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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
Entry tags:
𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐘 ▣ 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 — 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 « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» 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 — 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. 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 — 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 doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time. 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
melissa | yellowjackets | new player, new character
ii. rose by any other name
wildcard
i. welcome!!!!
no, she didn’t. because she hears that voice and lurches upwards, out of the steaming hot bubble bath she’d drawn herself, instinctively lifting her chin and sniffing the air, drawing in the scent of expensive fabric softener and dust and –]
Mel? [it slips, the shortened version, the nickname, and shauna is up and grabbing an enormous towel to wrap around herself before flinging open the door to the bedroom and stumbling into it, hair streaming, eyes wide.]
Melissa?
no subject
melissa can't help but lean forward as shauna comes through the doorway. she inhales steam and the smell of flowers. they're in what looks like some kind of (seedy, but compared to the cabin, this is actually not terrible) hotel room and shauna's in nothing but a towel, beads of water rolling over the curve of her collarbone and dripping down her shoulders—it's embarrassingly the exact kind of scenario melissa would fantasize about in the hut, when the dirt and leaves and ants all got to be too much. a place where they could be alone together, like actually alone. a place where rainwater wouldn't leak through the ceiling. a place with a bed.
and now she can't even fucking enjoy it, because it's shauna. calling her "mel" like nothing's wrong, giving her those big, brown eyes, all innocent, like she didn't just ditch her to play Wilderness Vigilante while melissa bled out in the grass all night. ]
What are you doing here? [ invading her hallucination-dream, hello :T ]
no subject
so shauna freezes, uncannily still, like a deer by the lake’s edge, waiting for the snap of dry branches or the rustle of reeds to signal there’s danger. it’s the watchfulness shauna has around nearly everyone (mari, misty, nat, especially nat) but not melissa. not until now.]
Taking a shower? [it comes out like a question, too unsure, too vulnerable, and shauna immediately hates herself for that, hates that she’s wrapped in a towel and dripping onto the floor, hates that she feels belly-up and defenseless in the face of melissa’s unexpected annoyance. she covers it up by tucking the towel in place, then reaching up to coil her hair into a bun, keeping it from dripping all over.] What’s wrong with you? There’s hot water left, you don’t need to be a bitch about it.
no subject
[ melissa sucks in a breath and stops herself before she says something stupid that she can't take back.
she reaches up with her good arm to adjust her hat. it's muscle memory, an anxious tic, but the hat is god-knows-where. not on her head, that's for sure. she tries to disguise the movement as if she meant to rake her fingers through her hair, but she's sure that shauna knows what she meant to do anyway. shauna notices a lot of the things that people try to hide about themselves.
but so does melissa. she can see the way shauna's lip curls to cover up the way that her eyes have gone just a little bit too wide and confused, the way she instinctively tucks the towel more tightly around herself for protection. it's infuriating that shauna is acting like she doesn't know what's wrong. at the same time, it's gratifying that shauna is, after everything, still just... a girl. she can get nervous. ]
Why'd you leave? [ melissa asks after a moment, quieter. she already knows why; she just wants to hear shauna admit to it. ]
no subject
there’s an urge to see that spot out, where mel’s heart pulses steady, dependable, familiar, to drown every sharp edge of who she is in the summerkissed warmth of the last few months. since they promised each other not to be afraid of those bad parts. and shauna doesn’t resist, she reaches out to take mel’s hand, tug her out of her shitty mood and up against the bath-warmed curves beneath that towel and –]
What the fuck happened? [shauna’s tone is ice, is fury, is raise your fucking hand and i will fucking kill you, and she reaches out towards the bandage, towards the sling and she literally almost says who did this to you like some insane possessive boyfriend, but – but someone fucking hurt her and shauna wants to tear them apart.] How – who? Tell me who. [one of the balfours, someone in the house, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter that shauna’s only wearing a towel, she stomps over to the dresser and starts digging through the large variety of frilly panties in the top drawer.] You just fucking – got here, how’d someone already hurt you?
no subject
when shauna is lying, she pulls this face. she makes all the muscles in her jaw go too loose. she blinks a lot. because she isn't trying to do the thing where she stares you down until it makes you afraid, she's trying to do the other thing where she acts So Incredibly Normal and Rational that it makes you believe everything she's saying.
