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draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
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"ππππ" β£ 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 β 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 isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs 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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs 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 youβve 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, youβre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy β this isnβt school, you arenβt 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, thatβs 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 youβve 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, youβre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy β this isnβt school, you arenβt 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, thatβs 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β but did you find it a littleβ¦ 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 didnβt 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 β well, cake β 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 β but did you find it a littleβ¦ 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 didnβt 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 β well, cake β 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
no subject
What does it say about her, then, that she wants to hold onto those four words β I'm glad you didn't β to keep them nestled in close against her bruised heart where no one else can take them away? She's not fully broken, not from him and certainly not from Ash, but it would be a lie if she claimed she hadn't walked away from either of them without licking some wounds. Like the night she'd knelt against broken glass, picking up shards without thinking better of it, until a jagged piece had sliced into her finger. The scar has long healed, but how easy it had been to cut herself and not even feel it until she'd seen the blood well up into a perfect red drop.
Embry staggers against her, drawing her thoughts back to the present and away from that room, so many years ago, and instinctively, before she can think better of it, her hand flies up to cradle the back of his head, trying to keep him from any sudden movements, trying to keep him from hurting himself if he's unsteady. ]
Don't say that. [ The cruelest part of all of it is they both know it's true, but maybe she wants to let herself be a little lost, if it's him she's lost with. Her fingers sift through his hair, as she wordlessly marvels at the softness of it, while she holds him. While he lingers on his knees in a way that makes this all feel holy and tainted in the same breath. ] You found me first.
no subject
he can't believe he ever left her, but it's too late to retrace his steps now. ]
Yeah, but I always lose my things.
[ he smiles, turns it into a joke. same tactics as the night they'd met, same old trick. the grass could be the glass floor of the ferris wheel for how little anything has changed. he's still broken, and he still wants her, and he still wishes he had ash.
the slit in her pretty white dress parts with the wind, a warm breeze revealing skin and the edges of lace underwear that he gracefully catches a glimpse of from his vantage point. suddenly, he can't look at her face, his breath tangling in his throat. fuck, he needs to get up. instead, his hand just moves higher beneath her dress, as if on autopilot. he's been so fucking good at not touching her for so fucking long that he abruptly realizes just how dangerous this moment is turning out to be. ]
Ash is here.
[ his voice goes taut, as if this statement can protect him somehow. he'd glimpsed him earlier in the afternoon and did the sensible thing, which was walk the other way. it's a big estate. ]
no subject
Haven't you heard of things always turning up when you stop looking for them?
[ It's a poor joke when the words are still catching in her throat, sticking to the roof of her mouth like molasses; she practically has to fight to get them out, and it's an even harder struggle when she feels his hand, big and warm, sliding up along her thigh, underneath the slit of her dress. She wants to grab a fistful of his hair and shove his face between her legs, refusing to let him up even to breathe. She wants him to drag her down into the grass and fuck her until her dress is too stained for her to wear anywhere else.
And then Embry says three words that make the lump in her throat impossible to swallow. ]
He's β
[ Here, somewhere, out there, and the knowledge of that prompts a darting look around, as if she's expecting him to materialize from one of the hedges, having been standing in quiet observation of them the entire time. When he doesn't appear, she releases a breath, fingers smoothing over Embry's hair again. ]
Not here. [ Not right here, with her, with Embry, with the both of them, but then another thought occurs to her, prompting another freeze. ] Did he send you?
no subject
his hand is at the top of her thigh now, well beneath her dress to the shadowed part between her legs. when she doesn't stop him, doesn't push him away, he presses his fingertips to the scrap of fabric that separates him from her cunt. ]
If he did β [ he strokes gently, back and forth, until dampness touches his fingers. ] Would that change things? If I'm supposed to get you and bring you to him, and not lay a finger on you β
[ he looks up at her, his lust barely concealed in the icy haze of his eyes, his other hand pulling at the slit of her dress to bare her legs. ]
I want to put my mouth on you.
no subject
Not that it would matter, here; to everyone else, they're just two people who have tangled up with each other at this party, as entwined as any other pair might be after imbibing too heavily and needing an excuse to work off that persistent high. The only thing is, she's stone-cold sober, so it's not as if she even has that excuse to cling to, to wield as her excuse after the fact.
The night air whispers across her bared thighs, right alongside the desire he gives voice to over her skin, and Greer closes her eyes for a moment, squeezes them tight against all of it β but when she opens them again, for him, she's newly focused, newly assertive. ]
You should. [ Ash is here, but he isn't. Right now, it's just her, and Embry, and his hands on her, and the promise of his mouth on her too. ] I want you to.
no subject
but greer wants his mouth, and that he can do. he'd give up every part of his body for her, crawl on his hands and knees and lick the goddamn dirt for her, if she asked. he'd play servant for her just like he's played servant to ash for years, coming when he's called, jumping when he's told to, bucking just the right amount to earn his punishment down on his knees. greer is the perfect submissive when it comes to maxen ashley colchester, but with embry, she's just like him β greedy, selfish, and wanting.
god, he loves her. he never stopped, even if he put that part of himself away for years, locked it up like a rotten secret and ignored the pain in his side that plagued him every time he looked at the fairy tale story unfolding between the president and his princess. he hates the both of them for doing this to him, for making him hurt and want and wander around like a lost idiot prince with no home. so when greer tells him he should β yeah, she's damn right he should.
his mouth is on her cunt in an instant, hands gripping her thighs as he tongues and licks and sucks, the honey sweetness of her slick skin wetting his mouth, his nose, his chin. he doesn't care if he suffocates down here in the fork of her legs β he's waited so long for this, and he's not going to stop until he feels her shivering and clenching against him, and maybe not even then. ]
no subject
Her hand is in his hair, in part because she has to hold onto something and by virtue of his head being where it is, her touch just settles there instinctively, but her fingers are grabbing, clutching, tugging at the strands, often a little more whenever he happens to find a point of particular sensitivity. That's usually the instance when her breath catches too, or a sound leaves her in the vein of a whimper, a soft moan.
She's entirely too aware of where they are right now, and the fact that anyone could stumble upon them β if Ash is here, what if he comes looking for them, discovers her with her legs spread for Embry's questing mouth? β and it almost causes her to lose her balance before she reels forward again, reasserting her footing as she starts to curl forward, instead, in on herself as the pressure inside her grows.
She's going to leave a mess on him by the time he's through; that thought pierces through the haze of pleasure in her mind with sudden clarity, her breath becoming a series of harsher pants as she fights the temptation to just start rubbing herself on his tongue, seeking out that pressure to claim a release on her own terms. Instead, she lets him be the one to build her up slowly, sweetly, that same familiar heat coiling within. ]