draino | "𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒" ▣ MAY TDM

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!tdm

"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."

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

Threaded | Flat

Feel free to leave any questions you have regarding the Test Drive here.

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

( fortunately enough, parisa is used to a certain life of luxury. not necessarily old old money, but old enough in the sense that she’s not put off by any of the excessiveness of the upper class — quite the opposite. confusing as it is to lose time, there are worse places to lose it in, and while she has a natural trepidation about this whole situation, the dressing robe she slides on top of her slip nightgown feels good enough against her skin to make her happy enough, for the moment.

rather than head immediately towards breakfast, parisa instead pokes around her apparent room, before setting her sights on the door adjacent to hers with narrowed eyes. sharing a bathroom feels intimate, and intimate enough that investigation is required. tiptoeing to the opposite door, parisa hovers her hand over the knob, briefly sensing that there is consciousness on the other side, before opening it without knocking, and peering inside.

she takes in the room with an appreciative nod, before locking eyes on the person still in bed, head tilted. )

My room’s better.

( as it very well should be. morning, roomie. )

A MIDNIGHT’S DREAM

CW: nsfw, cannibalism

( a gnawing ache similar to, but not quite hunger, settles in her stomach, like some yawning, cramping expanse. running on autopilot sends her to the bathroom to be sick, but halved over the toilet with her hair wrapped in a fist, nothing comes up but an excess of spit, her gurgling stomach making a cacophony of sound in the otherwise silent bathroom. not sick, then. just hungry.

it feels primal when she leaves the bathroom — a woman on a mission, fists clenched tight at her sides, high heels snapping loudly on the ground with every spurned step. the first person she finds gets grabbed and shoved into a dark alcove of the mansion, pressed against the wall beside some bust of a long dead ancestor, parisa sinking onto her knees with quick efficiency. the important thing is their pants, shoved down, a skirt, shoved up, so parisa can nuzzle her mouth between the span of their legs, nose bumping the dip of their navel. )

Stay still.

( murmured instruction. she mouths them through whatever underwear they’re wearing, panting hot, warm breaths between their legs. tilting sideways, her lips find the fleshy length of one thigh, moaning happily to herself before her eyes flick open, watching them, her teeth catching around a fat glob of flesh before sinking in, ripping a chunk of cake from their leg. )

WILDCARD

( anything else! feel free to hit me up with your own prompts and/or message me over pm or at trashmouth to plot something out. )

Edited 2024-05-13 12:57 (UTC)

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

The hangover is unfamiliar. It has been a long time since Armand felt one, not like this, the outcome of a loss of control he can no longer afford. Could never afford, except in times of excess, or when the outcome justified the means. Worse still is the feeling of being trapped in an unfamiliar place -- and he knows he's trapped, almost immediately, recognises it with a hunter's awareness of the forms of the snare. It annoys him.

Dressed, unhappily, in someone else's clothes -- at least they're expensive, black trousers and a white shirt -- Armand wanders the halls of his new cage. He examines almost everything, reaching out to touch the edges of paintings -- reproductions, fakes, the occasional worthy piece -- and the spines of books, flipping through them before replacing them, profoundly unimpressed, on the library shelf. He drags his fingertips over antique furniture and the gilded knobs on the doors, rearranging the tchotchkes and small statues.

It's difficult to surprise an immortal. Armand doesn't look up from the book he's surveying or the painting he's studying.

"Do you think they mean to keep us here for long?" He poses the question to the air and to his new companion at the same time.

LET THEM EAT CAKE/A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM

What a theme for a party. Armand is amused at the concept of treading through the old forms again, enjoying the dichotomy of young modern bodies in their versions of the fashions of his own heyday. It's raucous and disgusting and perfect, offensive to his enhanced senses, offensive to his memories of the period.

He's enjoying himself despite everything. The costume is terrible, of course, but he's got his hair tied with a silk bow and silk tight around his calves and loose around his chest like the old days, so it will do. He waves off the offers of food and drink, wanders through the party, sinks two fingers into the belly of a lifelike torso of a young woman made of cake and wipes them off on someone's coat. Listens to the modern music.

He finds one of the necklaces, pockets it. The chess game is entertaining; Armand spends some time watching it, amused at the sight of a young man hit in the face by his opponent hard enough to break his nose, blood splattering his front and the ground. As he staggers off into the night, Armand detaches himself from the wall to follow.

Maybe he will have a drink, after all.

OOC

Open to all kinds of nonsense. Wildcards, gen and NSFW, all welcome!

( welcome to saltburnt )
[She's woken up in old manors before, the kind where dying, old men have been old and dying in them for generations. It's not where she comes from, but it's the kind of people who are easily tricked into doing what she needs done. Rich people see money, and a lot can be persuaded and looked over. Susie has no qualms with this, and in fact it's what she is good at. Among other things.

But this isn't Halstead or the eleven other estates her father and her have business dealings with. The fact she even has her own room is alarming enough, like she's meant to be here, exist in this kind of opulence. It's not that she can't or can't even see herself, but this is not her place, not where she needs to be, and Susie hates the idea even more that she herself is the object of some sort of game.

She arrives to breakfast as she has before. The rooms are just as opulent and pristine, as if her and likely others haven't tried escaping only to end up here again. Her eyes watch the other 'guests', never unaware of the exits that seemingly get them no where. She pours herself a cup of black coffee, and takes one of the small cups of mixed fruits, still trying to work out who the hell all of these people are and how do they all find themselves at this estate that keeps them in some sort of... time loop like she's in a distorted 90's romcom.]

How long have you been here, do you imagine? [Small talk, maybe, but calculated enough.]

( let them eat cake )
cw: alcohol, potential for nsfw
[Susie has a knack for fashion and while she an appreciate an event, all the effort and strategizing that goes into it, she also knows there is likely some sort of point to all this. She does oblige the dress code though, and arrives in a dark burgundy corset outfit with her hair in two braid, volumized out to go with the theme without the gaudy wigs. She does have her own dignity.

Once again she finds herself on the outskirts, a champagne flume in hand. Is it her third or fourth? She can't quite recall at the moment, and while she still feels more a puppet than she is comfortable with, she at least appears far more personable than her typical demeanor. If not found at the edge of the party, still taking surveillance, Susie may also be at the edge of the chess board.

Chess is something she understands a lot better. It might not have been something she grew up playing like some rich kid, but the principles are meant to be the same. Only the rules aren't clearly the same. It doesn't seem to matter if one person is on the board and the second comes to the same square. It is a battle of some sort of physical nature. A deviation to the rules. One she isn't sure she appreciates or not, but is curious enough in her current state of inebriation. When the current game clears, her eyes flick up to the person nearest her.]

Whites or blacks then? I'll take a rook. [She's already stepping onto the board. In all actuality she would prefer the movement of the knight on the board, but she doesn't need the implication either.]

ooc: completely open. m/f or f/f, smut or gen is fine. if you have any questions or want to plot, hmu at

xdombillyx

Edited 2024-05-13 17:43 (UTC)

welcome to saltburn ;

( The hangover isn't what she expected, really. Betty thinks it as she hides a yawn in her hand, wandering slowly down the halls of the manor in a floral sundress to get an understanding of where she is, get the lay of the land. She looks at everything with an FBI agent's eye, takes it in and tries to commit it to memory because there's no telling what's around the corner.

But it's the library that draws her away from her task of checking corners, exists and all. She doesn't believe that they can leave, no matter what the butler said when she asked. Jughead would probably tell her the multi-verse works in mysterious ways but Betty's sense of danger is tingling.

She runs her hands along the spine of a row of books, stops to pick one out and opens it to a random page. )

“I wanna feel you milking me, baby,” ( she quotes aloud, grimacing at the words that leave her mouth even though there's a flush on her cheeks. She shuts the book, puts it back in it's place. )

let them eat cake ;

CW: death, gore

( Betty cuts the dress she finds in the closet in her bedroom, the soft frills only hit mid thigh. Whatever is happening, she needs to go to the party to understand the whole of it. Any of it. She wishes she had someone here that understood this better than her; Betty's good with tracking down killers, not dealing with the supernatural. That's been Cherly, normally, and Jughead recently.

She realises as she's getting dressed that she can't do it alone. She slips int the dress, ops for a pair of pale pink lace panties underneath. She holds one arm over her chest, covering her breasts even with her arms in the sleeves as if the fabric isn't sheer and her breasts bare underneath it. Once she's laced up, it won't matter.

But for the moment, she feels the need for modesty as she knocks on the door of a neighboring bedroom. When it's opened, she offers that girl-next-door smile. ) Could I get some help?

