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draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-01-04 08:00 am
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ππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JAN TDM
JANUARY 2025 TDM: IMMORTALITY
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember β dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using Β« NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, the menu has been redone by some guests in the manor. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
If you want to leave, youβll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnβt dissipate, though β this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
8-BALL
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, nsfw.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
In all 700 (and change!) years of Saltburnt's existence, never has the new year been rung in with anything less than a bang. Similarly, the manor is a bustle of activity in the post-Christmas week, setting up predominately in and around the Operating Theatre. Formally, all guests are welcomed to celebrate on the 31st of December leading into the new year by a fancy, handwritten invitation, delivered individually by Giles. BLACK TIE, the invite says. LET'S MAKE IT A GOOD YEAR, DAWG.
Upon arrival, it's plain to see the Operating Theatre has gotten a glow up since last visited. The amphitheater stairs serve as a dramatic entrance to walk through, the main floor usually designed for holding cadavers for dissection instead replaced with a dance floor. Everything is black, white, and as silver as surgery tools, the room seemingly a great deal larger than when it was last observed βΒ though, maybe that's your eyes playing tricks on you. Don't worry about it!
Celebrate instead, ringing in the new year with loud, Eurodance music and American rock, bodies dancing together for one last hurrah of 2006. In true Saltburnt fashion, there's a snack spread on the organized operating tables βΒ Vietnamese spring rolls, glass noodles, Prosecco jello shots to go with the tall flutes of champagne passed around on silver plates. Additionally, there are some silver platters circling the venue full of tall mounds of white, powdery cocaine, already spliced into lines for convenience. The name of the game is indulgence, as ever, getting one's worst habits out of the way to make room for better, healthier choices in the new year.
For the last hour of the year, a mock time ball in the shape of an magic 8-ball is set up in the center of the room, slowly inching up as time ticks down. At 11:59, the ball reaches its zenith, much more rapidly moving the other way as the countdown starts. Once the countdown drops to the 10s, everyone in the room is pairing up in couples (or trios?) to kiss at the strike of midnight, loudly chanting the last five numbers in chanting succession, 3, 2, 1, and happy new year!
Several things happen at once, following your kiss, or the strike of midnight if you're more of a lone wolf. Firstly, everyone's clothes disappear, left completely naked in the theatre. Any fabric they might think to dress themselves in will miraculously disappear once they put it on, and any attempts to escape the room are likewise barred, doors unopenable for the time being. At the same time, the 8-ball which reached the bottom of its stand rolls over, presenting its windowed side to all who look upon it βΒ and all who look upon it will see one of 20 different instructions.
For a fun game, roll a d20 and see what you get!
Naturally, the doors only permit you to leave after achieving whatever challenge the 8-ball gave you, where you can run nakedly back to your room and find some clothes, saying goodnight to a wonderful year. Any and all party poopers uninterested in taking part will be let go an hour or so post midnight βΒ approximately when it stops being funny.
NEW YEAR, NEW ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: homophobia, misogyny, implied grooming, cultural insensitivity.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
New year is a time for new beginnings, and it's no surprise that many resolutions involve the bettering of one's self. Exercise and eating healthy are all usual suspects, but what if you could take a little something that did it all for you, effort-free? New Years Resolutions the easy way βΒ try ReSculpt, an organic supplement using exotic kinds of sea kelp, as provided by Portia's personal life coach SHAMAN LEAF, for making a better you. Fat melts away and wrinkles smooth out, complexions clear and muscles strengthen, all with the help of this miraculous product! Simply apply the topical ointment on yourself, and watch a new and improved you emerge β even those of you who wouldn't choose it willingly can take part, as it's stocked in every bathroom, in the shape of an ordinary lotion bottle.
