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draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
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"𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒" ▣ MAY TDM
MAY 2024 TDM
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember — dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. Prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
LET THEM EAT CAKE
CONTENT WARNINGS: sex, drugs, alcohol.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior you’ve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, you’re expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy — this isn’t school, you aren’t being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, that’s other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights — some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can — anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice — with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior you’ve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, you’re expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy — this isn’t school, you aren’t being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, that’s other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights — some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can — anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice — with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, cannibalism, sex.
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes — but did you find it a little… addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didn’t eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh — well, cake — someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes — but did you find it a little… addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didn’t eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh — well, cake — someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
DIRECTORY
natasha romanova — marvel cinematic.
let them eat cake. cw: alcohol, altered states of mind.
let them eat cake. (midfuck?) cw: sex, alcohol, altered states of mind.
a midnight’s dream. cw: cannibalism, sex(?), idk man she be nibblin’
( OOC | feel free to hit me up at
let them eat cake.
Prefer the other option.
[The words are muffled against her neck, lips pressed to her pulse point as he takes a deep inhale. As he lets himself sink in to the comfort that Natasha has always been able to provide him.
Or rather, used to. One upon a time. But for the life of him, right now, he can't remember why that ever ended.]
Ask nicely and I'll give you a whole lot more than just a kiss though.
crau because i can 💗
James. ( it’s more of a breath than a word and she settles her hand on his at her waist, tilts her head to one side and then back to rest against his shoulder. it feels like the rest of the party melts away around them; it’s just the two of them.
like before. even though the ‘before’ feels like a hazy, blurry mess that she can’t quite make out. she knows him. better than she would expect; better than just the conditioning, wakanda, steve, all of it would suggest. she just can’t place how.
she doesn’t care how. )
Is that a dare or a promise? ( a smirk. turning her head a little further, she darts in to steal a kiss with a chaser of a nip on the bottom lip. )
no subject
[It's a name he hasn't been able to use for a long time now. One that reminds him of the days where things were so much simpler between them. But right here with Natasha pressed up against him, it's all too easy to fall back on old habits.]
Depends on how nice you're gonna play.
[Though he's pretty sure he already knows the answer to that. There's only ever been one person whose been able to keep them both in check when they're together, and he's not there to order them around right now.
So he lets his hand slide up to her throat, metal fingers curling around her jaw to keep her from breaking away. To give him the leverage he needs to deepen the kiss. It also means he's free to let his other hand wander. To work its way up her thigh in a warning of what's to follow.]
no subject
she doesn't care. not when his mouth is warm and inviting, when his hand is a promise on her thigh. rolling her hips back against his lap, natasha rests one hand on the metal one on her neck, murmuring something unintelligible and encouraging when his hand pauses at her thigh. )
I never play nice.
( a gentle tease that might land a bit more if she wasn't breathless and watching him with heavy lidded eyes. it's like they're they only people in this garden, even though she can hear the noise of others around them. )
Don't make promises you can't keep.
let them eat cake 2 😌
one hand spread on her thigh, the other ruching up her dress near her hip, frank wants to take it slow. wants to be indulgent, take his time. he likes taking his time. his touches are practically chaste right now. ]
Do you want me to?
[ probably not. he doesn't want to either; this is much better. ]
no subject
Do you want to? ( a question for a question. her smile is teasing as she sinks down into his lap, eyes on his face. she’s memorizing details — the curve of a jaw, stubble, the way he smells. natasha’s no stranger to a one night stand, particularly in the interest of information, but she likes to know who she’s been with. for her own purposes. )
I could see myself being very comfortable here, instead. ( a small half-circle against his lap, a bit of a grind to tease with. )
Re: natasha romanova — marvel cinematic.
He'd have followed her anywhere, his trust a thing that is hard to win but absolute, which is why he finds himself seated on this chessboard, her in his lap.
His trousers are pooled at the knee, waistcoat unbuttoned, starch-white collar stained with lipstick. He grips her thigh to keep himself from moving against her, hard enough to leave a bruise tomorrow in a matching shade. ]
Why, you sick of this game already?
[ Leaning in, he spreads his palm across her back, solidly, drawing them flush together. ]
You could always forfeit.
no subject
You know better than that. ( she teases in return, relishing the ache of the fingerprint shaped bruises he leaves on her thigh. resting a hand on the nape of his neck, she toys with the lipstick stained collar. there’s an ugly feeling that is too close to jealousy for comfort. ) Unless you’re giving in already?
( he’d pulled them flush — but she has the advantage in how she twists and grinds against his lap, careful to keep close enough that she can feel his heartbeat against her skin. there’s something tugging at the back of her mind — a reason why this is a bad idea, something else that she ought to be telling him or worried about… but it dances out of her grasp a second later and there’s only this. the sensation of his skin sliding against hers. the feeling of the starch of his shirt against the top of her breasts spilling out of the corset.
steve. familiar and unfamiliar in so many ways. )
no subject
You know I don't give up.