( Later, she can be found amongst the festivities with a drink of champagne in hand. The bubbles make her mind dance, she feels drunker than she should for how much she's had. The cakes fascinate her more than they should, remind her of things she'd rather forget; body, a rough voice telling her to cut it into pieces with feverish excitement. She shudders, downs the rest of her drink in one gulp. If someone stands beside her, she looks at them curiously; ) Do you have a preference of cut?

( Morbid. Awful. She should feel a slice of shame in asking but she thinks of Archie strung up at the altar with his heart beating in Cheryl's hand, she thinks of Glen buried underneath her home and then Archie again with the bullet she put through the back of his head. She thinks of violence and blood, she thinks of death and how sweet the cupcakes would taste if she dipped her fingers in the frosting and let someone have a taste. )

wildcard ;

( feel free to PM to plot something, i'm open to anything! betty's canon point is at the end of the rivervale parallel universe collapse in season 7. betty is 25 years old. )

001. welcome to saltburnt.

[ This is the third time he's woken up here, and he's fucking sick of it. The first time, he lay with a pillow over his head until the pounding headache dissipated enough for him to be able to move. Then he dragged himself out of bed, barely even aware he was dressing himself in clothes that don't belong to him, and hunted down someone with enough authority to get him the fuck out of here. That's what he said: get me the fuck out of here. He waited long enough for a car that he started to get pissed about it, and then he gave up and started walking. He doesn't remember when he turned back – clearly he must have done, but it's unclear to him. He hopped the fence, and walked, and then he was waking up again. The second time he really kicked off with the butler, ignoring the pounding in his skull, drilling all his agony into the rough, pointed gesticulations he'd been throwing the butler's way. Another car that never came, another heavy-stepped walk into the middle of nowhere, and now he's back again.

This time, he doesn't bother trying to leave. He takes the painkillers – swallows them dry, coughs, clears his throat. He shuffles blearily out into the corridor, and towards the door directly opposite him. He knocks, hard. He's rubbing one eye under his glasses with his knuckle when it swings open. ]

Hey. Fuck's going on?

002. exploring.

[ It takes him a while to find a room that isn't an endless corridor, and what he finds is the library. Frank's never had much use for libraries, but this one feels important somehow, like he's meant to stay here. Which, actually, is a stupid thing to think, and he's insane for thinking it. He snorts derisively at himself, shaking his head, and at random he plucks a book off a shelf. The dense blocks of text inside hold his attention for about three seconds before he gives up and slots it back into place, lips pursed.

It strikes him at the sound of footsteps that aren't his own that he's not alone. He aims a surreptitious glance in their direction, analysing for a moment, before he clears his throat. ]

You find anything?

003. let them eat cake.

[ Frank doesn't exactly dress on theme – the most he can stomach is an floral patterned black shirt, but he hasn't even bothered to button it, a white wifebeater visible underneath – but then he's not interested in going to the party. He's way too old for this shit, actually, so his first point of call is to nab himself a bottle of booze, and his second is to head out onto a quiet balcony away from the crowd of chatting hedonists so he can drink directly out of the bottle in peace. Anyone who steps out onto the balcony with him is getting a dark sidelong glance; clearly, he'd rather be alone. But he doesn't say anything to that effect, not yet at least. ]

004. wildcard.

[ feel free to throw something else at me, or hmu at

crowders if you want to plot. ]

Edited 2024-05-13 18:22 (UTC)

𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑺𝑨𝑳𝑻𝑩𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑻

[eyes squint shut as the curtains are drawn and sun plunges its unforgiving rays on to her bed. she struggles waking up, mostly because the bed is plush and comfortable and her hand finds the silver dish to easily. she palms at the pills, frowns, then sits up so abruptly she may as well have vertigo. forget the pills, but the water is gulped down. the maid is shooed away -- she doesn't care about the breakfast, she cares about how the fuck she ended up here.

still, she's no stranger to odd situations. slipping out of bed cautiously, quietly, she maneuvers her way around the room to inspect it. wooden drawers open and close unceremoniously, closet is rifled through, bed checked under. no cat, no clues, no creepy trapdoor, no nothing. before she dresses for breakfast, she tiptoes into the adjoining bathroom. it's too large for one person. creeping to the other door, she knocks gently before pressing it open gently-]

Um, hello? Sorry, but do you know what the fuck is going on?

[but where else is she supposed to get some support and maybe an answer or two? well, probably not the stranger next door, but the least she can do is some sleuthing.]

𝑳𝑬𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑴 𝑬𝑨𝑻 𝑪𝑨𝑲𝑬

[she hardly arrives per dress code. a silky, light blue close-to-nightgown dress is donned along with a few layered pearl necklaces she found laying around in her room and a corset to match. if she's going to have to be stuck here, she may as well try and blend in a little while she attempts to pull apart this mystery. no, Giles hadn't been any help. she can be seen trying to speak to waiters and maids who politely avoid the question and instead insist a macaroon or glass of bubbly. she ends up turned away with both her hands full.

she finds herself in front of one of the body cakes at some point in the night, staring down at it with an uncomfortable expression.]

Creepy.

[said to no one in particular, but definitely not said softly enough that whoever is next to her wouldn't be able to hear. no, she's learned her lesson in eating weird things offered to her and while she munched on a macaroon (or two) that cake screams not a good idea.]

𝑾𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑫

( ooc: or throw something else at me! find her exploring, maybe she did eat the cake, maybe someone is trying to eat her idk it is ota free for all. gen/smut/etc is fine. hmu over at turnt )

Edited 2024-05-13 18:19 (UTC)

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

( The bathroom's huge for Mal's standards; shared or not. The tub at the center is big enough to fit several if it were left to the masses but he can guess that like the rest of the opulence found in this place, it's private. The last thing he remembers if waking up from a dream, a vision and hurling himself out of a bath, he's not sure how he got in the bed.

He leaves the bathroom and bedroom he'd woken in dressed in a pair of brown slacks that are worth more than anything he's owned and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. It's simple, it's quick. Mal makes his way toward the grand entrance and out the doors, toward the gates of the estate.

The closer he draws, the stronger the chill up his spine grows and the nausea sets in. Mal's a soldier, pushing forward and onwards until he stops at the threshold and looks out into the countryside ahead. There's a road ahead and beyond it? Well, green lushness and countryside. There's not a village in his line of sight. He hesitates, then starts to walk forward with determination as his body trembles. He'll trudge on until he collapses, wakes again but the presence of another that'll get him to stop, if he notices them struggling and falling behind.

He'll take them to the gates then, worry etched into his brow. ) Sit down for a little. It might pass.

A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM

CW: mid-fuck, cannibalism, blood

( He's losing his mind, he's sure of it. Mal's overcome with a fever, a desire boiling low in his gut, a fire kindled the night of his arrival now burning bright.

He remembers that night, the sweetness of the cake and the warmth of bodies pressed against his own. He remembers laughter, remembers feeling more alive than he had in a long time after he'd forgotten about stuffing diamonds into his pockets and was distracted by cake. The necklace that he'd won, fool that he is, rests squirreled away underneath the bed he's claimed for himself, unworn.

Mal is atop of it, tangled in sheets and limbs with the body of a lover pressed into the cold silk beneath him. His tongue traces a collarbone, licks sweat from the skin as his hips rock against his partner's hips to rhythm that started slow, steady but grows more frantic with need. He presses his teeth into the tendon along a sweat-slicked neck, works it between his teeth. )

Please, ( he whispers, kisses the same spot. ) Need to taste you. So sweet.

( his teeth sink in as soon as he has permission into the junction of shoulder and neck and as blood spills on his tongue, a moan is muffled into heated skin. )

WILDCARD

( feel free to wildcard anything! i'm open. not 100% sure on mal's canon point but let's say right after his own little bathtub voyeurism experience in season 2 of shadown & bone for now. )

Edited 2024-05-13 19:31 (UTC)

LET THEM EAT CAKE.

CONTENT WARNINGS: big Morning After vibes and the problematic implication that u may have fucked this asshole on purpose, alcohol/drug use implied, potential for nsfw.

( if danny had a nickel for every time he woke up in a different dimension from his last different dimension, he'd have three nickels — which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it's happened thrice.

this time, at least, he vaguely remembers the night prior: gory cakes and candy-colored liquor and drugs, oh my, and you now, his bed partner cozied up next to him in a tangle of silk bedsheet danny would've never been able to afford in any of his eight hundred and counting lives. danny doesn't remember fucking you stupid, but he figures he must have or he wouldn't be here watching you sleep, watching you wake up.

when you begin to stir, he's there to greet you, propped onto his side on one elbow, palm pillowing his cheek, your one night stand from hell. his pants are on, small mercies, but the top button is missing, fly unzipped and gaping wide like an invitation or a trap. )

What's up, sunshine? ( hey there, pookie. idly, danny digs a tattooed thumb into your bare navel and mops up a smudge of baby blue frosting that he promptly nurses back into his slut mouth, sucked clean past mean teeth. ) Thanks for the lay, I think. Hey, you ain't seen a bitch with tentacles out and about, have you? Maybe hanging from the sky?