Of course, it doesn't only effect your looks. The road to a better you requires a full makeover, changing you from the inside out. Be the son your father always wanted, or the wife your husband deserves β become a better partner, a better housewife, a better soldier, a better friend. Whatever any of that means to you, whether changing your style or the people you're attracted to, this magical lotion seems to clear it up and straighten you out, turn you into a true, decent member of polite upperclass society. Even Portia in the days following New Years appears younger, nearly like a girl in her teens thanks to the power of ReSculpt. On your journey to self-improvement, you might feel inclined to sign up for Shaman Leaf's 12-step guide to proper English behaviors, including lessons in etiquette, fine dining, lovemaking with respectful hands-on accompaniment, and a suggested sizable donation on towards Shaman Leaf's travel fund. All of it concludes in a graduation for the enlistees in the form of a debutante ball.
Not to worry if you didn't take the course β all are welcome to witness the caterpillar become the butterfly in this re-introduction to society in one of Saltburnt's many exemplary ballrooms. As opposed to the more carefree party that welcomed in the year, the debutante ball is steeped in the premeditated societal structures of an aristocratic family, everything proper and regal by design, complete with huge, expensive dresses and expertly tailored, starch-collared suits. Luckily, ReSculpt will see to everyone conforming to the expectations of society, without complaint. Unluckily, the side effects seem to kick in at the debutante ball.
Step one: paranoia. Is this who you really are? What happened to the person you were a few days ago? Where did everything that made you who you are go? Dread creeps in, a discordant note, a cold breeze. Step two: touch repulsion. The dances at the ball are all respectful, leaving plenty of room for Jesus, flirty little wrist touches and soft, careful hands β and you're disgusted by wanting more, confused by it. Consumed by it? Scared of it. The sick touch of skin on skin is as offensive as it is arousing, like gripping ice cubes in your hand and flinching at the numbing, burning pain. Step three: hallucinations. You turn in a dance and the hand that slips into yours is more bone than flesh. The ballroom itself seems to grow more decayed than decadent, ghosts and horrifying faces spliced between the crowd, all looking at you, angry and disturbed. Is that face looking back at you your own? Can your friends tell you from a doppelgΓ€nger? Who even are you anymore?
And finally, step four: rehab. As it turns out, Shaman Leaf is not actually a good guy. That is, he's not a guy at all but a pΓΊca, here to unleash a humble amount of chaos and then quickly skedaddle while the iron's still hot, escaping with mischievous shapeshifting behaviors through the closest door, galloping to the forest. Though his exit from the premises doesn't clear up the effects of ReSculpt, it's nothing a little week spent very fashionably in rehab can't clear up. Going cold turkey is the only way to remove it from your system β and you do want to remove it from your system. A depleting supply will force you into withdrawals regardless, in the form of continued paranoia and hallucinations, acting hot and cold with touch, alternating between your true self and ReSculpt self, fevers, nosebleeds, puking, and blacking out. A good detox for the new year.
DIRECTORY
sanji β one piece live action (currently in game)
β NEW YEAR, NEW ME.
β REHAB.
( cw: all the potential withdrawal symptoms. possible violence. )
β or wildcard him.
gym :(
that's clearly the only reason he could be seeing sanji here right now. sanji β with a fucking sword in his hand? it stops him in his tracks, taking in the sight of the cook expertly laying into the training dummies, each slash purposeful and precise, marks of practiced skill rather than some dumbass picking up a sword and waving it around. he's done this before. it fills zoro with a strange sense of dread, pure uncanny valley, because β his hands. he's always careful with his hands.
something's wrong. something's very wrong. half of him wants to turn the fuck around and leave, but the other half ends up calling: ) Hey, cook. ( and he tries to look braver than he feels as he crosses the room towards him. ) What the hell are you doing?
no subject
What does it look like?
[ his free hand presses to the flat of zoro's chest, fingers meeting damp skin. his knuckles already sport a few bruises, a few scrapes β he hasn't been careful. ]
Surprised? You're not the only one who can swing a big sword around. [ he leans in, his warm breath sweeping along zoro's jaw. sanji finds his mouth aching for a taste and just as repulsed by the motion. ] You know what that makes you to Luffy? Extraneous.
no subject
surprised? no fucking shit, but zoro's not about to admit that β not when something is so obviously wrong. it's obvious that he's trying to get under zoro's skin, each word said with calculated precision β extraneous β and he's determined to not let it. ) In your fucking dreams.
