๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saltburnmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
Entry tags:
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ โฃ 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 โ dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using ยซ NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEยป 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 โ 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnโt dissipate, though โ this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itโs 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 โ 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 doesnโt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canโt make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesnโt dissipate, though โ this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, itโs 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
cupid's arrow
but these aren't her woods, her wilderness, and the mask on her face is sleek and carved and elegant, not the patchy bits of fur and hide that some of them had worn that night, the night they'd hunted for the first time, howling and running through the druglaced shadowy woods, touching something monstrous, something wild, something powerful. yet -- the pulse of her heart, racing beneath the zip-up jumpsuit she wears, tight-fitting and sleek, like some sort of twisted superheroe's costume. the scent on the air, like sweat and fear and need, and she almost sees the antlers, the wide brown eyes, the twitching ears and long legs of their stag.
shauna blinks, panting, hair loose over her shoulders, chest heaving as she ducks around the tree and pushes her mask up, grinning wide-eyed and joyous up at travis.]
Found you.
no subject
shauna is a flash of color, bursting around the tree to give him a start. he tenses up, resists the immediate instinct to recoil what he feels is akin to a jumpscare. of course it's her. the one who lead, the one who stuffed his mouth and held a knife to his throat. this time it isn't to bleed him, but to play a different game. she's all smiles and pink-cheeked, the scent of her wafting so strongly, so enticingly, right at his face.]
Whoa-
[delayed relief, first, that it isn't a stranger. then with sudden surge of what's more self-consciousness than shame, he removes his mask to cover himself with it, staring at shauna hesitant suspicion.]
Shauna. [shauna in her jumpsuit, beaming up at him like she's won the prize.] Maybe I should keep running.
cw: pregnancy loss
not so, now: travis is bare and gleaming with sweat, hastily moving his mask to cover himself, like shauna hasn't caught glimpses of him for months now, uncaring as if he was simply another stump or log. but the difference is the cleanliness, the moonlight and distant torches playing over the planes of his chest, his hips, the scratches the bark leaves over his back. she feels like she can smell it, taste it, his blood, his breath, the beat of his heart. her mouth is watering, and she smiles deeper, warmer.]
You can if you want. [sweet, the sweet shauna who died with jackie, the kind shauna who went under the ice with javi, the girl she hasn't been since she woke up empty and childless.] But I'm gonna chase you until you stop for good.
no subject
he's sure that it doesn't work. there's desperation in his breath, maybe a hint of hysteria. she's so eager with her big brown eyes, softened up from the hunt. maybe her smile isn't predatory at all (is what he wants to believe, but can't shake the feeling that there's little about shauna that isn't predatory).]
I'm good.
[good? is he good? the words sound foreign. bark crumbling to the forest floor, free hand balling into a fist, then relaxing. conflicting feelings are rising inside of him, some of relief that he's been caught and he doesn't have to run anymore and others of discomfort. he doesn't hate shauna, but he's wary of her. wary of her behavior because he knows what she's capable of. but this is just a game, right? a game that has him practically tasting her pheromones in the air, catching himself leaning forward, like he can see them radiating off her body.]
So...you got me. [he'll admit defeat, just this once.] You're not going to keep me here, are you?
cw: violence, death, cannibalism againnn
does he look at shauna and see only her tear-streaked face in the snow, her knife at javiโs throat, his baby brotherโs heart in her hands?
a gulping, shuddery inhale and shauna is suddenly pushing away from the tree, wracked between two forests, between hers and here, between the butcher and the huntress, fantasy and reality. she reaches up, pulls her mask off, leaves her hair tangled and tousled and stumbles a couple paces away.]
No. [thereโs a bitterness in how she says it, thinking of everyone sheโs ever held, jeff in the front seat of his car, jackie on the front step, her baby in the cabin. thinking of how she left the mark of her ragged nails in all of them, and it never worked. shauna looks sideways at travis, sees him for what he is, who he is, cautious and confused and human, like her. maybe in the grand scheme, his hands are no cleaner than hers, but when shauna pictures them, theyโre holding javiโs carvings, akilahโs ducklings, natalieโs hand. not a knife.]
Donโt think I could keep you, even if I tried. [and it sounds like the saddest thing in the whole world, to say it out loud.]
no subject
he has a hard time burying his curiosity. staring at her, eyes searching her face for an answer that he isn't sure that she'll give him. shauna is secretive and cunning, smart in ways that he won't ever be. all of them are filled to the brim with complexities, shaped by the trauma they share. are they ever going to reach normal, travis thinks, or will normal feel so far away and foreign that they won't be able to grasp it?
that could be why standing naked and breathless and flushed in a forest doesn't feel as strange as it should.]
What? Keep me? [still cautious, half wondering if asking is even worth it, half trying to make a joke out of it.] I was joking, Shauna. Obviously you can't keep me here.