( good news: he's not a hallucination. bad news: he's not a hallucination, he's in bed with you, and he's asking you about tentacle sky bitches first jump off a gnarly hangover. )

A MIDNIGHT'S DREAM.

CONTENT WARNINGS: gut(cake?)-fucking/wound-fucking, eroticized gore (both of a cake and human viscera variety just 2 cover my gore-related bases here), nsfw. this prompt assumes enthusiastic consent from his partner, so pls make sure ur character is a) a freak and b) dtf.

( danny never graduated high school or freshman biology, but he thinks you're a scientific marvel.

his air-tight case, as follows: you don't bleed wherever he bites you, again and again, over and over, from the column of your throat to firm pec or sweet tit, your nipple a candied marble that never melts in his mouth. he's got his hips bullied between his thighs and you propped up as his little doll on some vintage decorative table in an open, sprawling hallway where anyone walking by could watch him take you apart, lick by lick. except you don't bleed. except the only place where your body's caved unnaturally to danny's teeth is a little sweet spot beneath your ribs gashed open, sputtering wet but not bleeding, just waiting.

you've got a hole that needs filling, so danny does what he does best and fills it, responsibly, generously, two fingers knuckle-deep in your spun sugar guts. )

Feels like a cunt, ( is his only worthwhile observation here, though he bets it'd fit his dick like a cunt, too. one hand flexes between your thighs, cruelly squeezing whatever he finds there and doesn't let go. you're a scientific marvel. you're a tasty little slut, case closed. ) You wanna show me your other cunt?

( he's got holes to fill and eight more fingers, one tongue, one fat dick. count it down, count von count. )

WILDCARD.

( or hit me with anything else! park your character in his lap, get them a little turned around in the maze and have them run into danny in a dead-end corner Mysteriously (Suspiciously), whatever tickles ur fancy. i am ota to both m/f and m/m, prose or action brackets. he's written here v loosely as a crau in mind, but i'm, like, 50-50 on whether or not he'll actually be a crau vs a fresh slate. i'll cross that sexy little bridge when or if i come to it.

danny comes with a slew of content warnings that can be found here. also got a kink list for him over here. )

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

( on paper, it might seem fitz has had an abundant life as the bastard prince of the coastal duchie buck, raised up alongside the royal family as part of their own. and possibly, were he still a young boy in lessons of scribe work and assassinations and skill, he'd have enough familiarity with court politics that he could, at the very least, fake a polite enough demeanor to get through on the other side of things. unfortunately, fitz is not a boy, and has spent the last fifteen years of his life living in a self-appointed exile in a shack in the woods, with his wolf and his boy, and little else to occupy his time. he's a little rough on socialization — rougher still on the rituals of making oneself presentable for a fancy dinner.

he gets within the surrounding hallway of the dining room before swiftly becoming aware of his poor dress — that is, the comfiest, laziest, and most functional clothes he could find in his closet, a henley and militant style cargo pants, tucked into the ankles of laced up boots. not suits or black tie, whatever that means.

rather than rethink his outfit choice, he heads to the kitchen, a presumed sanctuary. inside, he finds a group of outcasts already formed, eating ramshackle dinners in the tight corners of a busy kitchen. much more like the buck he remembers, in truth. approaching, he thieves a hot cake off the plate of an exiting waiter, juggling the hot confection between his two palms, and all his fingers. )

Also avoiding our ( what to say? ) generous hosts, I take it?

LET THEM EAT CAKE

( while fitz enjoys celebrations, he can't entirely find the merriment in the one at hand. call it a moral difference — call it what it is. fitz is awkward when he comes to enjoying anything, and uncomfortable in busy places with lots of exits. for him, who didn't even try to dress in anything resembling a costume, he sticks out like a sore thumb. people's disapproval of his stings like a slap to the face.

so, like the hermit he apparently is, he takes absolutely no part in the fun at all, and instead heads to the horse stables, where he busies himself with cleaning out the muck, laying fresh hay, patting them softly, and generally introducing himself to each and every man (horse). none of them talk back to him, but it's fine — all in good time. )

WILDCARD

( anything else! feel free to hit me up with your own prompts and/or message me over pm or at trashmouth to plot something out. )

— WELCOME TO SALTBURNT.

[ it’s not unusual for him to wake from the kind of deeply sticky sleep that only an afternoon session of liquor can induce, mouth dry and head hammered in with regret’s rusted nails, only this time he’s thrown for a time loop in a strangely european room, sunlight pouring through the parted curtains. prague? berlin? some sleepy little town where he’s spending his r&r reading waterlogged copies of king arthur and letting ash fuck him like he’ll be in love forever?

he turns with a rustle of expensive sheets and an ugly twist of his heart that can only be hope, expecting to see dark hair, bottle-green eyes, a chiseled jaw with an ever-present dusting of shadow. hoping, hoping, hoping.

no such luck, because life is shit, and this room isn’t goddamn europe. embry looks at the stranger occupying the space beside him in the opulent bed, another not-unusual occurrence, but a slightly irritating one, even if the stranger is rumpled in a decidedly pleasant way, which is maybe how they ended up sharing a bed in the first place. embry is not the most discerning of lovers, since his appetite includes nearly everything under the sun.

he slips out of bed and inspects the room, but loses interest quickly at how similar it is to vivienne’s mansion, a snobby trait that would probably make him unlikable if he voiced his apathy to wealth. pulling fresh clothes out of the closet, he dresses in slacks and a white button-down, squinting in the sunlight before finally yanking the curtains closed with a mumbled curse.

looking at his barely-conscious companion, he slides onto the bed, his shirt hanging open, and puts on his most charming grin even while his eyeballs threaten to pulse right out of his head. ]

Hey. You wanna go downstairs and bring me up a plate?

[ breakfast? self-serve? while he has a hangover? fuck off. ]

— LET THEM EAT CAKE.

[ his costume has long-since been debauched, though he doesn’t remember which of the party-goers popped the buttons and which one spilled wine on the pretty blue fabric, and is the red across his mouth lipstick or frosting or something else entirely? roman architecture is perfect for snorting cocaine, and he’s far enough gone not to care — not when the grass is this soft and the stars are so bright and he can almost pretend that he doesn’t have a hole so wide in his chest that his heart practically falls out every day. ]

We could have a wedding here. [ he’s stolen someone’s lace veil, which he’s been carrying around for the last half hour he’s been wandering the perfectly manicured maze, hopelessly lost and half wondering if someone might find his body out here by midday tomorrow. ] We could elope. I don’t believe in God, so we don’t need anyone ordained.

[ it makes perfect sense to him, and fuck, no one knows how badly he wants to be someone’s husband, and how he gave up the chance twice because of reasons he can’t even put into words right now because he’s too drunk and high and politically fucking furious about it.

he swallows down his sorrow, placing the veil atop his companion’s head, then swoops down to one knee, the grass staining the expensive fabric of his trousers. his cheek nuzzles against your hip, his fingers trailing down the edge of one thigh. ]

Marry me.

— or wildcard him!

[ ooc: will default to brackets. check out his info + permissions here. embry is very much your problematic fave so i’m open to all kinds of fuckery. he comes from the new camelot trilogy by sierra simone where he is a subby switch and his kinks are wide and varied. 100% bisexual. ]

Edited 2024-05-14 01:01 (UTC)

WELCOME — IN THE ROOMS

[ He wakes up with a half-snore, sprawled face-down on a bed, nothing but his underwear on and a sheet unevenly thrown over his ass. Apparently Liam couldn't even bother to keep most of his legs under it, though he couldn't remember why. Because he got too hot, he assumes. Now he just needs to figure out the rest.

Rolling on his back, blearily finding the strength to lift his head enough to look around, he quickly concludes the obvious: he has no fucking clue where he is. Which is something he can figure out later.

He lets his head drop back on the pillow with a sigh, then decides to go back to sleep. Come wake him up before the maid does. ]

WELCOME — HI, BYE

[ All the opulence is nothing he hasn't seen before, just worse. He can hear all the things Mother would point out being wrong with it, all the different mistakes staff made in the few hours Liam stuck around to figure out what's going on, and thinks he'd rather go back to sleeping in motels again. He's not letting anyone stick him in a car he isn't driving, either, so he makes the walk all the way to the gates.