( and yet, his annoyance is palpable in the air as he grabs sanji's wrist and yanks his hand up so he can look at it, eyes scanning over the broken skin like it might explain what the fuck's going on. it doesn't. ) You're gonna be pissed at yourself later when you get your stupid head on straight.
no subject
Swords? [ skilled as he might be, sanji knows he can't beat zoro at his own game. he lives and breathes by his shitty blades, while sanji hasn't picked up a sword in years. he loosens his hand from zoro's grip, sliding it away slowly to press his thumb to the corner of zoro's lips. ] Or something else, to prove once and for all I'm the better man?
[ without warning, he curls his hand into a fist and hits zoro across his soft, full mouth, feeling the cut of his teeth against his knuckles. there's blood on sanji's hand and zoro's lips when he steps back, tossing the sword away. ]
Your turn.
no subject
What the fuck is wrong with you?
( and before he can stop himself, he shoves sanji with both hands, heart racing in his chest as he stares at him wordlessly for a moment, searching his face for an answer, and even when he meets his gaze, it's β wrong. not the same clear, bright blue that zoro knows, loves. it's empty.
it maybe breaks something in him.
zoro's hands are on him again, gripping his shoulders and backing him up until he can slam him roughly against the wall, pinning him there by his wrists, caging him in. the sword sheathed at his side clangs against the wall as he leans in, eyes sharp, bloodied mouth a breath away from his as he practically spits, accusatory: )
What did this fucking place do to you?
no subject
What are you talking about? [ his voice is quiet, even. ] This is how I'm supposed to be. None of us feel anything. Not any of my brothers. It's part of our genetic modifications.
[ of course zoro wouldn't know. zoro has no modifications, burdened with a full set of emotions that make him weak. he can see him now, shaking, angry, hurt. it strikes sanji as surprising at how easily he can identify them. ]
This place didn't do anything to me. I was born like this, in the Germa Kingdom.
:) mean? nice? rehaby-wildcard
( You don't get to decide what the best version of yourself is, Sanji. You lack the perspective, she'd declared scathingly, all five-foot-two of her braced against the emptied-out shell of him. An oyster without the savory interior, a coconut husk with no meat or sweet milk, a broken plate licked clean by some ungrateful, starving sentiment that thought it needed to be perfected to be desirable.
She'd said: You're way more compelling when you're a mess.
Mia's always preferred her men pathetic, honestly. Sanji was much more desirable when he was strangling on his own self-loathing, the benignly cancerous opinion he had of himself in relation to Nami's attentions. When having an ego meant he was constantly struggling, and losing it? Mia had to admit, she'd lost interest when he stopped. Seeing him bleeding and hallucinating, reacting instead of sitting around empty and idle and passive? That was like seeing the dead come back to life. )
The chair shatters against the wall she'd crossed before; dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes, a shadow of a girl passing through toward the kitchens in the hopes of raiding the supplies for something half as good as what he'd cook. Upon her shoulder, the smoky outline of a red-eyed cat hunkers and snickers mockingly at the disheveled state of the man: Your taste is so fucked up, Mia. Look at him! ]
β just because you're not feeling good doesn't mean I'll forgive you easy, princess.
[ Said mildly and with no hesitation, as she takes a step forward. Not combative, but bold. A woman who doesn't have the patience to play games with her desires. ]
You can choose, just once. You want me to be sweet to you, or not?
no subject
it flips, like one of his kitchen rats has gotten in his head and is presently flipping his brain upside down. mia is no longer beautiful, cool, gorgeous mia. she's an annoying intruder in nami's restaurant, and sanji does not want to cook anymore. blood drips from his nose as he looks at her, past his lips, droplets landing on his collar. ]
You've been after Nami. [ as if he wouldn't notice someone else lusting after her when he's the king of doing so. ] You pretend to be my friend, you pretend to be sweet, so you can take her away from me.
