"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]

( 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. )

[pronounce]

( there's a marketable arch to luci's brow, watching danny lap at his fingers, that almost makes him smile as if endeared by what a little freak he is. there's some perverse satisfaction in knowing danny apparently likes having bits and pieces of luci trapped inside him — either that, or he is uncannily interested in bodily fluids, whatever the form. short of finding a place to piss just to see if danny will offer being his receptacle, he's not sure how to figure it out, not sure it's actually important beyond his own meddling curiosity that largely only ever works to get him in trouble. he follows suit in the effort of camaraderie, or just endless interest, lapping at their spit. it tastes like spit on his end — blood on danny's.

with little else to do with a handful of spit, luci reaches into his pants and wipes it on his hard cock, like a tool for later. it gets tucked up into his waistband, cockhead playing peekaboo with this elastic before pulling his shirt on over it. he straightens up with a crack of his neck to either side, the rush of a freshly sealed bargain putting a little pep in his step as he takes the lead in walking through the maze, gesturing at danny to follow. )

I'll need to know more about you, to make a weapon that suits. ( he relishes the idea — it's been awhile. he also forgot how he got into the maze, so they're likely to get lost walking through it. over his shoulder, ) What's your favorite color? ( eyeing him up and down, ) Is it black?

[ghostface]

( luci starts confidently strutting in a random direction danny assumes that he must assume is the exit. before he follows in quiet step behind him, he glances up at the twilight sky one last time, wistfully scanning for anomalies. john had told him once that he'd always come for him, but that was before he'd left and house had gone with him shortly after, promising to return once he'd fetched danny and jem's misplaced daddy as if he was an old man lost and confused in the woods instead of just gone the way danny knew he was. gone out for milk and cigarettes and never came back, an unsolved mystery made for public television. his kids left behind like all his other clothes and belongings, abandoned to the miserable rot of aging.

in their absence, he'd felt fourteen and insufferably angsty again, wondering why his daddy wasn't like little billy's daddy down the road, passing out i love yous in public and juiceboxes at hockey games. in retrospect, little billy had been a smug fucking cunt. little billy got a hockey stick to the fucking throat, and danny got a juicebox and blood on his jersey and his daddy's hand palming the back of his head on the car ride home.

again, nothing. again, no one's coming for him. danny shadows luci's shoulder and thinks about anything other than daddies, like luci's chubby dick still tucked in the waistband of his trousers. he wonders if luci needs to piss. )

Gold, ( cheeky. ) Nah, it's black, you're right. Lucky guess, ( cheekier. his pace hitches as he jogs a little to catch up with him, perfectly aware that they're going in one big circle and perfectly content not to mention it. less cheeky, more nonchalant: ) Hey, do you want your dick sucked?

( or a receptacle to piss in. )

[pronounce]

( he stops at a dead end, hands on his hips, staring at the blank hedge wall with knotted brows, wondering if a green witch, ( if a certain green witch ) is here and managed to clog up the exit in order to enact a little mischief. it can't put the lure of punishment outside of any witch's grasp, and they're all tricksters, so it's not impossible. he probably would've sensed that though, unless he happened to be distracted with someone sucking the marrow out of his shattered wing bones, which he was, so. he's either trapped or lost, is or isn't. as with everything.

looking back at danny, he offers him a considering look, eyeing him head to toe, and then looking back at his own groin, as if surprised he noticed his hard on. embarrassed, a hand rubs the back of his head, frowny mouth pouting to one side. )

I don't really, ( engage with or sex up or bonk or ) masturbate with humans. You're very breakable. ( he has the urge to affectionately ruffle up danny's hair, but get the impression the action would be more mockery than comfort. luci offers him a smile instead, shyly. ) You're pretty. I'd sooner break a painting.

( which he has done, lit fire to god's precious landscapes and hopeful art pieces, so it's a moot point not that danny would know that. still, caving to danny seems the wrong choice, and lucifer has a stubborn will when he wants one. stepping past him, he talks over his shoulder, ) Besides, didn't you say I look like your father?