He also recognizes the feeling that crawls up his body, sinks into his skin, weighing down his steps the closer he comes to the front gates. Another fucking reminder of his past that motivates him to leave out of sheer pettiness.

He sees you on his way there, tips his head to point you in the right direction. ]

'Wanna come with me?

LET THEM EAT CAKE

[ Trying to leave was a mistake, not because it made him feel like shit, not because he ended up coming back, but because he's been unable to think about anything else. It's been like picking at a wound, closing and opening right back up until someone mercifully announces a party where he won't be able to think at all.

It's colorful, it's vulgar; it's expensive and it's for free. Liam doesn't turn down anything that might get him stigmatized or arrested in the real world. By the time he finds his way through to those cakes his world is already a concoction of senses all mixed up, colored by a personality that's simply an amplification of his usual self. ]

Holy shit. [ A cackle, stumbling into you, his shoulder against yours. ] You couldn't pay me enough to do that.

[ And then someone serves the first slice. ]

Wait. It's all cake?

MIDNIGHT'S DREAM

[ The pills aren't enough for the hangover. All the food isn't enough to make the hunger go away. By the time the third day comes around, Liam's feeling desperate enough to go for the eggs, determined on his way to breakfast until he passes by a couple eating each other up in one of the seemingly endless hallways. He frowns to himself, keeps walking, thinks that he's having a wait, it's all cake moment again, probably because his appetite is making him go a little crazy.

He stops when he finds you. Lifts his hand, fingers toward your mouth. ]

Can you bite me real quick?

—

[ Feel free to ask for a Wildcard! Info and character CWs on his journal. also sorry for the pb lmao (or am i) ]

i. welcome to saltburnt

[A manor of this size and complexity is familiar; Kate is reminded of Aubrey Hall, of croquet and mud caked on her shoes, of the Viscount's laughter. She forces herself not to recall, to focus instead on the immediate: where she is, where her mother, her sister (Edwina, Edwina who will never forgive her, no matter how far Kate goes, what's done is done, the scene at the altar seared into the minds of the ton) are, how she can leave. She thinks to search the stables, but then recalls: the rain, the accident. On foot, then, nevermind her headache, nevermind the growing fear that something is wrong, something is dangerously, dreadfully wrong and then --

Kate awakes in bed, hair loose, nightgown slipping off her shoulder from a night spent tossing and turning. A dream, maybe -- she dreams of the gazebo, of the wedding, of Aubrey Hall and the growing realization that she has betrayed everything she's ever loved. But no, she sits up and the home is not one she recognizes. Propriety demands a dressing gown at the least, but -- well. Kate has already so far removed herself from propriety that one more faux pas shouldn't matter terribly.

So she steps out into the hall in her nightgown, fingercombing her hair and braiding it away, out of her face. The first person she sees gets a polite curtsy, a firm and straightforward:] I believe there's been some mistake. I'm not meant to be here. Please assist me in obtaining a carriage to return to London, as soon as possible.

ii. let them eat cake

[Predictably: it doesn't work. Kate's polite requests, firm demands and outright threats are met with nothing at all, and when night falls, she resigns herself to remaining at Saltburnt until the morning, at least. She's ravenously hungry, after multiple attempts to leave on foot -- once in lavender lambskin boots, once in slippers, once barefoot and wild on the moors like a wraith in a fairy tale -- and while the size and shape of the cake is off-putting, Kate's hunger eventually wins. She keeps her dining small, filling her plate with an assortment of fingers.

The absurdity of it (lady fingers, there's a play on words) makes her want to laugh. Instead Kate sits, looking out across the grounds, eyes drawn again and again to the gazebo she can see amidst the topiaries. Something makes her stand, set down her plate, thumbing jam off her lower lip as she heads for the structure. She half-expects to find Anthony there, waiting for her, thinks of her fingers in his mouth, his mouth on her --

Enough. Enough. At least the cake is good. Kate sucks the jam from her thumb, unheeding, teethes at the pad of her finger, thinks again: Anthony, Anthony. When she runs into someone, finger in her mouth, there's a hunger of another sort rippling like river currents through Kate's body. She meets the stranger's eyes, her own dark, hungry. So, so hungry.]

[[ooc: open to anything, smut or gen, m/f or f/f~ hit me up here or at

ceedawkes with any questions]]

( let them eat cake )
[A party on some rich property that's so lavish no one seems to care that they're still kind of trapped here? Fuck yeah. It's bougie rich. Like 'eat the rich' rich. And while Emma grew up with some clout, a child star of some sorts, this is an entirely different level to anything she's used to.

Her blue dress has enough frills and wide hips she feels like she's almost pregnant or something. This is absolutely ridiculous, but she's also in college and like at least it's not another fucking toga party at this point.

So she's down for this, trying to vibe with it with a little headbob as she enters the outside space. There's not a lot to eat, but that's fine with her. She's probably lost a few inches, her abilities depending on her metabolism, so she looks even tinier and petite at this point, but that's not her focus.

It's the diamonds she goes after. She'll snag them where she can, drink a glass of champagne, take them from the bottom of the cup, reach across people to pluck them out of a bouquet, and when she realizes that her and someone else spotted a rather large one sitting between the legs of a beautiful marbled statue, spread open and waiting for someone to take it, body wanting more than the marble could ever give her. Emma grabs it first.]

It's yours if you take it from me. [Her tone is devious, already clearly into the game, but into the idea of what this party offers more. She's got a pocket full of diamonds right now anyway, and she sticks her tongue out to put the diamond on it. Probably not sanitary or safe, but her smirk is wild, begging to be called out. Or taken. Whichever.]

( midnight's dream )
cw: alluding to previous ed, biting, blood play
[She is beginning to realize just how eerie this place is. She probably shouldn't have had some of the cake the night before, the flesh of the cake looking strange and oddly appetizing then. Emma had dug in more than she typically does. Admittedly she hasn't eaten a whole lot here. She's supposed to be counting calories, keeping up on what she eats, making sure he metabolism doesn't affect her too much, but her time here has felt almost cyclical until the party, and none of that mattered when she wakes up in the same spot, eating or not eating the same things only to arrive in the same place every morning like nothing has happened.

So the cake really felt like the first time real food has touched her lips, and she dug into the soft cream cake with the rich raspberry jams inside. And hasn't thought much of that moment since. The party went on, she had her fun, and for once she woke up, and it didn't feel like some reoccurring loop.

It puts her in a better mood and eventually she finds someone toward the evening, ending up in some opulent hallway, secluded behind some old column. Maybe she should have some sort of hesitancy about this, but Emma feels like she's so hungry again. Food won't satiate this hunger, and she's already pushing down the pants down to their ankles, eyes looking over their thigh until she can spread their legs.]

Mm, do you like this? [One hand palms over the cock, exposed and growing hard, before her cheek rubs at the flesh on the middle of the thigh, engrossed with it for the moment. One swipe of her tongue, and she can taste that cream, the whipped topping so sweet on her tongue.]

Can I have another taste? I'll make sure it feels good. [Her hand starts to work him, wrist rolling down the shaft to squeeze, knowing all too well what she's doing.]

ooc: open for gen, mostly m/f for smut, but can plot some things with ladies. emma's college age, so like 18/19ish. very sexually open. info and kinklist on her journal if interested.

Edited 2024-05-14 03:41 (UTC)

welcome;
[New place, different day. For someone like Clara, waking up in strange new places isn't exactly a new thing. The circumstances here are a bit odd, maybe, but she has total faith that she'll be able to find her way right out of the situation. The painkillers are intentionally left right where they rest, as is the glass of water.

Getting dressed is quick and easy, and she tries to ignore the pounding headache in favor of exploring her new surroundings.

At one point she loses track of time completely and takes in an entire long corridor of art. The piece she favors is one of the stars. If someone is to encounter her there, she'll likely draw them in by asking what the stars are like where they come from.

The library is fascinating enough, though she can't exactly place any of the texts as being from her version of Earth or any other planet she's been to. Any poor soul that's nearby when she sets her mind to finding books of maps will be put to work assisting her, with a promise that it will be worth their while.

But it's the gates outside where she spends the longest amount of time. That feeling of deep foreboding builds within her until it's a nagging distress, which only compounds her headache and makes her lose track of time completely. It isn't until someone pulls her from her thoughts that she pulls out of the trance like state she's in, and blinks as she glances over toward them with an apology.]

eat cake;
[She'll pass on the pinks and blues, thank you very much. Where color seems to be in abundance all around her, Clara's opted to piece together something that doesn't necessarily follow the rules. Doing what's expected of her is old news at this point. She isn't a good little girl, and she most certainly isn't in attendance to drink and eat.