[ needles pressing into his pin cushion heart. his throat scrapes raw, his words like sandpaper. he matches the step she takes, then another, skirting the table with ease. ]
I don't want to cook for you. Get out of Nami's restaurant or I'll throw you out.
no subject
[ Bleeding as he is, she can imagine what he'd look like in ribbons and slices. Forced to his knees, with those overeager eyes turned up β Nami's gorgeous, Nami's hilarious. She's seen her, coveted a night or two with her, that's no secret or shame to Mia. Nami's also an idiot who needs to get out of her own way, and Mia hopes she does β she has a hell of a guy to have at her beck and call, if she could. ]
I'm after both of you, actually. Simultaneously or separately is fine by me. Semantics.
[ Not the kind of woman to back down, she keeps coming for Sanji. Her blouse open, throat unadorned and pale, hands slight and scored and shadowy feline sneering upon her shoulder. With one motion, she could seize his shadow and pin him in place β once she'd only been a little assassin, devotee of a murderous god, and then she'd become a gladiator. Her face is scarred, tattooed with the mark of a slave and she doesn't flinch at all to bare such marks that some might find shameful. ]
Besides, you said she wasn't yours. That you aren't worth her β so, why are you hanging around her place?
no subject
every shuddering breath is a cold lance through his lungs, shame cresting him as the room grows smaller. he grows smaller, an ache far beyond the physical caging him like irons. ]
I'm not. I'm not worth her. [ his eyes press shut, his bloodied nose bright against his skin where he bows against mia like the world's most pathetic dog. ] All I can do is try to cook for her, and I can't β I can't even do that.
[ his hands are shaking too badly, and he can barely stand. he left the pot on the stove, the bottom scorched by now. his fevered gaze turns upwards, his temples slick with sweat despite the chills quaking his bones. i'm after both of you. nami, he can understand β of course anyone would want her. but it doesn't make any sense why mia is even here. ]
I didn't mean to hurt you, Mia. [ his eyes are pained, contrite. ] I'm sorry. You need to go. I'm not β I'm not myself.
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But, it's not entirely necessary in her strange little slice of afterlife. Not when Sanji drops so hard and every inch of her thrills at the stumble and the fall, the way he's inches from falling into shreds and ribbons. It's so pretty. Niah, hear her β she adores wretched men. ( Nami, hear her. Whatever she had done to bring Sanji to this, she's a fucking goddess for it. What a woman. ) Bending at the waist, she slips her hands down to grasp one of Sanji's own β she can see that it's like contact pains him, and Mia's always loved hurting people. ]
Nah, you're far too sweet for that, Sanji. You have all that sweetness, and there's nowhere for it to go. No cooking, no Nami, can't even hurt a girl who'd enjoy that. Look at you β you're trembling on the floor. You can't hurt anyone. Not like you could be hurt.
[ If anything, she's confident that she'd hurt him. ]
Why would I want to leave you?
wildcard, cw: nsfw
when he comes to his room at night on one particular evening, nami's taken the initiative of lighting candles on every surface, covering the bed with rose petals, dressed like a paired match to sanji. when he comes in, she smiles hugely, nervously at him, a tray of homemade cookies in her hand. the cookies look ... well, somehow much more similar to rusted horseshoes than anything edible βΒ and it might lose her her man, but damnit, she has to try. she has to do whatever it takes to win him back. )
Sanji?
( she hesitates, before putting the tray on the bed and stepping up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and, abruptly, crying into his throat, fisting her hands in his hair. )
Sanji βΒ I'm sorry. I've been such an idiot, I don't know how you'll ever forgive me. ( peeling back with her big wet eyes, she presses her palms against his cheeks, looking up at him earnestly. ) I'm sorry, but I'm ready now. I swear. I'm so ready. I love you, and I want to have a life with you. Please βΒ please give me a chance. Let me make it up to you, let me prove myself. I love you, and I'm not leaving until you let me prove it.