( he manages a few more steps before stopping in his tracks, spinning, staring at him with an arched brow. danny on the backdrop of lush greenery, caged like a rabbit in a hole. luci like a fox biting after his little kits, little secrets, to gnaw on in front of him. with a few strides, he's back in front of danny, the smile on his face now more serpentine than shy, more angel than man. when he speaks, it's not a question — a statement of fact. all knowingly, the cycles of fathers and sons, creators and creations. fuck, marry, kill, and your dad is the answer to all of them. )

That's part of the appeal.

cw: past guro ref

[ghostface]

( pretty privilege and male privilege are the only real privileges danny is privileged to have so rejection is an infrequently met stranger, and this specific rejection is daddy-coded, equal parts erotic and painfully nostalgic. danny would have pouted about it, or at least started the process of wax-papering this memory away for later because even a no goes straight to his spank bank savings account, had luci given him the time. as it is, luci leaves, then in the span of a single finger-snap he heel-turns and swings back around again, the physical embodiment of paternal whiplash and not unlike every daddy danny has ever had, so at least he's playing to part. )

Yes, ( about his father, about the appeal, unflinchingly blunt. there's a childlike brutality to danny's honesty, as if he never grew into the bit of his frontal lobe that knows how to feel shame or, like, other human emotions besides want, i want, danny wants. maybe he had his head knocked around too many times, also daddy-coded. that's probably it.

danny's finger trickles down luci's throat and collar and front, riding the folds of his t-shirt to his hip and hitching it by a fistful up to his midriff. ) You could be twins. ( a thoughtful pause, as he scruffs luci's peekaboo cockhead in his palm and spits between them, drooling saliva making a bullseye out of his weepy tip. danny decides luci has pretty eyes, all three of the ones he's seen so far. ) Well, almost.

( he doesn't say, i would like to be broken, please. that seems desperate. he doesn't say, one time my daddy killed me for infinity and then cut off my legs once he got tired of my bullshit and i used the marrow as lube for my dick and i begged for it and i came for it and i died for it, praise be to god. that seems depraved, possibly cultish. he doesn't say, guess why i want the knife. that's a spoiler.

instead, ) You know what an Etch A Sketch is?

( that's danny: not a painting, but a reusable canvas. shake him up, use him again, again, again. )

[pronounce]

Mhm.

( he hasn't heard the name in awhile, but it's not difficult to place — by lucifer's count, he's more like one of those paint by numbers books, a detailed outline in all the ways he wants to be broken by someone else. it's not really luci's choice. danny at least has enough self awareness to know he's poking a bear, which means he's doing it for the thrill of it, the knowledge of what claws feel like pressed into the soft parts of his belly. luci is contrary by instinct, the reason why devil's advocates get their name — being wanted makes him want to give less, though the puzzlework of danny is some other beast altogether. he watches danny's spit slide down his dick with all the emotional involvement of a father watching a son throw his first ball. good aim. what a mouth on the kid.

( he wonders if eve would ever give him children. wonders what they would be, half seraphim and half witch and half god and half human. he wonders if they would look like danny — if eve would like danny. but, well. of course she would. he's damaged and hot and horny. he checks all the boxes. )

slightly too intimate for a moment, he thinks. luci cinches a hand around danny's wrist tightly, squeezing him, removing his hand, stepping away. he throws up a boyish grin, playful as predators flashing teeth as a threat. )

Tell you what. You catch me, and I'll let you suck on it. I catch you, and I'll give you some cum.

( the poorly thought out details of a poorly written bargain — either danny sucks his cock with no reward, or he's an adjacent point to luci's pleasure. luckily it's not that important, because lucifer won't lose, though he imagines how danny plays the game will give him something to gnaw over when he tries to mentally dissect him later. for now, he jogs backwards, throwing up a hand. )

Five seconds to the hunt.

( he turns to the right and disappears in the maze. )

[ghostface]

( is that what it is? he needs the dick-thrill of a chase? he gets off on the struggle? that'd make two of them, though danny's rarely been the chasee. silently, danny watches him disappear into the hedge maze and shrugs off his jacket, hanging it by the collar from the minotaur's potent cock. he'll come back for it later. blood tracks down his arm like a patchwork of open veins, some fresh and some dried and crusting, slashing little crosses through his tattoos. two fingers prod gingerly beneath his bottom rib bone for the only scar on his body that makes his dick wet when grazed or licked or fucked: a tiny j, as white and silvery as metallic ink on danny's tawny skin. with his bone knife and collar gone, it's the only evidence left that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that his daddy existed, once, eternally.

luci goes right. danny goes left.