shauna's reaction now is way too emotional to be fake. it's the kind of sudden, explosive anger she can't stop and doesn't try to anymore. it's not the response melissa expected at all. it's the one she would've liked back at the campfire when it fucking mattered, and she didn't get it then, but here? now? melissa frowns, confused, and scrambles off the bed. ]
Shauna—wait— [ she puts her hand on shauna's wrist with the same gentle hesitance that she'd use to touch a wounded animal, something just as apt to lash out as they are to settle. ] Stop, Shauna—
[ she makes sure shauna is done digging through the underwear before she asks, ] You seriously don't remember?
no subject
it’s the wrong size, it doesn’t fill shauna’s fist like the hunting knife had, the shape and weight of it like an extension of her own body. but she handles it with ease, turning as melissa touches her and nearly recreating that first encounter in the clearing. she thinks about it, about history repeating and her breath hitches with the urge to press this knife against the hollow of melissa’s throat, see what it’ll scare her, dare her to do.
the thought passes, though, and shauna holds the knife low, angled away from melissa reaching towards her. she draws in details about the wound – the bandage is across mel’s shoulder, it’s not her arm itself, her fingers can move, twitch, prompting the slightest wince of pain. shauna wants to find whatever doctor’s on staff and demand they do something, but the idea of anyone touching mel except her is unbearable, so shauna just draws in a deep, shuddering breath.]
I wouldn’t be asking if I remembered, Melissa, I’d be killing the guy who did it.
no subject
He's not here. He's—still in the woods somewhere, I guess? [ it's really, really nice hearing shauna say that she wants to kill him, though, whoever he is. if she dies, you die. she repeats the sentence a few times in her head and decides that it must be why shauna ran off in the first place. to kill the guy who shot her.
maybe she even did it. the thought sends a sharp thrill right through melissa, and she chews at her bottom lip to keep from smiling. ]
A man, he had this crossbow, and he like—he shot me. [ suddenly all of the other details seem a lot less important, like the fact that not even thirty seconds before, lottie had brained the crossbow guy's friend with a fucking axe and then started fingerpainting on her own face with his blood.
anyway, it doesn't change the facts at hand: the guy did have a crossbow and he did shoot her. she's not, like, lying. ]
You, um, left me with Mari and Gen. [ if she dies, you die. ] To go after him.
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that’s the only thing that has shauna not completely disregarding the story: the reality of mel in front of her, bloodied shoulder and sling, the subtle differences in her face, her hair lighter from a long summer spent – what? the way melissa touches her suggests something. the mention of a guy with a crossbow suggests more.]
The last thing I remember is the trial. [steady, stern, meeting melissa’s gaze.] How long after that did this guy show up? Did we catch him? [belated, and she knows it:] Sit down, if you’re hurt.
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except, she realizes, maybe shauna doesn't remember that she has a girlfriend. melissa exhales, sharp, almost a scoff. this is so fucking weird. it's giving her anxiety and nauseating emotional whiplash. she doesn't sit down. ]
That was like four months ago, Shauna. [ four months. shit, the trial? that was still the beginning of summer. before she moved out of gen's hut, before shauna told melissa not to be afraid of the bad parts of herself, either. ]
No. I don't think so. I don't know, I was kind of busy trying to keep Mari from ripping my whole fucking arm off. [ so maybe she's still kind of pissed about it, even if shauna's reaction here has done a lot of heavy lifting. mari, seriously? ] But you didn't come back with him.
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she realizes it’s idiotic to think that way, of course, of course, but. she’s still holding the knife, leaning back against the dresser and resting it on the smoothly-lacquered, expensive top. four months.] So it’s – after summer. It’s getting cold again. And some guy found us?
[the mention of mari gets a snort, an eyeroll, reflexive after all this time – fucking mari – and shauna finally letting go of the knife, letting it clatter on the dresser.] Mari as a medic would be like – like Misty as a cheerleader. [it comes easily, ribbing misty specifically, like the wilderness hasn’t made them all equals. more or less. turning, shauna grabs for clothes in the dresser, not weapons, hair starting to come loose from where she’s twisted it up on top of her head.]
Who’d I come back with? [not even entertaining the idea that she might not have.]
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melissa watches as shauna puts the knife down and starts picking out clothes. her hair is coming loose, dripping down the back of her neck, and melissa has to stop herself from reaching out and wiping the water away with her thumb. her good arm twitches and she pinches a piece of her shirt between her finger and thumb, worrying the fabric. ]
There were three of them. You brought back the woman. Her name's Hannah, but that's all I know. [ she chews at her bottom lip, thoughtful. ] They weren't looking for us. They looked like... hikers or something. I have, like, no idea why they were so deep in the woods.