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his attention swerves when her hands smush his face, their eyes locking, while abrupt cold skitters down his skin. for a brief, brief moment, he feels a pull. an echo. a desire to stop her and say no, it should be me. but it passes like a veil lowered, and his brows tick as he thinks of what his father would say if he saw them right now. ]
Nami. This is embarrassing. [ roughly, he extracts himself so he can pick up the tray, tipping the cookies into the trash. ] If you wanted to feed me, the kitchen staff could do a much better job than you. You should've asked them.
[ the cookies taken care of, he now uncomfortably tries to sweep some of the rose petals from his pillow. where did she even get all of these? raiding the garden? he looks back at her, being careful not to bump into any of the absurd candles lighting the room. ]
It's a nice dress. [ it is. nami is very pretty after all. ] But it's no use, whatever you're trying to do. You can't have a life with me. You're not a princess and you have nothing to offer my family. You're just a poor girl from Coco Village.
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No, no β I am useful. I can be useful.
( she pushes him onto his bed, bullying her way up to straddling his lap, hiking up her dress as she goes. seductively, she undoes the laces at the bosom of her dress, pushing her sleeves down her shoulders to prop up her tits, for his perusal. )
You can use me however you want. ( hands at his cheeks, she angles him into position, brushing her nose back and forth against his, grinning despite the tears dried on her face. ) You can marry a princess, but I'll be the one you love, the one you give your babies to. We can have our own little family. I love you so much, don't push me away. Isn't this better?
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Love. [ he breathes the word, a nice word, as he moves fluidly to slide her to the bed, tangerine hair splayed among rose petals. the skirt of her dress bunches easily around her waist, her legs a willing and open v for him as his belt loosens and falls to the floor. ] Do you love me, Nami? How much do you love me?
[ he finds he's eager to hear it in some twisted way, as he presses himself to her slick, pulsing cunt, wetting himself on the velvety heat dripping from her to welcome him. no teasing, no touching, not a hint of romance before he's inside her, their bodies pressed together as his mouth tastes the salt of her tears drying on her cheek. ]
Say that you love me. Say it.
[ cold hits him again, even as he's wrapped up in the clench of nami's body, feeling her soft, quivering heat, her arms clutching him, the friction of their clothes caught between them as he fucks her. with his eyes closed, her lashes fluttering against his skin, an icy fissure spreads down his chest, tart tangerine and sweet sugar filling his senses, salty sweat and the drip of tears. ]
Nami, please. Say you love me, it's all I've ever wanted to hear.
[ is that him, asking? begging? she comes back into focus, her face flushed with a desperate want, lips stretched into a smile he's never seen her wear before. for a moment it looks β horrifying, something that's crawled out of a nightmare, needles skittering across his skin. a drop of red patters to her lips, landing at the corner and sliding down in a slow drag. sanji claps a hand to his face, his fingers coming away bright with blood. ]
Nami? [ a whisper, staring down at her. abruptly, he pulls back, drawing her dress down between her legs while his other hand cradles her face. ] Nami. Oh, Nami, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
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she doesn't care if she gets off, she just wants sanji to fill her up and keep filling her up, happy to be a tool for him to use like this. nami is useful, see, she has a warm, wet, plush body that sanji can fuck and fill up with cum, and use whenever he's bored or needy, whenever he needs a toy to play with it. only β he pulls away now, before he gives nami anything, and she feels like such a failure, such a miserable, unwanted monster that it cracks her happy happy smile down the middle into devastation. she didn't do a good job, she didn't β feel good enough for him? wasn't tight enough? didn't do enough? )
Wait β ( she sits up with a watery look, forcing herself to smile, lifting up a hand to his wrist. ) It's okay, it's okay. It's just a little blood. Please don't stop, I want you to fuck me. Maybe βΒ I can β
( maybe he doesn't want to look at her and that's why. she moves a leg from one side of him, rolling onto her stomach, lowering her chest to the bed and flipping up her skirt. maneuvering, she makes it so her ass presses back into his erection, body shuddering while she grinds back against him, shimmying her hips. he probably wants to be fucking zoro, and that's why he pulled away from her. well β he can pretend easier like this. she reaches for a pillow and pushes it towards him, lifting her ass higher in the air. )
It's okay. Put it over my head. Just make love to me, Daddy, fuck me as hard and as much as you want. Do whatever you want to me.