Her sights are set on bigger prizes. While she moves through the crowd in search of diamonds, what she's really after are secrets. Information is power, after all. And she covers her desire to find out as much as she can about everyone that's here with her, disarming with a dimpled smile and a playful attitude as she does whatever she must to get as many diamonds as possible.

There's some flirting here, some casual attempts to pickpocket there. She doesn't try to hide the fact she's playing at wanting to have the most diamonds at the end of the night.

In the midst of all her socialization she brushes past someone that's indulging in the sweets. The sight of it makes her take pause, and she attempts to size up whether or not they have anything worth her while as she teases.]

Oh, I wouldn't bite into that if I were you.

dream;

I told them not to eat anything.

[Clara Oswald has spent time in many unfortunate situations, but none have ever felt quite as...indulgent as this one. All around people are giving in to their basest urges, and she isn't sure why she's not feeling the urges the same as everyone else. But she's definitely not about to go lock herself away in a room and wait this out.

No, she's content to explore and observe everyone else. There's plenty of ammunition she can use against people later, and she takes it all in with eyebrows raised. She rounds a corner, more focused on others than noticing where she's going. Which is exactly why she nearly runs right into someone.

And judging from the look in their eyes, she isn't sure conversation is what they're after. Her hand clutches at that necklace resting around her neck and she takes a cautious step back.]

Let me guess. Feeling a bit peckish?

( welcome to saltburnt )
[Tap, tap, tap.

It's a familiar scene. Grace, sitting out the front of a large manor, looks nonplussed with what may be happening around her. Her fingers hold a cigarette between them, unblinking as her eyes stare out beyond the fence as if it's so close to get there. Even if her dress is torn, shredded and burnt, bloodstains on the white lace, she's got her shoes on, ready to bolt.

She's done it before though. She's escaped before, too. But it wasn't this house, and there were bodies in her wake. She's not above it if it gets to it, but her foot taps against one of the steps she's sitting on. This time there are no sirens, no one coming to whisk her away. She's just here. And she'll be here tomorrow. With another cigarette between long fingers, contemplating how to get out of this rat cage they've somehow got her in.

She'll get out though.

Inhaling a long pull from the cigarette, she exhales out the smoke after a moment before one of the servants is offering her an ash tray. Coolly she just looks up at him and flicks the rest of the bud into one of the bushes. Normally she would have more regard for the plant life, but even if she burns the bush down, it will spawn again in the morning. So she just stands, leaves the servant to find the discarded cigarette butt, eyes back on the clearing in front of the house and the grass beyond the gate.]

They're teasing us.

( let them eat cake )
[It's not a wedding reception, but the party feels too much like calf being fattened for the slaughter. She learned that once already, being brought into a room for a family game. This feels too similar. The chess and even the game of hide and seek with the diamonds. The cake is a new touch though, beyond even the complexities of an expensive wedding cake. There's only sweets here it seems, though she would try to avoid it all if she could.

There's nothing about this party that she trusts, being pushed into another fancy dress, this time white tiered lace with a bust beneath to hold her in. It's more sheer than she would like, but she knows what this is, and if they expect her to simply run during the slaughter, they've brought the wrong girl here. Ask her what happened to the last family that tried to bring her down.

What she does decide to do is collect the diamonds though. It might help her gain more information. Most people seem to indulge, and she can't blame them. She didn't know what was coming during her wedding reception, sybaritic and too opulent. She's learned it now, and for all the riches this place or the La Domas estate could give her, she would happily return it to never know.

But carefully she moves through the landscape of party goers, most already blitzed out on whatever they're passing out here. Her goal is to attempt to keep her wits about her and start collecting those diamonds. They shine in the lights glittering around. Her sole focus is fixated on that. At least it feels like it's something she can do-- something that has to have a purpose.

So she starts collecting, finding the little stones hidden in plain sight. She dips her fingers in flower pots, moving around the statues adorning the lawn. The gardens as extravagant as she expects, and it's easy to get herself lost in them, wandering a little farther from the party. Until someone offer a diamond in their palm. Grace looks up, squinting in disbelief, that paranoia not too far and niggling at the back of her mind. But she can use an ally right now.]

Why are you helping me?

( midnight's dream )
cw: biting, gore, bloodplay
[She stumbles out of one of the rooms, out of breath and with the lace dress in even more tatters than it was previously. Her hair is a mess, really all of her is at this point. Heavy breathing leaves her looking that much more deranged, though at least she has her sensibilities about her. Hands cling to that diamond necklace draping over her neck, doing nothing to help hide her heaving breasts.

Eyes flick up as her hand clutches on the inside of her thigh. She pulls it back to find blood, making her inhale sharply. There's another mark on her chest, but not as severe, the lace soaking it and turning the wide a deep red. It's almost worse than the blood splatter. If there's any consolation at least the gashes in her back aren't bothering her anymore.

Apparently she has this scent on her though, and she's not sure if she can make it back to her own room with this frenzy, stumbling against the wall though the thought of the bites themselves have more of an effect on her than she wishes. She looks down the hallway, trying to gauge the best route back despite her lingering around the hall like she should look back.]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT - BREAKFAST

[This...is decidedly not where he fell asleep last night. Isn't the familiar plain white ceiling of an apartment he's still struggling to call home. The air isn't tinged with cigarette smoke, and the covers are decidedly free from black fur. And yet despite how wrong the whole situation is, his only reaction at first is to squeeze his eyes shut all over again. Is to try and block out the light that feels like laser boring in to his head. The urge to vomit is there, despite knowing he hasn't eaten in more than a day. But with the way his vision swirls when he finally tries to blink his eyes back open again, well...

Maybe that's a lie. Maybe he's just forgotten whatever he got up to yesterday. And if that's the case, where the hell is he?

Heading out the room only serves to confuse him further. There's a sense of deja-vu creeping up on him that he's wholly uncomfortable with addressing. There's pictures on the walls, plush carpet beneath his feet. An age to the building that's entirely unlike anything he's seen in this city before.

(City? No. It was a house, wasn't it? A mansion. With an estate...)

There's no chance to question it further though. Not once the scent of freshly cooked bacon hits his nose. And in no time whatsoever, he has a plate full of food that he's practically inhaling even before he's taken a seat at the table. Who cares how classy this place is. He's hungry.

Hope it doesn't put you off your own meal, pal.]

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT - GROUNDS

[Inevitably, after he's filled his stomach, Bucky heads out in to the grounds, wanting to try and get a better idea of just where he is. The fact he isn't stopped at the door does come as a surprise to him. Doubly so when his lack of a cuff goes ignored. (His mark is gone. So clearly they must have changed his designation, right?)

One quick lap of the grounds, and then he's making a beeline for the fence. Or rather, the spot a few feet away from it where he ends up doubling over as he tries his best not to empty the contents of his stomach. Each step closer makes the feeling worse. And even once he's close enough to curl his fingers around the bars of the fence, to crush them in his grip, he ends up abruptly backing away. Ends up trying to put space between himself and the fence far more quickly than his feet allow.

Which is how he ends up stumbling into the warm body behind him. How he ends up wrapping his hands round their arms and pressing the top of his head to their chest as he stares down at the grass between them. As he tries to remember how to breathe.

Give him a moment. He's figure out how awkward this is soon enough.]

LET THEM EAT CAKE

[Having to dress up for a party isn't exactly new to him. Nor is having the choice of clothing picked out for him either. The style, however- Being able to actually cover up is a new one. Even if it clearly isn't a style shared by everybody currently milling around the grounds. But if he really needed more proof that this isn't the same city he was once forced to call home, the fact he doesn't feel like he's being watched at every moment certainly gives it away. Leaves him a whole lot more relaxed than he's used to.

Of course, it probably also helps that he's already on his third glass of whatever it is he's drinking. Something a damn sight sweeter than anything he'd usually pick, but strong enough to hit the spot. And leaves him loose enough not to question it as a plate full of something that's supposedly cake is thrust into his hands, and devoured just as quickly. Free food is free food, and he's done living on an empty stomach. No matter how the food might look.

Though when he ends up chomping down on a diamond that'd snuck its way into the frosting of his cake, the rest of his plate ends up being abandoned. And instead, it's back to a liquid diet again. One he's all too happy to turn to as he starts making his way around the grounds again, his gaze narrowing in on the human-shaped cake that someone's slicing in to.

Is that what he'd been eating?]