on his way through the maze, he digs his thumbnail into the cut on his arm and shreds the scabbing, smearing blood over leafy filigree and in bread trail crumbs on the stone, little hansel out for a walk all on his little lonesome. he shreds his t-shirt at the hem next, wrapping his arm tight. then, in a dead-end corner: plants his boot on a bench seat, hitches up to the backrest, and vaults over a hedge.

this new pathway looks like all the rest, only darker, hedges overgrown and reaching out like thorny limbs. he slinks onto his haunches and listens, quiet as a mouse, for signs of life from his golden lion. here, kitty. )

cw: questionable consent

[pronounce]

( the first feat is distance and luci clears it in moments, kicking off his sandals to speed up the process, footsteps pattering on the packed dirt path. there's not much excitement in his life these days, so even the illusion of some intrigue is rewarding — he's grinning, ear to ear and with too many sharp teeth occupying a mouth that morphs from human to reptile under duress, but he's happy for the adrenaline rush that comes from running, hunting, being hunted. he can't be sure how danny intends to play, and the novelty of an unseen foe, an enemy untested, is as exciting as all the rest.

he stops after awhile, lost in the maze, listening closely for the sounds of danny's feet striking the earth. nothing. so — not a chase, then, which is smart enough to have a paternal fondness bloom in his chest, the seeds all planted there from danny's hands. human with a death wish, he thinks with a sigh. silly silly lily, with too many fingers in too many pies. if sound can't be relied on, and sight is obviously not a choice, luci instead shuts his eyes and takes a deep inhale, filling up his lungs, scenting the air. underneath the scent of wet earth and clipped foliage, there sits exactly what danny intended he find — the metallic twang of fresh blood, ripe as fat, juicy apples. instinctively, luci moves towards it, mouth watering. it doesn't mean he doesn't know it's a trap, it just means it's an alluring one, from an intelligent predator. all the more intrigue in the hunt.

unfortunately for danny, the game is set up against him. lucifer doesn't value an occasional loss, but he knows they're inevitable — he's as much a sore loser as one can expect from the golden boy child of god, destined to fall and keep falling for all of eternity. he therefore doesn't hold any moral high ground about cheating, doesn't mind being perceived as a snake. he calls for the golden blood inside of danny, staining his the usual red with little glimmering flecks of gold — angel blood, divisible from the human, forced up his throat and out his nose, choking him on it. the gilt sheen leftover from making out with a pollen rich lily. a distraction, sonic location, ah, there he is. luci follows the breadcrumb blood, approaches the dead end, and grins. game over, or game on?

under the hedge, a serpentine tail snags a fierce grip around his ankle, tugging danny under and back to this side. lucifer looks different — less daddy, more devil, the cross section between a black and red dragon, and the storybook picture of a devil, all fluorescent skin and sharp horns. danny's head cracks against the dirt floor, concussed, stun your enemy. luci in his oversized body takes a seat on danny's chest, shins pressing against his biceps to keep his arms pinned to the ground. a taloned, scaled hand grips his hair holding him in place, while luci's opposite hand fingers open the sheath of his cock, helping it out to full length. )

Devil takes the pot.

( he decides. i win. as expected. his cock is as strange as the rest of him, oddly colored, weirdly formed, glowing red hot with steam. he strokes himself, squeezes a pearly drop of burning devil cum onto danny's pink mouth — he looks like a baroque painting, soft, sad eyes, pretty little cherubic features, painted with gold and pearls. )

[ghostface]

( cheater is the first word that comes to mind, but his skull cracks onto the ground and a subsequent concussion knocks it out of him, replaced by a sluggish groan that leaves his mouth wide open, ready for his supper. he has enough sense and whorish instinct to stick out his tongue for the drop that luci feeds him, saying ahh, guttural whining through the sizzling burn of molten precum splashing his pinkest meat. someone trained him well. )

Wait, ( whimpered, tongue gone novocaine numb. danny's booted heels hook into the dirt, hips and spine arching sluttily, bucking into the body on top of him in an attempt to unseat this harlequin serpent beast, or at least lift his knees from his biceps, or drop his strange cock down the slide of danny's chest into his mouth. ) Wait, wait — wait.

( oh, his daddy's gonna be fuckin' pissed, maybe, probably, another reason on a very long list of reasons to be pissed with danny. god shouldn't keep snakes as sons. dogs, neither. kittens? no. the weight on his chest refuses to budge, and a sweat-sticky danny snarls, kitten canines ornated in gold and red, snapping for a greedy second helping of cock, cum, blood. his eyes refuse to focus, pupils blown cosmic black, his daddy's eyes. that'd be the concussion, probably. what the fuck is he even looking at? danny thinks he would've remembered if he'd looked like that the whole time. )

You fuckin' cheated.