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[ it's dizzying, the speed at which it all happens. the air sears his skin, his clothes damp with sweat, and yet everywhere nami touches him is the burn of ice. her skirt sways like a flag, wetness glistening down her thighs. he reaches for one leg, his fingers leaving a smear of blood across her skin. ]
Stop. [ he wants to vomit. he wants to cry. shoving the pillow away, he pushes her hips down onto the bed, collapsing beside her as he presses his hands to her face despite how his palms burn. she might as well be behind iron bars, for how everything shudders into place for him, while she's caught, still, in the haze of her delusions. ] Nami, stop it, you don't want this, you don't even like me β
[ but the broken look on her face cracks his own heart in two, blinking fast to try and stay steady, stay focused despite how a part of him just wants to go back to feeling nothing. it terrifies him, that he could slip so easily into the man judge always expected him to be. he smooths nami's hair from her face, wiping her tears. ]
It's okay. See? I do want you, Nami. I always want you. [ he swallows back his bitter heartbreak, telling her all the things she aches to hear in the hopes of soothing her, his bloodied mouth gently brushing hers. ] I want you like this. I just want to hold you. Can I just hold you? I won't leave you, I promise. I'm right here. See? I'm here. I love you, Nami. I love you.
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they tried to make me go to REHAB ( but i said no, no, no )
more relevantly, she likes that there's a gap between the top of the cupboards and ceiling, perpendicular to the sink, just big enough for her to stretch out along like a lazy cat. she hides up there, sometimes, when sanji wants her to do too much work, or the bustle of the space overwhelms. now, she lingers there to observe him from afar. maybe she was here before he arrived. maybe she followed him. he wouldn't be able to tell.
once the door cracks open to no-one, and sanji finally loses it, she jumps down. from behind, it's easy enough to manhandle him. she hauls by the shirt and spins him to face the counter, two unnaturally strong hands coming up to the back of his head and neck, forcing it down into the sink as she blasts the tap. ]
Get it together, chef. [ demanding, though not stern. jinx leans over his back to keep him there, elbow losing between his vertebrae. and wry, then: ] That coulda been one of your sweeties.
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he might as well be that same shitty little kid now. the one his brothers cornered daily, the one locked away in the dark, the one who probably should never have been born, because maybe then β his mother β
he splutters as water streams into his nose, turning pink with his blood. gripping the edge of the sink, he hauls himself upright, spraying water onto the steaming coils of the stove. ]
That's not funny, Jinx.
[ it's actually terrifying, to think he could've sent a chair flying at nami, at alina, at anyone when he can't get a grip on his own thoughts. through the window, he sees his knife spinning out on the dining room floor. he has no memory of throwing it. zeff would be ashamed if he could see him now.
but zeff doesn't matter. only nami does. why should he care to make anything for anyone else? he pushes past jinx, water dripping from the tips of his hair and running down the back of his neck, his shirt soaked, and opens the refrigerator, stocked with their essentials, neat rows of bright vegetables and freshly packed meat for the nightly menu. reaching deep inside, he sweeps an arm over an entire shelf, dumping its contents out onto the floor. ]
Nami only likes tangerines. [ glass shatters, liquids spilling across the floor as food goes everywhere. sanji upends the next shelf, and the next, then moves to the cabinets, tossing containers across the room. ] We don't need any of this.
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she saves around six boxes, stacked and set aside. ]
I'm not joking. [ she takes a bite out of a small peach and then tosses it. back on sanji, then, filling his vision before she drops low, one leg sweeping both of his out from under him. ] That's just my voice.
