๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-05-13 07:36 am
Entry tags:
"๐๐๐๐" โฃ MAY TDM
MAY 2024 TDM
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember โ dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. Prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnโt, stay in bed and wallow โ eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itโs normal for you. Maybe it isnโt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youโll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnโt dissipate, though โ this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itโs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itโs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room โ have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenโt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, youโll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heโs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereโs no reason why you canโt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnโt dissipate, though โ this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itโs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. Itโs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
LET THEM EAT CAKE
CONTENT WARNINGS: sex, drugs, alcohol.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior youโve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, youโre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy โ this isnโt school, you arenโt being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, thatโs other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights โ some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can โ anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice โ with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
Up until now, the outdoors of Saltburnt have seemed immaculately well groomed, landscaped until not a leaf is out of line. However, on the night of a planned party you were all informed of, the grounds have transformed into a psychedelic fever dream before your eyes, with very little resembling the polished exterior youโve become acquainted with. Large fixtures have been erected around the grounds in a paid homage to Roman architecture, huge columns set up in invitation to the party beyond. Everything is bathed in pastel colors of pink, blue, yellow and green, opulent and gaudy in equal measures, everything decorated with golden filigree. The theme? Rococo. And yes, youโre expected to arrive in costume. (0 points awarded for historical accuracy โ this isnโt school, you arenโt being graded on anything but your appearance.)
Vanilla flavored cocktails line elaborately decorated banquet tables, and while alcohol seems readily in supply, any food other than snacking Doritos and caviar with mother-of-pearl spoons is hard to find. Of course, thatโs other than the dessert table, which is sorted with an arrangement of confections: macaroons of all colors, cupcakes, cookies, and of course, cakes. Some are imperially designed, with frilly icing decorations and sprinkle pearls on top, but the real showstopper cakes are the anatomically correct ones, shaped in the imagine of naked bodies. On first glance, the lifelike realness of them makes the bodies look like peaceful corpses laid flat against the sugary delights โ some, potentially, with an appearance uncannily like a guest like you, currently residing in Saltburnt. But, when someone cuts into one, it's plain to see the flesh is just fondant, the insides all cake and cream and jam. There is enough detail on the inside of the cakes that gives the impression, if you were to cut one horizontally down from head to toe, you'd see the perfect snapshot of the inside of a human body, organs, bones, and all.
Seeking other entertainment? In homage to the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, small diamonds have been hidden around the party, in red solo cups, in full liquor bottles, in plain sight, in trees and bushes. Collect, steal, and pickpocket as many as you can โ anyone with diamonds at the end of the party has been guaranteed a special prize from Portia herself, but you'll have to win to figure out what it is. (A replica of the Queen's necklace, lucky you!)
In addition, on the grounds there is a lifesize version chess, alternating colors between light and hot pink. Anyone interested will quickly be informed, this is SlapKiss Chess, where the rules are simple enough to follow. Chess as usual, only when one piece steps on the square of another piece, the first person to step off the square loses the ground and is kicked from the game. You can knock your opponent off however you like, through whatever means available to you. Naturally, things get pretty bloody and pretty PDA, depending on your poison of choice โ with the name of the game comes two very frequent weapons against your opponent.
Of course, the night does come to an end eventually. Pass out where you are or drunkenly make your way up to you room in a drug-induced stupor. Either way, you'll wake up hungover, in bed, trying to fill in all the blanks from last night.
A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, cannibalism, sex.
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes โ but did you find it a littleโฆ addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didnโt eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh โ well, cake โ someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
Things feel normal, for awhile. The first day after the party anything brewing inside feels like the byproduct of intoxicants ingested, so it's likely you're expecting to feel a little off. The next day, you wonder just how long this hangover is supposed to last. By the third day, something feels indefinably wrong, and you ache down to your bones.
Did you eat the cake? Probably, yes โ but did you find it a littleโฆ addictive?
There's an urge inside you, to taste it again. What part of the body did you eat before? The fingers? Suddenly, you need to sink teeth into whoever has fingers closest to you, even though you know what'll happen. You'll find flesh, blood, and bone, hardly any of it appetizing. And yet. The compulsion is undeniable, and once you get what you want, you bite down on someone's body where you feel the need and, shockingly, it tastes good. Sweet. Moreover, it feels good to be consumed. Eater and eaten alike, all of you want some more, gluttonous down to your core.