( affronted, like danny hasn't cheated in every game of tag he's ever played. his wobbly gaze swims down, squinting hard at luci's cock: steam tendrils from his cockhead like smoke from a dragon's nose. that'd clean him out, surely. refinement by fire, an interdimensional telephone call to his lost daddy. look how naughty i'm being, come punish me, come lay waste, come cum. )

I want it inside me, you fuckin' cunt cheater. ( he goes from feral to weepy in a flashbang second, bottom lip quivering provocatively, dangerously plump and wet. danny squirms, flexing his thighs, and humps the air. ) You wanna be my daddy for a little bit? I'm hungry.

[pronounce]

( whatever otherworldliness, or unsettling aura lucifer vaguely gave off is amplified in the exchange of forms — his body isn't the only thing that changes, all of it ridding any halfhearted attempt he had towards humanity. it's why befriending humans is so challenging, so impossible, so addictive. he and danny are speaking different languages now, on different wavelengths, potentially in different parts of the world doing different things to each other. beneath him there sits a blooming lily, the pistil inside heavily weighted with wet dew, and lucifer thinks here is another of god's splendid creations i can desecrate. maybe this is the one that finally catches god's attention.

there's a degree of quiet interaction going on. invisible words on unstamped envelopes — the great irony of ironies is that luci loves god's creations, loves flowers and small things, loves picking them apart and putting them back together, pressing his name next to god's in an effort of comparison, as a way of being close. and yet. here is a body, a god's son, an open hole and a bleeding heart, and it's all salted ground, all lost potential. satan, there is no room for you here, too loved is he by daddy dear. nothing here shall grow, so say the angels, amen.

not a human, he thinks. not not a human, he thinks. )

No. ( he says. lost in translation: the implications of pride he has in danny, jealousy of danny, attracted to danny's quivering lips and watery eyes. that there are no little bits or pussyfooted steps when it comes to luci — there ares and there are nots. if you want a father, be a son. i'm not your battering ram, i'm your enemy. i'll make you. i'll ruin you. i am your Father. ) Don't be a sore loser.

( little to do with in now — it might've been a long time for luci, he doesn't really keep track, and time is all flexible anyway. the tip of his devil cock goes ashy from burning, flakes of peeling skin waft away on a breeze. he angles his dick down, grunting, splattering an oil burn of cum across his mouth and cheeks, scarring cumshot, danny's skin pink and raw from the burn of it. orgasms are relief, an enforced reality check. it breaks whatever unmanageable trance luci had been in, swells his form back to the image of a human, and has him lazily slipping off danny, onto his back in the dirt path. panting. counting the clouds in the sky.

when he turns his head he's a little surprised to see someone there. oh, right. moving up on an elbow, he looks down at lily, chagrined. )

You're not dead, are you?

[ghostface]

( danny wants his dick so bad that he's sure more than he's ever been sure of anything in his thousand cat lives that it'll kill him if he doesn't get it, worse than it'll kill him if he does get it. he stays pornstar arched, pink mouth and pink tongue straining for reach and human reflexes flinching hard from the splatter burn of luci's cum anointing his cupid's bow and the highest point of his cheek, carbon bleaching a single eyelash bone white. then it's over, luci rolled onto his back next to him, and it's not fair, it's bullshit, because all of that could've bleached his insides, too, a clean burn, a solid waste of cum, cockblocked from a good death.

worse: it's over, and he's still alive. daddies are the worst. yes, all daddies.

hands freed, danny squeezes his dick through his jeans and twists cruelly, one leg deer-kicking in protest, whimpering through the pain, the immeasurable grief. he flips onto his front, licking the dirt, the leftover dribbles of luci's cum and the spilled ash from his cock that wasn't greedily swept away by the wind, and rides his hips into the ground. furious, devastated, tantruming his way to an orgasm. no one understands. no one cares.

through a mouth full of dirt and ash, miserably, ) No.

( he's not dead, that's not how his story ever ends because his story never ends. danny's epilogue is that he always gets to live, again and again and again. he fucks a shallow divot into the ground until he busts messily in his jeans, imagining luci's (john's? both?) face in his fly instead. )