[ His breath is heavy, his words a whisper. He should get a little suspicious feeling the way they connect under her skirts, because he has such little frame of reference that this shouldn't feel so real, but it also doesn't make sense that he'd feel the effects of alcohol. It doesn't make sense that he wouldn't remember details of how he'd gotten here, why he couldn't leave, why their fight for dominance in a meaningless game had led them to this.
So, of course, there's really just one possible explanation, and so, he doesn't feel remotely guilty, grinding up against her, looking her right in the eyes, mouth slack, eyes blown wide. ]
What happens if neither of us get off this square?
[ He doesn't seem like he's going to soon, and she seems like she's enjoying this a little more than the first time they'd kissed. His eyes train on her mouth, wondering if he ought to try and convince her a second time. ]
no subject
the square gives her pause — for a second, she’d entirely forgotten the game and that the purpose was to throw him off the square so she could ‘take’ it. tongue flicking over her lower lip, natasha considers for a second. )
I don’t think I care. ( she breathes, finally, yanking him down by the lipstick stained collar to slant her lips over his. he tastes like the vanilla cocktail she’d been drinking earlier and something else, and she’s greedy for it, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and nipping at it. it’s so much … deeper than the last time they’d kissed; it might have made steve uncomfortable, but that had been a press of closed lips together —
now she wants to eat him whole.
breaking apart with a pant, her nose brushes his cheek and she rests her forehead against steve’s with a muffled groan low in her throat. )
Forfeit first and I’ll let you have me in that bush.
no subject
It's strange that she should manifest this way in his mind, but he'll take what he can get of her: in the corners of his mind, a fantasy of something that never was built entirely out of grief, wanting to capture her in graphic detail. It made sense, surely, that in wanting her closer, in knowing she won't be there come morning, that he looks up at her, locking in every freckle and eyelash into memory through the haze. ]
I think right here is fine.
[ He drops his kiss-reddened lips to focus a few on her neck, hand rising to her bosom, but finding mostly corset, he tries to undo it in the back; though he is deft of many skills, this is not one of them. ]
Unless you want to be somewhere else? Somewhere soft?
[ He inhales her deeply as he crushes her hips against hers, body molded around her, also recalling their last kiss, but for a different reason: Is this what she'd smelled like? Is this what her lips had felt like? It's a fleeting moment he tries to capture, as he sides a hand further up her skirts. He doesn't have a memory of this, he thinks, so he can't scrutinize if he's right or wrong and can just lose himself in the sensation instead, breathless against her neck as he touches her between the legs, tentative as if it might shatter the illusion. And when he finds her solid, he draws his fingerpads in slow, long circles. ]
no subject
No. Here.
( moving will take too much time, and she's not nearly motivated enough to spend that time when he's crushed against her — she wants to remember every second of this, every shifting of his body underneath her, every touch of his fingertips. breathing heavily, she jumps when his fingers brush against her core, then rocks down against them until she's found a rhythm she likes to match the circles he's drawing.
pulling her hands away from him, natasha reaches for the ties of the corset around her back, tugging at a few bows on the bottom to try and make it easier for him to loosen. )
Fuck — ( she breathes, a brush of his fingers just right enough for her to tremble in his lap, the sensation of him wonderfully solid. )
no subject
He'll wake up and she won't be there, just this lingering memory of an encounter that never really happened. He doesn't know why he's shy about the board - it's his dream, so the board is as private as he wants it to be. Maybe it's so as to not shatter the illusion, but it hardly matters as she starts undoing her corset - this might be just a fantasy, but in this moment, it's real.
Steve kisses her on the underside of her jaw, on the pulse of her neck, his fingers pressing down a little harder, trying to chase down all the soft noises she makes and the little trembles and shivers. ]
Then take this off for me. I want to see you.
[ He whispers this into her neck, his voice low and smooth. ]
bc there are enough steves here- let them eat cake, the first.
he is standing in her path, in her arms, and sadly, the words that come out of bellamy's ungraceful mouth are: )
There's a diamond in your cleavage. ( perverted, undignified, dirty. noted: he doesn't make a grab for said diamond. ) You going to grab that?
bless 😘 the more the merrier!
in the end, she barks a laugh at his words, eyes dropping for the diamond. )
You want it? ( she's teasing him, not truly offering it to him but curious how far he'll go. ) You know what they say. Finders keepers.
cake ii
When she bites, it's a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. John's blood is bright and sweet and she's not the first person to taste it - when he feels skin break he's immediately, breathlessly hard. His feet shift wider, and he makes a tiny soft noise, tips his head to give her more access to the vulnerable skin beyond the line of his beard.
John may know it's not a dream but he's also so certain nothing here matters, not really, not the way it did in the last pocket universe he'd lived in. And he'd been just as cavalier with his body there. So he won't stop Natasha, whatever she wants to do to him. ]