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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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πππ πππ ππ ππππππ πππ πππ β£ MARCH TDM
MARCH 2025 TDM: RENEWAL
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 (THE REMIX)
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers β the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.
Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.
Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.
There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.
For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itβs all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.
Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.
CUPID'S ARROW STRUCK ME
CONTENT WARNINGS: possible sex, violence, a/b/o themes (pheromones, mating, heat/rut), breeding, body transformation/body horror, aphrodisiacs.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.
For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.
Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.
For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.
PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.
HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.
Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.
Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw (exhibitionism, ritual sex, orgy), dubious consent via magical compulsion.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.
Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.
As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.
To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.
Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.
More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.
If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.
As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.
DIRECTORY
lottie matthews π yellowjackets ( current player β’ new character )
cw: threads likely to contain references to mental health issues, hallucinations/loss of grip on reality, cannibalism
will warn on individual comments too but proceed with caution
cw: drug references
cw: potential underage nsfw content, prompt-related dubcon
welcome (remix) | cw: drug reference, addiction talk
a voice comes from the doorway and sam's head jerks up, eyes wide and wary and focused immediately on the girl. she's young, around tara and mindy and chad's age, and sam feels an immediate surge of protectiveness towards her, only it seems like the girl has things way more together than sam currently does.
she mentions she can have her share and sam frows, looking to the nightside table and recognizing the baggies of coke set out. her eyes go a little wide, because why the fuck are they setting drugs out like candy and why are drugs their go-to for painkillers, but she soon focuses back on the girl in the doorway. ]
Uh, no, thanks. [ she asks something else and sam isn't quite sure how to respond to it. ]
I - yes. Aren't you? Wait, where are we?
no subject
[ it should be a reassuring answer, but the response just makes lottie frown. frankly, it would make more sense if this wasn't real, if this was just another one of those strange and overwhelming visions that leads her off in some strange direction, that will end in her waking up in some strange spot of the forest or learning some new, hidden detail about the power that has chosen them. but lottie doesn't have visions any more, and even if she did, they don't usually feature strangers.
the other woman in the room seems pretty certain that she exists, although in fairness that doesn't really mean all that much. the things that she sees tend to be honest, though, even if they are always confusing, so for now she decides to believe her. ]
I don't remember arriving. I wasn't here when I fell asleep, I just woke up... [ she gestures vaguely to the other side of the bed, the sheets still rumpled where lottie had climbed out of them earlier. ] ...with a shit headache, actually. You don't have a Tylenol or something, do you?
no subject
I wish. I have one, too. [ she'd thought maybe it was due to the adrenaline wearing off from her previous situation, but if they're both suffering that suggests something more sinister, like they'd been drugged. the idea makes her feel even queasier. she gestures to the baggies. ] I guess they're into more traditional medicine.
[ what, she'd paid attention in history, at least for a while. ]
no subject
[ a brief, huffed laugh accompanies her response, not because it's particularly funny, but because it's such a ludicrous conversation to be having in the first place. to wake up in a decrepit room with no memory of arriving would be strange enough, with a headache would be stranger still, with drugs on the table as the only means of alleviating that just straight-up bizarre, but having someone else just as confused is really just the icing on the cake.
she doesn't want to spend forever in a towel though, so lottie crosses the room to start carefully poking through drawers and cupboards in the hopes of finding something clean. really, her standards are very low. notably, or at least something that would probably stand out to sam, she doesn't seem to have any fears around turning her back to a stranger. ]
I'm Lottie. [ she offers, turning back around once she's found a shirt that at least fulfils the requirements of clean. ] I don't suppose you want to help me try and find something a little better than coke for these headaches?
(no subject)
welcome (remix)
Zephir stands up, releasing the thin plastic from his fingers. ]
Is there more?
no subject
her head tilts as she watches one of the bags disappear, and then the other after it, and it's not the first time that lottie has seen drug use, but nothing quite like this. she blinks, eyebrows raised, and it takes a moment for her to realise that he's actually spoken to her. ]
Oh.
[ she glances around the room, as if she's expecting to find another platter of neatly bagged cocaine just waiting for him to partake, but if it is a weird hallucination, it's not one that's feeling especially like providing. instead she shrugs, apologetic as she looks back. ]
It doesn't look like it, sorry. Should you... [ how to put this delicately ] take that much?