NOTES

Still not completely sure whether Bucky's coming in as a CRAU from Duplicity or not. But for the purposes of the TDM, I'm going with yes. His canon point is pre-FATWS, despite the icons. (He's getting an update soon). There's also the added bonus of him being a literal white wolf too, thanks to a city event turning him in to a werewolf. But it's 100% emotion driven and is easily avoidable.

Edited 2024-05-14 17:12 (UTC)

i. welcome to saltburnt (garden)
[ Matt passed several throbbing hours on the path to the front gate.

Hours? That's a lot. Maybe it was only minutes. And in any case, time and dread both exert the same pressure on his brain, narrowing the world to safe or not safe. If he were casting a spell to deter trespassers or rubberneckers, he would design it to do exactly this–work on the emotions, wind them up to a frenzy. Let the interloper deter themselves. But then he thinks, that's crazy. He has no evidence anything magical is going on here, and he does have evidence that he's in the middle of nowhere, with who knows how far until town. And then–who's to say the nearest town isn't all working for them? Cops and gas station attendants and everyone?

Stop.

Loop.

The fourth time Matt wakes up, he wanders to the garden. He eschews the maze's mouth for now, though narrative weight dictates that's the best way out of here. Instead, Matt goes from flower to flower, assessing them rather than appreciating them. (Sorry, girls, you're all beautiful. He just has work to do.)

Now and then, he snaps off a blossom or leaf and tucks it into a jacket pocket. ]

ii-a. let them eat cake (like my mask?)
[ There were a number of beautiful clothes hanging in the closet when he staggered awake. But by the time he gets back to what he's told is "his" room, they've all flown away, and only one outfit remains. A navy three-piece suit of a nauseatingly familiar cut and texture, white button-down, and– ]

No ...

[ It's the goddamn tie. The same tie he wore to the last family Christmas party he ever attended, with the festive chimney and Santa checking lists and all that Norman Rockwell bullshit. The whole outfit is the same, but the tie is the one thing that absolutely couldn't be a coincidence.

Though it doesn't have any of Mr. Mercer's cum on it.

Matt shuffles into the party in his Christmas suit and Christmas tie, trying to wear a good-sport, team-player smile. It looks more like a grimace. ]

Okay, [ he says, to the first person who looks like they might be a Jamison family friend–a category that covers a lot of wealthy ground, ] where is she?

ii-b. let them eat cake (diamonds are a girl's best)
[ Matt had been trying to avoid eating. Something something fae court rules. But as the hours of this party drag on, and the cocktails shimmer in their glasses while his mouth gets dryer and dryer, and his stomach rumbles–

He doesn't actually remember taking the elegant flute in his hand. It's pretty, though. A perfect gradient of goldenrod to ruby red, ice clicking daintily.

Someone has bisected the cake next to him, and someone else (or multiple someones) made off with one half of the body, leaving only smears of icing behind. Matt bends to inspect the cake. It looks familiar, which strikes him as highly inauspicious. ]

There's an "as above, so below" kind of principle, [ he explains to the person next to him, who may or may not have asked. ] You mimic the area you want to affect, and then the changes you make to that facsimile are echoed in the real thing.

Though it feels like there's something to be said here about organ sacrifice, too. Hearts, livers … I wonder if the sweetmeats are the best part of the cake.

[ Matt straightens, taking a long pull from his glass–only to realize that one of those ice cubes wasn't actually ice. He starts choking on the diamond. ]

iii. a midnight's dream (cw: blood, cannibalism, self-mutilation)
[ Did he … eat the cake …?

Matt has a booze-soaked memory of letting someone push crumbs into his mouth, smearing his lips with frosting. And now–now he's desperate, sugar-sticky. Haunting the halls until he finds someone who'll have him.

Isn't that what Vincent always said? If I don't eat you up, someone else will. Isn't it what the gnostic scriptures say? God is a man-eater. For this reason, men are sacrificed to him. What is love if it isn't devouring? Matt finds himself on the dining room table, legs spread for his hungry paramour. His nails bite into the flesh of his thigh, and it gives easily–so easily–as if this is just what he was made for all this time. Pain and pleasure flare, rising in an ecstatic double helix. Matt gasps; cherry jam dribbles down his fingers. ]

Please … [ Panting, he offers the little piece of himself, holding it out to the waiting mouth. ] I got you. I want you to.

[ I'll take care of you. ]

iv. wildcard
[ ooc: got a different idea? just throw it in here, at worst we can say it was all just (probably) a dream. ota for m/f, m/m, m/nb for gen, smut, and cake vore. also please have some character info about matt and a kink list. pm or hit up

artistformerlyknownas with any questions! ]

good morning sunshine

[Waking up hungover? Normal. Waking up not sure where he is? Likewise. The only thing of note is how fancy the place is; Iggy has fucked in plenty of ritzy homes in his time, but this is some next level shit. So he takes the painkillers and drinks the water, then lounges in bed for a few minutes, just enjoying the feel of expensive sheets.

He finally peels himself out of bed so he can use the washroom, which is when he discovers The Tub. Iggy actually squeals with delight, getting that water running pretty much immediately.

Oh, what's that? You're from the adjoining room and need to use the bathroom? No problem - except now there's a naked ginger in the bathtub, surrounded by mountains of bubbles, giggling silently to himself. When he spots the newcomer he smiles brightly.]

Hey! I don't suppose you can like, run downstairs and get me a mimosa? Or like, you got any coke?

let them eat cake

i. edible autopsy

[Oh. He loves a costume party. Maybe it's because he was born on Halloween but not allowed to celebrate until he moved out on his own, or maybe it's just that he knows how gosh darn pretty he's capable of looking. Whatever the reason, Iggy swans onto the grounds in the sluttiest Marie Antoinette getup he could find: corseted for the gods, darling, long legs out, cuffs dripping with lace. His hair is perfectly waved, his face powdered and rouged.

Yeah. He loves this shit.

He also loves free booze, and sweets. He's helping himself to the macarons when he first spots one of the cakes. It looks like a human corpse, but nobody seems to be reacting to it as such and so he assumes for a moment that only he can see it. He freezes, and waits for it to sit up and start talking to him.

Instead someone cuts into it, revealing the surprise. Iggy exhales a shaky, silent laugh.]

Oh my god, oh my god I'm so dumb, I thought that thing was real. Uhm. Are you having any?

ii. kiss with a fist

[Iggy sucks at chess. But he's drunk and he likes pink and he read Alice Through the Looking Glass once, so he's doing his best.]

I always deserved to be Queen.

[Declared as he hops to the closest diagonal square, which of course just happens to be occupied. Impishly, he eyes whoever is there up and down before leaning in for a kiss. He's only into men, but he's a lover and not a fighter - he'll only slap back if someone strikes first.]

a midnight's dream

[Another morning, another hangover. Except.... not.

Iggy wanders the halls, a silky robe draped over his skinny frame, curls disheveled and last night's mascara smudged under his eyes. Confused. Hungry, in a way that is entirely unfamiliar to someone whose usual breakfast is cigarettes and coffee.

He isn't sure what he's looking for. Until.]

Hey. You.

[He hurries over. His gaze is unsettlingly bright. Pink tongue slicks thin lips.]

I need you. You smell... delicious.

[Long fingers are already reaching, tracing a loving line along the closest forearm before he takes hold and tries to pull it up to his mouth.]

((ooc: tldr; cam boy/former medium. m/m for smut, but ota for all the weird, pls. happy to match format - brackets or prose, it's all good.]

BREAKFAST[ Daniel Molloy is the kind of man who rolls with the punches; he has to be. When he came here hy invitation it was with intent to interview the Balfours like he'd interrogated so many other rich assholes before them, despots and tech bros and a pair of vampires that he can't quite remember taking his leave of — but that's fine, he probably just felt like this was a more lucrative opportunity.

Part of showing up for the work he does is playing the part, so even though he finds his own suitcase unpacked into the back of the closet, he puts on the one they provided him. It makes him look like he's going to play golf, or worse, croquet. Probably the most expensive shirt he's ever worn. And the interesting thing is, one of the buttons on the cuffs catches his eye- the cream of the thread used is a slightly different shade of white to the rest of the garment's buttons. Someone lost that and had it repaired, near invisibly — but not near enough. If this suit is a gift, it's a hand-me-down. Otherwise it's a loaner, which comes with dangerous strings. He won't let himself get used to it.

But it's fine, he knows the first step is gaining trust, and that means playing along. Letting the subject think they have the power, that little old Daniel has a mouth on him but not much more. He won't bend his pride pretending to be intimidated by the wealth, but he can at least fake enjoying it.

And it's maybe not entirely fake. His egg - "Boiled, whites solid, yolk runny, cooled and opened," he tells a servant with ease - is fucking delicious, and he tucks into breakfast with relish.

