledge was just lucifer's bare back, tufted feathers like beckoning branches tempting anyone with eyes to come closer and take a little lick of his gold tinsel tree sap. yes, he wants more. what starved child wouldn't? not for the first time, he wonders: who put the snake in the fucking tree? the snake is just a snake. god is god.

he'd never gotten around to asking john. maybe he'll ask luci later, if he remembers. there's only one right answer, anyway. )

You're pretty, ( isn't a sufficient enough compliment for what he's looking at, but it's what comes out of danny's gold-glossy mouth, dull and wondering. it's something you'd say to a girl when you've got your face between her thighs, mumbled around her pink cunt. danny's good at making cunts out of nothing, so he'll pretend that's what the gouges in luci's back are, cunts for his tongue.

danny's a leggy menace of a brick shithouse in all black, but he's cat-quiet as he steps behind luci, taking stock of what he's been given. should he bow his head and say grace? maybe not. his fingers touch his middle spine first and irreverently play this little piggy went to market with each vertebra, painting lines on luci's back in danny's own sticky, red blood — two dots and a lazy swoop, a little smiley-face between his would-be wings.

he licks his nape, then a feather. then he goes right for the source, dipping his tongue in one waiting well, this injury-turned-cunt, this little piggy had blood and blood and blood. )

[pronounce]

( he preens anyway, a pleased smile curving up his mouth awhile danny's mouth descends, face tilted upwards to the broken sunlight, remembering cloud-dancing days, basking in god's warm light. heaven was never a terrible place to be, as much as a big house with comfy beds and handsome boys isn't a terrible place to be. it's the locks on the doors that make it a pain. say whatever you can about hell, there are always cracks to slither through, to free yourself, if one suffers enough.

unused to this particular form of worship, he hums, deciding he likes the attention. the ache of stolen wings never leaves, never seals or scabs over, but if there's one thing luci is desensitized to, it's pain. he decides it kind of tickles, danny's warm, wet tongue. inside him, really. what a silly thought. )

Hm. ( his back muscles twitch, an unfinished muscle and bit of cartilage moving under his missing wing, a broken bit of wingbone jutting through the slice of his back, bumping danny's tongue. cutting it on the sharp edge. ) You're pretty. To the point of distraction.

( nice to know he thinks his father is so pretty — mouth in your back, tonguefucking your wounds pretty. luci laughs, reaching a hand around to find danny's, giving it a squeeze. )

Will I ever know your name, or are you forevermore a lily to me?

cw: gross

[ghostface]

( there's that first thorn, broken bird bone wings pricking danny like something alive and summoning a hot gush of blood onto his tongue that he spits into one of luci's holes. he knuckles the glob of blood and saliva deeper into him, past his severed flesh into his wet meat, and cuts himself again, right on his ring finger. oh, if he lifted his chin a little, put his cheek against luci's spine, and waited patiently like a good little boy, he could just bleed the fuck out in short order. you can't make broken little boys whole again, no matter how much you feed them. you can't give danny something sharp.

he puts his mouth over luci's jagged wingbone and sucks like he'd suck on a fat cockhead, trading cum for marrow. when he moans, it comes out garbled, muffled into luci's hollow parts, his tongue full and blood-boarded, his little human face cunt-slick. he knocks his chubby dick against luci's hip — flinches, as luci takes his hand. don't, he nearly says. i'm not made for things like that.

his hand turns under luci's fingers and cinches, dragging him by the wrist between his thighs, making him palm his own dick through his basketball shorts. does the devil get hard? )

You make deals, right? ( or is that like an underling's job? making deals for the devil? danny never claimed to be an expert in this shit. either way, sluggishly, talking with his mouth full: ) Get me a knife, a real knife and not, like, a fuckin' steak or butter knife. I'll give you my name for a knife.

( a trade. he's made this trade before. it was a good trade then, and it's a good trade now. )

[pronounce]

( it's strange, to be effectively eaten by someone with blunt teeth, blood in their veins. lucifer has an out of body moment when he tries to remember how he got here, on the outside of this moment and looking in, to danny cradled between his pointy shoulder blades, lips wrapped around what should be his greatest shame, and yet isn't. it's not unflattering — jesus gave his body and blood to his disciplines on the eve of his death and judas' betrayal, and lucifer doesn't mind the literary implications of it, blessing danny's tongue with sacrament, a ritual in the making. well, depending on what it does to him, obviously. it has every possibility to be cataclysmic. luckily not for luci — you can't kill the devil by drinking him dry. he's not sure you can kill the devil at all, or else god surely would've done it by now.

still somewhat outside of the moment, he looks down at danny's hand covering his, covering his cock. the devil does get hard. the devil is hard, surprisingly enough. it tents through his shorts proudly, but still looks stupid, cockhead cradled in the palm of his hand, as if to push it back inside himself. not quite sure how the anatomy works — it's like he's never touched his dick before, and doesn't know how to do it. another thing he forgot? )

I make deals.

( he stirs, falling back into himself, shoulders rolling back to test the new spaces danny has made in him, new places knitting themselves back together. he turns, occupying a single step between danny's feet, hip checking his dick, before pulling back and away, to face him, discerning. knives, or any weapon really, is a gamble. anything with luci's power in it could be used to manipulate him. a blade has the potential to hurt him. it's a bad trade. and yet.

crossing his arms, he leans back against the minotaur statue, smudging their blood on its feet. he nods once, considering. )

My deals are notoriously difficult to break. ( thoughtful, he looks up, sees the minotaur's fat nutsack over his head and frowns, looking back down. his own nutsack is somewhere under his hard dick. it all feels very primal. ) Lily wants a knife. ( he wavers on that, head tilting back and forth in thought. after a beat, he snaps his fingers, conclusively. ) A knife crafted by the Devil's hand in exchange for your name, and a favor of my choice at a future date. For this, I will bargain — final offer.

( luci spits in his palm almost childishly, before extending his hand for a shake, brows lifted at danny to do the same. he says final offer but it never is — though usually times are a lot more desperate than this, and everyone makes demands for a whole lot more. really, this is almost pleasant, and therefore quite novel. )

[ghostface]

( the devil does get hard, but he doesn't get — what? interested? that can't be it, or he wouldn't be hard. under the last bloody gasp of a fading daylight, danny sizes luci up with the information he's learned in the past half hour, trying to blunt-force misshapen jigsaw pieces together into one easily digestible whole. it feels like an especially bad omen to be making a deal with the devil at sunset in the center of a strange maze, blood spilled in ritual sacrifice. if it's not a bad omen in this universe, then surely it is somewhere else. danny knows there are bigger things than god (his god) and God (his God) and the devil. danny knows they're always listening.

the puzzle so far: the devil does get hard, the devil has shy eyes, the devil will fill your mouth until your cup runneth over but he won't touch your dick back. because danny was only raised busted as fuck and not ill-mannered, he wipes his messy mouth onto his sleeve, gold smearing like shimmering paint over stark black. he spits in his hand back and gives luci's hand a gentlemanly shake, one and done, before he lets go, staring at the sticky leftovers on his palm. then, after zero deliberation: kitten-licks their spit cocktail from his fingertips.

tastes like the rest of him, syrupy. the puzzle so far, addendum: the devil tastes like maple syrup, but like, the good shit you bottle yourself or buy at some cutesy farmer's market, not the shit from safeway. )

Okay, ( and a pause, while he waits for the sky to crack open, the entity carried in on a bolt of lightning like some war of the worlds shit. nothing, so: ) Deal.

( his name and a favor in exchange for a knife, that's more than fair. danny's still made worse deals, and lucifer has probably never made an easier one. that makes them some kind of even. )