[he tries to smile. smiling will help, won't it? it's partial, a lopsided attempt to lighten the mood.]
no subject
but when it's just them, just the team, just everyone after that nightmare of a winter, shauna feels all that horror right there, pressing in around her, held back by the thinnest of veils. she knows travis can feel it too, sees that written across his face, the features that she's seen every day for more than a year. would she even have given more than the slightest of nods in his direction otherwise? would she even have noticed him at all? probably not; jackie liked jeff and randy and that crew, that group, so of course shauna's crushes were all those types of guys. travis hadn't registered as anything more than coach's weird, moody son, as flex.
now, though, he's more familiar, more real than anything around her. she knows the way he sounds, smells, feels, the sight and presence of him. so shauna smiles, a sad twist of a thing, breathes out, shuddering.] I wouldn't -- need to. You can't ever get away from us. [it's the sort of sing-songy, esoteric bullshit lottie would say, and shauna almost laughs at herself, wonders if it's better to be like that, to be unhinged and relentless and ferocious and awful. then she wonders if she's about to throw up, reaches forward, steadies herself with one clammy, shaky hand against travis's bare shoulder.] This feels like -- that night. When you and Jackie --
[she cuts herself off, looks upwards, mouth parted, eyes hungry, if nothing else, travis should know damn well what hunger looks like on shauna shipman.] What did it feel like? What'd -- she feel like?
no subject
--What? Hey, are you okay?
[her hand on his shoulder brings him back, unnaturally warm skin against skin. he hesitates when he reaches out to help steady her, one hand at her waist. is she nauseous, or something else? he doesn't know if she knows what she's asking him. they all knew her obsession with jackie had been ... well, no one really blamed her. he didn't. he thought it was twisted, but that was grief. she never tried to hurt him after that.]
I...don't know, I was high. I don't think [he was there] I want to talk about that with you. Or anyone, honestly. That night was, uh, it was a lot. I think you should let that go.
[he's trying to.]
no subject
shauna tips her face upwards, eyes glassy, face solemn, then reaches up her free hand, the hand that holds the knife, the hand that splits flesh from bone, the hand that feeds her family in the wilderness, her family that looks at her like a feral animal, like an approaching storm, like a vengeful god. her family that hates her. she touches his cheek, thumb finding the jut of bone, thinking about the contour of skull, of sinew, thinking about peeling the meat from him when the snow returns. despite that, her touch is gentle.]
Is that what you want? To let it go? To replace it with โ someone else? [she means nat, means their wintry entanglement, two starved bodies always so close, bundling up and going out into the snow over and over again to provide for them, returning empty handed again and again. spring had come, warmth and growing things and food and sunlight, and the two of them had frozen instead. something between them had died when javi had.
and now theyโre here. and shauna cradles travisโs face with the softness sheโd only shown his brother and her baby and jackie.] Tell me what you want.
no subject
she asks that loaded question and he's frozen here in the woods, naked and vulnerable and gaze locked on her, watching for hints of animosity. when will her touch turn harsh as it had on that night? when her kiss had torn his lips instead? she has so many faces that he's not sure where one starts and the other ends. multi-faceted and sharp, contrasting the connection he can see she's trying to make with him now.]
Replace? Shauna.
[her name again. because she isn't nat or jackie or even lottie, because even if they both lost their loved ones, they're separate. none of them are close to letting any of that go no matter how much he wants or tries to.]
I want to go home. Don't you?
no subject
itโs beyond. itโs her sitting in the village and sharpening her knife, looking up as he passed and seeing him as just another living beast in the forest, one she knew, one she recognized as kin, one she recognized also as meat. itโs shauna after the first winter who stands there, nearly in his arms, not like nat, snuggling into his chest, not like jackie, moaning his name, not like lottie, whispering in his ear. shauna, two graves at the core of her, looking travis in the eyes and seeing the two he carries too.]
Weโre never going home, Travis. [her hands come to rest on his chest, flat-palmed, thinking of the ease with which she could crack his ribs, reach inside, draw out his heart.] I thought youโd know that by now. We are never. Fucking. Going home.
no subject
shauna's force is sharp and twisted. he can predict lottie's next steps up to a point. he can explain it and put a name to it. maybe. she's off her medication and threw her team into a psychotic nightmare and no one knew any better. they still don't. maybe.
shauna ... shauna wants something else. she craves something darker that travis doesn't relate to at all. it doesn't matter how much he disagrees or hates her for what she says, a small part believes her. with as much bite as there was to her words, he levels his own back to her. even and slow:]
Don't ruin this, too.
[and a small part wants to hurt her back. no one is watching him, the hierarchy is gone. he has room for freedom without fearing for his survival.]
no subject
she doesnโt. she exhales, ragged, tugs her mask down over her face and lets her expression go stricken and hurt and angry where nobody can see. then she reaches out, presses her fingertips to the nape of his neck, once, light, light as her voice:]
Enjoy this while you can, Travis. [and then sheโs gone, stepping away, into the night, leaving just the ghost of her touch behind her.]