Similarly, he can be found later enjoying the architecture and the art, standing consideringly in front of a marble statue as he tries to place it, and definitely not snooping when his fascination with Saltburnt's wallpaper patterning and reconstructed skirtingboards leads him into wings of the manor where he's maybe not supposed to be. No, don't mind Daniel peeking through a crack in your door — and definitely don't say anything if later he's seen escorted from a room by a stonefaced servant, explaining he was just really interested in the chest of drawers, they were a French antique. ]

PARTYThe harmless and eccentric old man act drops at the event, as he looks judgementally on the costumes and tries not to think about Louis' and Lestat's rococo gathering, how that had ended up for their guests. At least this one has nineties charm to it, a real lack of dignity in the skimpy little outfits of some guests, a Halloween-like refusal to make more than a nod to the period setting.

Daniel has worn makeup, pale power and rosy cheeks, but forgone the wig given his own mop of grey curls just about does the job. It helps hide his poor pallor — his meds had been in with his stuff, but they're only pallative, he'll probably need another blood transfusion in a month or so and when he tried to call his doc in New York to talk flying him out or recommending a local the man hadn't picked up. Weird.

The stifling prickly feeling that left him with only combines with the edge he feels at the party atmosphere. Risky journalism is his drug of choice these days, but that doesn't mean old habits have lost their allure. Generally he prefers not to put himself in the kind of situation where he has to turn down a line of coke in the first place. Fortunately all these pretty young things aren't as concerned with a tired old man who offers catty commentary on their clothes so he's not exactly overwhelmed with offers. And rehab was long enough ago that he's fine with a glass of wine and a bit of second-hand smoke.

That's probably why he's most often found on the balcony, looking out over the dark glitter of the manor grounds. Lost in thought enough that when someone approaches he startles hard. "Jeee-sus. Give a guy a heart attack, wouldja?"

OOC((prose or action welcome, feel free to extrapolate/jump in on any part of the narrative above or come up with something else. totally down for smut, vore, etc. you can reach me at

leftbeef to plot or tell me where to find some icons.))

Edited 2024-05-15 04:59 (UTC)

welcome

[Hyunsu is pretty sure his monster is fucking with him again. The only time he's had a headache like this is when his symptoms first started. He has that sense of disorientation, too. A sort of disconnect from reality that accompanied the onset when the monster first started whispering to him about his desires.

At least his nose isn't bleeding now. And actually there aren't any whispers at the moment, either. Just a general since of surreal weirdness from waking up in what appears to be a chaebol mansion.

He definitely doesn't belong here. He's too poor. Isn't he? He should be. But there's that sense of deja vu, like he has been here before. The maid is acting like he belongs. He doesn't like it.

His instinct is to stay in the room and wallow. To be a shut in like he was for so long before the world fell apart. But he's actually not comfortable enough among all this opulence to stay still. So eventually, he gives in to the urge to leave the room and explore. Maybe figure out what's going on.

He wanders the halls in clothes far fancier than he's used to. He has no destination in mind because he doesn't know where the fuck he is. Eventually his instincts seem to lead him to the dining room. Which, again, feels both familiar and not. He stares at the breakfast that's laid out and the people eating as if this is all perfectly normal.]

What is this?

let them eat cake

[Hyunsu attends the party with tremendous hesitation. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be wearing the outfit that was chosen for him. He'd lost interest in attending parties a long time ago, and this was never the sort of party he'd wanted to attend, anyway.

Though, admittedly, he'd expected something fancier than Doritos from a rich person party. He almost wants to be disappointed, but he's more relieved than anything. At least he knows what Doritos are. And they are honestly much more appetizing to than the people shaped cakes.

Is this really what rich people do for fun? Honestly, no wonder the world got cursed.

Suffice to say, he is determined to be as much of a wallflower as possible. Occasionally munching on Doritos or sipping on a drink. There doesn't seem to be any soda, but no one seems to care that he's technically too young to be drinking alcohol. As he finishes his current drink he pauses for a moment, brows furrowing and after a moment he (trying to be discreet because wtf) spits a diamond out into his hand.

He stares at it blankly.]

Really?

[He's tempted to pass it off to someone else, but it just came out of his mouth. That would probably make it weird.]

LET THEM EAT CAKE

A — ( as a whole, lucifer is pro parties, especially the debaucherous kind. say one thing about humanity, say they know how to have fun — certainly far better than some of the angels he's known, but that's neither here nor there. he's still on the outs with the human race at this current moment in time, but it's easy to overlook when face to face with the style of their grandeur. on a good day, his opinions change by the hour, so it's not unexpected that he happens to be having a good time at this one, merrily dancing to the in da club with anyone who fancies a juke train.

B — while he has fun taking part everywhere he can, lucifer is also prone to moments of quiet, peaceful solitude. he can be spotted by the dessert table, animatedly juggling macaroons before tossing one up to catch in his mouth. unfortunately — they're a bit big, and it bounces off his tooth and onto the grass. ) Five second rule. ( he claims, to anyone or no one, which is possibly the best rule the human race has ever invented, after god made bacteria and germs. dickhead. fifth day behaviors.

C — later, when things are winding down, he finds a little patio set to settle down in, a deck of cards shuffled expertly between his palms, an impressive little magic show for his current audience of one. it's been a fun party. a little boring, now. he smiles, inauspicious. )

Are you the gambling type?

NETWORK

UN: DRAGON_DEEZ_NUTS_

need a virgin. better if you don't ask. i know it's gonna be like a needle in a haystack here, but if you're willing to pretend, i'm willing to look the other way. lots of love. - uncle luci.

WILDCARD

( anything else! feel free to hit me up with your own prompts and/or message me over pm or at trashmouth to plot something out. luci also has a wip infosheet if you want to learn a little more about him. )

𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒕.

look, it's not the first time she's woke up in a strange place and it isn't likely to be the last. she's not even put off by the overwhelming wealth of the place, having spent a large portion of her life around money. although this is decidedly a lot older than she's used to, her parents having trended a lot more towards the whole modern/minimalist thing.

so yeah, not really concerned about the strange place, strange bed thing. what's a lot more important right now is the throbbing ache in her head that neither the aspirin or burying her head underneath a mountain of pillows have even managed to touch. so when she finally emerges from the bed (weirdly enough, in pajamas that actually are hers) she stumbles directly to the bathroom.

maybe you're her suite mate and the bathroom's already occupied, or maybe you find her bent over one of the sinks, gulping water straight from the faucet and trying to get the lingering taste of alcohol out of her mouth. either way, when she finally does manage to notice you, she spins around with a startled: ) Fuck!

( maybe not the best first impression, but it's too late for that now. )

How long have you been in here?

𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆.

( never one to turn down a party, sammy shows up in the only dress her in wardrobe that wasn't some sort of hideously pastel monstrosity, and of course she makes straight for the drinks, downing one overly sweet vanilla cocktail before taking a second with her to scope out the large variety of cakes and: )

What the hell?!

( free hand flying to her mouth, she backs abruptly away from the table, having to watch one guest cut into some poor woman's neck before realizing her mistake. )

That's so messed up.

( the words are carried on a soft chuckle, because it might be messed up but it's also pretty damn cool. apparently satisfied she's not about to go full cannibal, she cuts a off single finger for herself, nibbling at it tentatively like she half expects it to turn real at any second. )

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅.

( i'm the worst at open starters so if neither of these options appeal or there's something else you want to try, feel free to shoot me a pm, or just go for it! open for gen/smut/whatever. )

welcome to saltburnt.

( it’s not like to her to not remember. oh, natasha doesn’t have any particular ability in that respect — not anything that hasn’t been trained into her from a young age. but the sensation of waking up with only a hazy idea of how she’d gotten here is alien and immediately puts her on edge. the room gets a thorough inspection once the maid vanishes — the suitcase is hers (not that she uses it very often), the clothes are all things she recognizes as well other than what she assumes has to be a costume.

but she can’t recall why she’s here. a mission? a vacation? (no, it’s definitely not that, she doesn’t do vacations.)

skipping breakfast entirely, natasha heads for the front doors of the mansion. there might be a lot to explore inside, but she’s not interested. she’d rather get out of here and ask questions later. there was something she was doing, wasn’t there? something she had to get back to?

the grounds are neatly manicured, which makes it easy to progress steadily across them. the first sense of foreboding strikes deep, but she brushes it away; it’s like the hangover that morning when she couldn’t recall drinking the night before (or anything from the night before). she can mind over matter this. get back in range of a cell phone signal or something, get out of here —

the second wave just beyond a fence she’d vaulted brings her to her knees. )

let them eat cake. cw: alcohol, altered states of mind.