It seems a curse has overtaken Saltburnt, turning everyone who ate cake into cake. Bones turn to cracked caramel, blood into loose icing. Oddly, it seems the only people safe from the curse, other than the people who didnโt eat anything, are the ones who won and wear their gifted diamond necklace, though that doesn't necessarily mean people won't try to take a bite out of them anyway, and it doesn't mean they wouldn't like being eaten too, depending on what they're into. It's all a frenzy, a fever dream. You eat and eat and eat and are eaten, shocked by how much flesh โ well, cake โ someone can lose.
On the fourth day, you wake up in your room again, as you have every other day, whole and unblemished, offended by the scent coming from outside your windows. Look, and find the sight of rotting cake abandoned in heaps, taking the form of errant limbs, spotted with mold and decorated with buzzing flies. Look for long enough, and you might once again find some weirdly similar to your own body, feeding hornets that flock to your sugary sweet flesh.
Weird dream, right?
DIRECTORY
no subject
unfortunately, he's as much a mystery to ash as ever. why he looks so upset, ash can't begin to reckon โ he's never had an issue flaunting his attraction to men, but he's always been ashamed of ash, for some unknowable reason. how ash makes him feel? how ash fucks him? it makes him swallow dryly, mouth twitching in a pout. he's tried to be different, tried to love embry in different ways, tried to sever parts of himself off in an effort to keep him, because no price is too steep. the gap between them feels yawning, cracked open like the two sides of a split egg. embry there, ash here. in front of or two steps beside, but never with, never against.
shaking his head, ash glances around, locating the girl he stepped in for and offering her space back to her (though, she seems reluctant to join now that embry was eliminated), stepping off the board and directly into embry's path, a hand cinching around his wrist. tight, and too tight at that. bruising. his jaw sets, tugging embry back to him. )
Come with me. ( his voice could be stern, but his eyes are pleading. embry can't just kiss him and walk away โ can he? ) She's our princess. She's your responsibility, too.
( he won't do it, any of it, for ash. but for greer? ash isn't above exploiting that. )
no subject
he tugs sharply to free his wrist, intending to walk away, but ash doesn't let go. great. his pride is dead with that little move. ]
Let go of me. [ he hisses, keeping his voice low, but he both tenses and stills when ash circles him like they're still on the chess board, moving his pieces with damning finality. what the fuck? ] Do you even know where we are? All I need is a goddamn teddy bear. Too bad Morgan's not here because then we could really be the Marchmains.
[ he may not know the exact location, but he knows a vibe when he sees one. they're stuck in his worst nightmare, a closed-off, opulent estate where things can only go wrong from here on out. there's only so far he can run from ash here, and only so much he can take of seeing ash and greer being perfect together, and only so many spots he can hide to wallow in the misery of knowing he will always fuck up his side of their unholy trinity. ]
You don't really need my help. [ he's back to sulking, pointing back at the house. ] You really think she's gonna be out here partaking in this bullshit? She's probably inside. And for the record, I don't have any responsibilities.
[ except for what ash tells him to do, and then everything he volunteers to do for ash, which basically covers every single ash-related thing ever. ]
no subject
he shakes his head. sebastian in the moonlight, avoiding responsibility, clutching his teddy bear. forever young. it's how ash feels when he looks at embry โย young, the same windswept boy in his first year of service, humbled by embry, embry, embry. twirling him in circles in prague. wishing a night could last a lifetime, embry soft and happy in his arms, smiling. embry smiling. )
Wait.
( ash's brows pinch together, endlessly at a loss when it comes to him. because it was already on his mind, he wonders โย is his privilege the birthplace of his shame? ash can't make sense of it, but he wishes he could. )
I. ( i do need you. for once the words don't come easily out of his mouth, and he softens, in pain, loosening his hold, letting embry slip free. instead, ) You look beautiful, Sebastian.