[ lottie's hardly a drug expert, but she's pretty sure that people aren't supposed to down them quite like that. ]
no subject
I'm just⦠so incredibly hungry. [ The hand lingers over his stomach now, haunted by the sense that it is both too empty and too full of pain, like his insides are made of sharp rocks collapsing on top of each other. ] It's so very strange. I've never felt this way. Have you?
no subject
[ it's an interesting choice of words, because lottie doesn't at all feel hungry right now. tired and disoriented maybe, with a killer headache and the cleanest skin she's had in months, but hungry...not so much. but she has. intimately.
curiosity sees her taking a few steps forward, out of the doorway of the bathroom and into the room. the crumbling state of the bedroom around her doesn't do anything to dissuade her belief that this isn't real, that it's a matter of time before it warps into something more recognisable, but whether it's real or not, lottie's reaction would be the same regardless.
she approaches the man, because of course she does. she always will, it's inevitable. ]
I've been hungry before. Desperately. Is that what you are now?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
welcome | cw minor drug use mention
he's in some kind of shocked stupor when lottie emerges from the bathroom, head turning when he sees her shape in his peripheral. are you real? truthfully he doesn't know if this is real. it doesn't seem possible, to be sleeping in a hammock and then suddenly be - wherever this is. everything feels real enough; nothing like the hallucinations brought on by the mushrooms lottie used to give him.
he swallows thickly, glances down to the cocaine in the little baggies beside the bed. no, definitely not.]
I'm pretty sure this is real. [asking what they're doing here doesn't make sense. she wouldn't know. he pinches himself, like that'll help.] Do you also have a really bad headache?
no subject
[ there's something to the fact that it's travis in the room with her. it doesn't really sway lottie one way or the other on whether this is real, but it's nice that he's familiar at least. the surroundings certainly aren't, and the decaying state of the room makes her feelβ
well. it doesn't exactly lend itself to reality. not to mention the hot water, the fresh towels, the clean clothes, all creature comforts that lottie hasn't seen in months. none of that exactly feels like reality either, but lottie hasn't got a better explanation for what's going on right now, so after a moment she just gives him a small, wry smile. ]
I hope I didn't use all the hot water. [ she clears her throat, not awkward, really, just...figuring out what it is she's going to say next. she adjusts the towel a little, holding it a little tighter. ] Do you...feel okay? Is it just the headache?
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I feel fine.
[aside from the insane amount of confusion. he peers past her to the bathroom, narrowing his eyes.]
That bathroom looks like it connects to another room. Did you hear anyone in there?
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[ which is the truth, but also conveniently leaves out the long minutes that she spent staring at her own reflection in the mirror with blood rushing in her ears and her heart thudding in her chest, trying not to scream at the sights around her. that would have been a perfect moment to listen in at the adjoining door and try to detect if they were alone, but lottie had been busy fighting to stave off some horrible, all-consuming sense of impending doom, and hadn't really been thinking much about logistics.
now, though, she realises that it's a perfectly sensible suggestion. she chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment, brows furrowing in a slight frown, before she gestures at the closet up against the wall. ]
Let me get dressed, then we can look. We should go together, it might not be safe.
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cupid's arrowβ
soooo, it doesn't take much convincing for her to say 'hell yeah!' to a hunting game. maybe one would expect a fire deity to play the role of the hunter, but see, where is the freakin' challenge in that? no man, she's going to be prey all the way and she's going to win this. it doesn't even matter what the prize is.
as comfortable in her birthday suit as the day she was (re)born, sear sprints through the forest, until she thinks she's far enough away.
her senses on high alert, she weaves through the trees, a little more relaxed. as she bypasses a large shrub though, she accidentally steps on a twig and, well, the sound was definitely enough to garner someone's attention. oops. ]
Uh... nope. [ she raises both hands in a sign of peace. ] I'm a prey too. [ did she mention that she's gonna fuckin' win this game? ]
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[ lottie points out, obvious as the statement might be, but it's not said with any particular protest. just an observation about the nature of the game, though she does wonder if maybe some part of her is disappointed not to have been caught, properly, the way that the game intends.
she doesn't dwell on that though, sweeping off her face covering instead and turning the decorative deer mask over in her hands, sparing a moment to glance down at it before her attention returns back to the person in front of her. a stranger, friendly, she thinks, or at least hopes. it would be unfortunate to be naked in the woods with only an asshole for company. ]
Have you played a game like this before?
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[ but better she had found a fellow prey than a predator. ]
I've hunted before, but not with like... human people? Not really my thing, which is why [ she spreads her arms open. ] I volunteered to be bait. It wouldn't have been fair, otherwise. [ she would have won as a predator, too. ]
What about you? Is this your first time?
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welcome
Oh shit, am I real? [ She then sighs heavily. ] Forget it, it's too early for that line of questioning.
Also? No thanks. Half the things on the table are rotting, rotten or alcoholic.
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[ it's not like lottie is particularly keen on the drugs on offer, particularly under the current circumstances, but she thinks that if there was ever a moment where she could be forgiven for indulging in something it would be now. still, she focuses more on the current predicament, i.e. the towel that she's still clinging to, and replacing it with something that actually looks like clothing. she crosses the room β carefully, the place is a state β hoping for some kind of spoils in the ornate closet on one side of the room.Β
if she has to put her filthy wilderness dress back on she will, but after her first real shower in months, lottie really hopes she can follow that up with some actual laundered clothing. ]
I don't remember how I got here. So I guess, not being real makes as much sense as anything else.