( natasha’s head throbs. the pain killers beside the bed she’d woken up next to (twice, but who is keeping count?) hadn’t been recognizable, so she hadn’t taken them. it’s not advised but she helps herself to a few drinks instead. it made the black corset and black lace garters, piled high red and blonde hair, and obscene amount of feathers a little more bearable, though at a minimum she doesn’t stand out in the costume. partygoers are strewn across the lawn, admiring statues and tables of (creepy) cake —

has she been here a minute? an hour? a few hours? catching herself on the corner of a table, natasha rubs a hand across her forehead. everything here just feels so … fuzzy. drugs? there’s a diamond tucked into the top of the corset, one she dimly remembers pulling out of a statue.

nearby another party goer stumbles across the lawn — she follows them, grabs them before they have a chance to stumble off the path and into danger somewhere else. )

Careful.

let them eat cake. (midfuck?) cw: sex, alcohol, altered states of mind.

( a warm arm closes around her waist. natasha arcs back against someone’s chest, fingers scrambling across their thigh as she looks for purchase and tilts her head back to watch them. the night has devolved into debauchery, or what seems like it to her; the chess game had been a predictable entreé to that, and at first she’d just been watching, but then she’d allowed herself to be brought into it all. it feels more like a dream than anything else, the vanilla cocktail she’d drank earlier making things far hazier than they ought to be. )

You could slap me, you know. ( she teases huskily, corner of her lips turned in a way that seems to say but i know you won’t. they could try; she knows herself, knows that she’s more likely to catch their hand before any blows land. it might be fun if they try.

grinding down against the lap she’s been drawn into, she rests her hands over the hand that creeps up her thigh. )

a midnight’s dream. cw: cannibalism, sex(?), idk man she be nibblin’

( the third day is when the sinister sense that’s been building comes to a head. she can’t even be certain that this is the third day — or the fourth, or the fifth, since she’s arrived. and there’s still the pressing sense that there is something she ought to be doing — a person to find. people. stones. something.

but there’s something else underneath it. a hunger that she doesn’t recognize in herself, something that has her tongue creeping across her lips at breakfast surveying the person across from her. something that just continues to build until it’s almost impossible to deny. she starts by locking herself in her room, pacing until she feels like she might climb the walls with the need of it. she’s a threat, a weapon — if she’s out in the mansion, she could do a lot of damage.

but she can’t stay in her room forever. )

Shh. It’ll only sting for a second. ( she croons into someone’s ear, having jumped them and easily subdued them against one of the walls of the hallway in the mansion. they squirm a bit, and she presses with most of her body weight, teeth nipping at their neck. )

( OOC | feel free to hit me up at

iothe for questions! canon-point is tentatively during the timeskip in endgame, could be a potential CRAU from duplicity but shrug for right now. prompts are OTA and i’m definitely open to folks riffing off the general vibe. )

Edited 2024-05-17 22:12 (UTC)

welcome to saltburnt.

( when life hands you a bag of trash and tells you it's treasure, you keep moving. you don't quit. you don't give up and curl up in a ball in the corner. if that were the case, archie would have taken one glance at the ongoing madness that is riverdale and he never would have come back ( and he got out twice ). the manor is nowhere near as haunting as thornhill. the halls have a certain warmth, namely due to bustling with life, and nothing can be said for the family that inhabits it with what he can only assume is old money. in his experience with rich people, they're probably harboring some sordid secrets: murder, illegitimate children, hopefully no ministries, or who even knows what else.

he does try to leave — once by asking nicely but after a few hours, he figures the housekeeper is shining him on ( he doesn't want to ask again, stuffy people creep him out ) and again by walking out the gate.

when the frustration and anxiety gets to be too much for him, he digs through the closet until he finds what's passing as running shorts today and cuts the sleeves off of a basic black t-shirt. he goes running around the grounds; on footpaths in the garden, around the lake, near the maze, and anywhere else to circle the property and get a lay of the land. do statues seem to shift? do fixtures seem to move when he circles them again? archie can't be sure, really, since he's not that accustomed to the place. but he swears he ran by the same fountain three times without completing a circuit.

he can be intercepted while: ( A. ) slowing in the garden as to not trample anything or shoulder anyone off the path. he'll grin at anyone like-minded that wants to fall in step with him and playfully suggest, ) Race you to the hedge maze?

( B. ) ( catching his breath lakeside, shirtless because he's dying, leaning back on his hands while the sun beats down on him with said shirt wrapped loosely over his shoulders. he squints in the bright light, then lifts a hand to shield his vision, cupped against his forehead to look up at whoever approaches. ) Don't let me stop you from a swim. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I catch my breath.

( C. ) ( slipping into the dining room, still a sweaty mess, serpent tattoo on his upper bicep visible to do a quick once-over and grab juice, a fruit cup, and there's probably toast or a bagel in his mouth. he will legitimately do some approximation of limbo/dodging when he rounds the hall, to avoid slamming into someone with his armful of food he fully intends to take either in his room or the hall. )

Sowry, ( mumbled around the bread in his mouth. )

let them eat cake.

cw: potential violence with slapkiss chess?

( the night begins on theme with archie andrews in familiar and traditional shades of dark blue and glittering gold over a white dress shirt and some slacks. his clothes seem to vanish at the night goes on — jacket over a chair or forgotten on a railing, pristine sleeves rolled up, (bow)tie loosened to the point of slipping off. the intricately floral designed vest lies somewhere near the floor of the giant chessboard. does he think the drinking game of the night is take an article off when you do something dumb? who knows? ask him.

one too many vanilla-flavored drinks into the evening and archie is outside, engaging in chess that feels more like a demented version of twister, but nobody asks him for his hot take. this also reminds him of the blossoms, cheryl specifically, because it feels like their brand of chaos. he doesn't dislike anyone enough to strike them, though he might, if they take a swing first. just as well, he might throw the game for both of them and full on body tackle anyone that wants to fight, courtesy of high school football. muscle memory doesn't die.

as it stands, he's this side of tipsy, a little flirtatious that when someone steps onto his tile, he plants his feet squarely and treats it like a game of chicken. if the person before him doesn't stop moving, he'll grab their waist more confidently than his eyes showcase ( stupid honest eyes!!! ), and he'll search their features for mirrored hesitation. sure, anyone signing up for the game probably heard the rules, had informed consent, but— )

Go ahead. Hit me. I can take it.

a midnight's dream.

cw: nsfw, cannibalism, descriptions of violence? etc.

( the quickest and surest way to suppress desire? reading. the library sounds like the most boring, least sexy, lonely place to sit with his unending appetite. trust, he spent so much time snacking after breakfast to fill his hollow leg and now they're between lunch and dinner on the third day and he's sitting at the farthest table in the back, leg jumping under the table as he reads an encyclopedia. the book stands upright on the table and he has one hand on it, forcing good intentions into the universe. he's good. he's being so good. he's sitting still.

he's not flipping to pages about food, about anatomy; he's not looking around.

archie thinks he has read the same paragraph ten times over.

he swallows, adam's apple bobbing, and tries desperately not to think about why he's been fantasizing about feeling someone's pulse on his tongue, on sinking his teeth into their beating heart. worse is that he isn't unsettled by his thoughts because there's no rationality left, there's just this endless loop of more and again and i need it. he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood but it's oddly reminiscent of cherries cooked into a pie.

when he raises his honey brown gaze, he's staring at someone that's looking back at him and it's like the last semblance of control snaps in both of them; his chair skids back on the wood floor, the stranger crosses the room, book dropped. it's like he's possessed, like he blacks out from point a to point b, to shoving or being shoved against a shelf of first editions. to kissing hard enough to scrape, to bruise. he tears at the stranger's clothes, either ripping at the collar or at the sleeve, whether that means a shred of fabric or a pitter-patter of buttons between them. toppling books, rocking the shelf, until they migrate to a desk and he's between someone's thighs — smooth or powerful — and he's got his palms over the tops of them, touching, squeezing.

god help him, he just dips his head to go for the tear in their top, to tongue and mouth at their collarbone, lower, followed by a graze of teeth. it's wrong somehow but it's the first thing that's felt right to him at all in days. )

I have to — I can't stop. ( so he bites down, tongue trailing after his teeth, to catch a wet mouthful of ganache. )

( OOC: for anyone wondering, archie is 25 and coming in somewhere in S6 of Riverdale, though, I haven't decided what episode specifically yet. feel free to wildcard if none of these prompts strike your fancy, i'm pretty open. you can PM any questions or hit me up at

talldarkandgay )

Edited 2024-05-18 02:58 (UTC)

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