[ with a leer in his face, eyes lit an unnatural violet, she straddles and pins him to the floor. ]
Did your brain leak out your ears? Nami likes her restaurant, and you're tearing it up.
cw mentions of cannibalism
sanji is usually the one most nimble on his feet. now, he lands hard on his back, a jinx-sized weight atop him. he turns his head only because he thinks he might vomit, and goes completely rigid, eye-level with a wasteland of food seeping across the floor. ]
No. [ his voice breaks, his eyes wide. he could've fed the whole manor with this. he could've fed himself, starving on that rock, ten times over. he could've stopped zeff from eating his own leg. ] No, no, no β
[ jinx blurs before his filmy gaze, a haze of bright blue and eerie violet. it feels like he's drenched in cold rainwater, shivering suddenly, remembering how frigid the storms had been, and how blisteringly hot the sun had beaten down with no shelter to be found. the rock is at his back now, the pungent smell of spilled food hitting him. five days of food. five days of food that he'd stretched out to twenty-five, mold and all. and then nothing. eighty-five days he'd spent on that rock, waiting to be rescued, while his skin stretched out over bone, while zeff cut his own leg off so that sanji could live. ]
I have to clean up. [ around a gasping, choked-out breath, on the verge of tears. his teeth nearly knock together from how violently he shivers with cold. ] I have to β I have to clean up. I have to save the food. You don't understand. I have to.
cw food scarcity
and it still hurts, for it to be sanji suffering now. sanji, who's been kinder to her than most, tolerating her whims and moods the way that few, even her sister, have managed. her hands flutter to his face, painted nails framing his sweat-slick cheeks. despite her slim frame, her thighs lock around him. ]
Sanji β [ urgently, ] Sanji, hey, breathe with me. [ one hand flits from his face to grasp his fingers, pulling his palm to her chest, the slight rise and fall of it marking a quiet, albeit uneven, rhythm. ] Weβll clean up after.
[ softening, ] And save the food. I understand. You know I do.
[ from what sheβs said about the undercity and the underfed look of her. too slender, too pale. jinx hadnβt realised he understood until now. ]
rehab, i've come 2 whomp sanji
the trouble with alina is this, doublefold — she's an expert in wandering where vermin are not wanted, following their hatred like the pointing hands on a compass. there's no nami at the door to shoo her away when she slinks through the door, the quietest taps against the floorboards, knowing where she'll find sanji, the way you know you'll open a kitchen drawer and find a fork sitting inside. he belongs here, much as any utensil.
it becomes apparently clear that alina's sneaking doesn't amount to much, over the din of skidding chairs and shattered glass, but — that's sanji. evidence he'll never learn his lesson, bold and brash, a bull around fine china like paul atreides. everyone suffers for sanji's temperamental rages. there's a reason alina has come to correct them. glass crunches under her bare heel when she steps in once, twice, inevitably pricking and lodging into the skin. alina doesn't flinch — doesn't seem to register the sensory pain of it at all, inhumanly fixated on sanji's silhouette. )
Look at you. ( chiding, as much as it's derisive. ) You love to make a mess of things, don't you? You can't help yourself.
( like a fractured twin mirror to his affliction, blood drips from her nose, pitter-patter on alina's top lip. )
Come here, Sanji. I can help you. ( her fingers grasp the discarded chair, spin it around, giving it a hard, violent shove in sanji's direction. the focal point of her eyes never wavers on him, intent and glassy, all at once. there and not there at all. ) It doesn't have to be difficult for you, if you do what you're told.
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it blitzes through him, the thought there and gone, affection for alina pulsing like a failing heart. he feels it and he doesn't. his friend. not his friend, because he doesn't have any friends. a vinsmoke prince has no use for friends. her smile in a darkened hallway, a tea tray lowered to her height.
he stops the chair with his heel, or rather splinters it and sends it careening to the side, a clear path between them. do what you're told. he knows what judge vinsmoke would tell him. she's no different from anyone else trespassing in their kingdom. he wouldn't want sanji to leave her alive.
he's bridged the steps between them before he can think, his bruised hand lifting to touch his thumb to the dampness of her top lip, swiping red across her warm-cold skin. ]
You're bleeding, Alina. [ a thought lances him, the worst kind of pain. ] Did Paul do this?