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[ Ella follows her in silence, a glass of water on her hand. ]
Are you...looking for clothes? Maybe I can help you with that. What kind of clothes would you like?
π stupid cupid, stop picking on me
jinx shifts her wait, cracking the twig beneath her the ball of her foot again, a purposeful reveal. ]
Sure. [ shoulders lifting in a shrug (as if she doesnβt mind, despite the intense look in her eyes). this one β girl, prey, topsider β is pretty, all the lovier for the scars upon her face β and she doesnβt look too prim, fattened up by wealth or power. so many people here come from the very world she and silco fought against. her violet gaze wanders up lottieβs scrawny legs (a trait they share, mind) to her navel, the swell of her breasts (fuller than jinxβs own) and finally sticks on her neck. she twirls the collar lazily. ]
Coulda nabbed you earlier, but the chase is the fun part, right?
[ testing, teasing. does this girl know what she signed up for? a visual learner herself, jinx deigns to illustrate her meaning and appears before her in a flash. she leans up on her toes to splay a hand against the tree behind lottie, undeterred by their difference in height. ]
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it's sudden enough to catch her off guard momentarily. she opens her mouth and closes it again, eyes flicking between jinx and the collar in her hand. her experience with hunts haven't exactly been fun after all, but they haven't been anything like this either. for one, she's never been naked before, and although she's not particularly self-conscious about that fact, the proximity does bring a flush of colour to her cheeks all the same. ]
Do you want me to run again then? [ she finds her words after a moment, and a hint of amusement tugs at the corner of her lips. this is the point of the hunt after all, to be caught, she just can't quite predict what comes next.
but she drops the mask in her hand, landing on the ground beside them with a soft thud, and tips her head back slightly to meet the tree trunk too. a surrender, that much is plain to see. ] Or have you won?
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her hand splays at lottieβs hip, the collar sliding down jinxβs arm to rest against her supple skin. a reminder of its presence. dauntless, she presses their bodies into alignment, craving the warmth of her. jinx kisses along her jawline to see if she squirms, if she tries to seize her hand or push away. she kitten nips at the tender spot beneath her ear, just to keep her on her toes. ]
[ husked low, ] If Iβve won, that makes you my prize.
[ mine mine mine better than any chorus. has anything ever been hers? too much slips from her grasp. she lets the collar fall to her fingers once more, dragging it up lottieβs sternum, between her breasts, pressing it to her throat when she tips back, dainty feet flattening against the dirt. all so her prize can wrap her mind around the leather, how it might feel cinched at her neck, the cool metal of the loop where sheβll hook the lead and tug. the image of it in jinxβs mind seems right. perfect. ]
Thatβs what I want. My pretty prize. [ staring up at her now with unrestrained hunger, pupils blown wide. her other hand draws idle circles on lottieβs stomach, drifting lower and lower. teasing, yearning β ] So, have I won?
[ do i get what i want this time? ]
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cupid's arrow, part one.
(For a second, he thinks about vaporizing her. It'd be easy, barely take a second β and it'd be his right as a hunter, having caught his prey. He couldn't really say what causes him to divert course. Maybe the fact that he can see her heart rabbiting in her chest, maybe the soft, young set of her features. She's just a girl. Not that that's ever really stayed his hand from violence, before, butβ it's just a game.
She'll have plenty of time to die, later.) ]
Something like that, [ he says, in answer to her question. ]
I think you're out past your curfew, sweetheart.
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she isn't disappointed, exactly, but perhaps something close. perhaps there was a part of her that really believed she might find something out here, some whisper or glimpse, some sign that the entity she connected with in her own wilderness exists in some form here too, but it's just another person, and she sighs, leaning back in a slump. ]
Maybe.
[ her gaze drifts briefly, distracted, at the trees behind him, surrounding them, but they're just as quiet as they were before, that hasn't changed. so she dedicates her attention more solely on the masked man that's approached her instead. her own mask, a doe, fitting, with small twisted antlers that seem sharper than they should be, hangs loose from her hand, and she twirls it idly like she's considering putting it back on. ]
Should I be worried?
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[ Slowly, slowly, he closes the distance between them, moving forward step by step through the trees until he's just a yard away. Her heart's racing, but she's not scared β he almost wonders if he ought to be disappointed. (The hunt staves the feeling off; it's not about whether or not she's frightening of him, it's about catching her. And there's nowhere she could go, now that she's in his sights, that she could really escape him.) ]
Any hunter'd be happy to bag a doe. You saw what happened to Bambi's mom.
[ Or maybe she hasn't, considering the varying eras and worlds from which the manor's general populace hail, but he doesn't really care either way. His head cocks as he looks at her, an easy (too-sharp) smile visible under the edge of his mask. ]
Don't you wanna go home?
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π