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They weren’t looking for us? [and there’s a flicker of something, some little-girl-lost vulnerability that shauna still has somewhere buried beneath layers and layers of hurt – everything is over, done, buried, burned, but at least their families are still looking for them. at least rescue (fabeled, dreamed-about, longed-for and storied) is still possible. but when it comes, when the outside world returns to their corner of misery, it’s on accident.
scoffing, shauna pulls a pair of the clean, cotton, flower-patterned underwear up under her towel, then tugs it off, starting to furiously dry off her dripping hair. she's less concerned now about her state of dress, glaring up sideways at mel, wet t-shirt and panties and annoyance.] Unbelievable. That’s – and one of them shot you? Why the fuck did he do that? [she cares more now, after getting the (little) context melissa has, after asking the important question of did i get him for it?]
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[ and you know what? fuck them. obviously they didn't understand, couldn't possibly understand what it's been like living in the wilderness for over a year. how it felt to be starving, and how important it is to honor the dead in a way that means the group survives.
whatever. that's not important right now. melissa sees the look that flashes across shauna's face when she says that—they weren't looking for us? shauna can be so hard to read, and it's part of why so many of the others are scared of her, but like someone studying a new language, melissa is learning her. shauna just doesn't want her grief to be shared out in pieces the way they do with everything else. she wants it to just be hers. ]
Hey... just because they weren't looking for us doesn't mean nobody is. [ she reaches out and tucks a piece of wet hair behind shauna's ear. hesitant, a little, because she's not sure how to deal with this fact of their memories not lining up.
but at the same time it's shauna standing there in a wet t-shirt and panties that are actually clean, not just swished around in creek water til the worst of the dirt is gone. her fingertips linger feather-light at the side of shauna's neck, and mel's eyes dart down, taking in the way the fabric clings to her chest. she swallows and looks up again with a nervous smile. ]
And I'm... fine, so.
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because she is upset, she’s upset that these hikers found them, she’s upset that they didn’t mean to find them, she’s upset that melissa knows shit she doesn’t, she’s upset that melissa’s there with a hole through her shoulder (something insane and off-kilter inside shauna hisses nobody can do that except me which is – what the fuck, what the fuck is she thinking) and shauna can’t do anything but stand there and drip floral-scented shampoo and scowl. she’s upset about all those things, but more than that she’s bewildered that melissa can read her so well.
and the way she touches her, cautious and familiar at once, like she’s holding back, like there’s more there – shauna catches that look, at where the damp fabric clings to the swell of her chest, and there are a thousand more questions she wants to ask, but instead what comes out is:] I’ll believe you’re fine when I see for myself. [and it’s given with a meaningful look at melissa’s shirt, because – well. when in the crazy sex house, do as the crazy sex house guests do?
also obviously if mel freaks out, shauna misread things. but she remembers that kiss, remembers the way melissa had stared at her after the trial, half-worship, half-fear. shauna remembers wanting to eat her alive, wanting to pin her up against another tree, wanting to drag her into her hut and never let her go. had she? was that the unspoken lapse between them, full of long summer days where she’d stopped resisting the urge she’s felt in the knots of her marrow since she was a kid?]
cw injuries/blood
getting her jacket off is going to be a matter of logistics she hasn't considered yet, even as she undoes the buttons on the front and shrugs her left arm out. the fabric on the right side is stiff with dried blood, both from the entrance wound and from gen and mari's bloody hands gripping her shoulder every time they tried to pull the arrow out. melissa reaches over and begins to slide the right sleeve off, trying to do it without jostling the shoulder.
this isn't a good idea, this is—she can already feel the way her shoulder is getting hot, the way pain is rolling outward from the center like little seismic waves with each small movement, but she's just told shauna she's fine and shauna wants this and melissa isn't going to deny shauna anything she wants. maybe there's a little bit less awe in melissa's eyes when she looks at shauna now, but it's only because shauna has gone from being a fantasy to being a real person in her life, not because melissa loves her any less.
under the jacket mel's still wearing the olive green tank top she had on under her robe at the feast. there's gauze bandages wrapped around the entrance and exit wounds on her shoulder, both with a circular corona of pink, watery blood stained through at the center. she's suddenly very aware of how dirty she must look right now compared to shauna, who's standing in front of her with wet hair and clean clothes. maybe she should be embarrassed by it, but she doesn't think shauna will mind.
she thinks shauna might actually like it. ]
Can you... help me with this? [ the tank top. she's not going to be able to pull it over her head with one arm. ]