( literary implications: don't turn from me, the way sebastian turns from charles. don't find hope in catholicism when i'm right here, ready to be your god. don't hate me, just because i need you. )
no subject
Achilles. [ he swallows, letting out a frustrated, defeated breath. ] Fine. We'll go together.
[ and the second they find greer, he'll orchestrate a timely exit for himself. for now, he stalks back toward the house, the party spilling over across the polished floors, and tries to put some distance between the two of them and the rest of the residents who will happily spend their hours drinking and laughing and slap-kissing each other on the enormous chess board (tragically, without him). it gets quieter the deeper they go into the house, and embry starts to feel a little foolish in his rumpled party clothes, prying away the silky blue fabric now covered in wine stains and missing several buttons. ]
It's a mansion. Lots of places to look. [ he is not playing hide and fucking seek with ash. ducking into one of the opulent bathrooms, he pulls his shirt over his head and quickly rubs away a smear of what could either be cake frosting or cocaine from beneath his nose. there's a hickey right on the side of his throat that he doesn't remember receiving, outlined in a smudge of bright purple lipstick. ] So go look.
no subject
still, he follows behind embry, uncomfortable by extreme signs of wealth, not sure if he's allowed to touch anything. he's never been to embry's family's home. he's not sure how it compares. and then it strikes him โ why embry is so upset.
they are public figures, and ash did just share a kiss with him in public, at a party, in front of people. sometimes it's hard to remember he's supposed to be in the closet when he's positive he wears his love for embry like a second skin, impossible to remove, ever present, blatant in his longing eyes and lingering touches. he shakes off his discomfort swiftly, following embry inside the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe and observing him. if he squints, they could be at the white house โ this could be one of those nightly rituals where he watches greer methodically take off her makeup, shake out her hair, apply serum to her face. embry at the husband's sink, stealing her skincare, wearing matching bunny earred headbands. )
I am.
( lots of places to look. embry's nose rubbed raw, his eyes bloodshot and vibrantly blue. his soldier's chest. the hickey. the fucking hickey, because he loves making ash feel fucking insane. ash shuts the door with a little more bite than what was intended, tapping expensive shoes on expensive tiles as he crosses over to him. he can't even pretend not to be jealous, leaning over him, pining him to the vanity with hands spread on either side, trapping him in. ash's nose inclines, sliding up his throat, bottle green eyes locking onto his in the vanity's mirror. )
You should get cleaned up first.
( said while he sinks his teeth meanly into the hickey, because ash doesn't play nice โ because embry isn't allowed to be marked by anyone but him. he won't permit it. he called him achilles, and that makes him complicit. )
no subject
his brow knits when ash abuses his bruised skin, the sudden rush of warm breath and wet mouth and pain going straight to his dick, which happens to be pinned against the edge of the cold counter, trying to twitch and fill out against unforgiving marble. he clamps down a moan, most of it dying in his throat, but he's sure ash still hears it and he certainly feels it pressed up against him like a goddamn leech. ]
You're making it worse.
[ he looks like a teenager that can't control himself. sure, he used to walk into the white house rumpled and smelling of sex all the time without thought, making himself comfortable between ash and greer to watch the game or have a drink or bitch about whichever writer he and greer had decided to mutually hate that day, but that was different. it was almost like a job to be america's most eligible bachelor in politics by day, and come home to the people he loves most at night and play out some twisted fantasy where he's actually wanted. then when real night set in, he'd go home alone to his capitol hill condo and pass the hours drinking, until the sun would rise to a respectable height and he could go back, armed with coffee and a newspaper, and park himself on ash's couch again beside a sleepy greer and pretend he was there to work.
he could have done that for years. he would have snuck around with ash for years, for his entire goddamn life, if only ash hadn't ruined it by asking for more.
he tries to wiggle away, tries to ignore ash's mouth and body and heat. he cups a hand beneath the stream of water and splashes his face, droplets running down his chest and dripping from the wet hair curling across his forehead. his face flames with heat, and his cock won't stop being traitorously interested in its close proximity to ash, still valiantly throbbing to life despite his uncomfortable position. embry shifts his hips, grinding against the marble, and this time moans for real, dropping his head forward as his hands splay against the vanity. ]