𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄 ▣ AUGUST TDM

[saltburntmods]

AUGUST 2025 TDM: BALANCE

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.

GOODBYE TO SALTBURNT

CONTENT WARNINGS: house fire.

The day starts much like any other — at least in the first few moments of consciousness, chased to morning light by the pounding of a hangover, the sweaty night terrors soaking your sheets, or the scent of breakfast on the rise through the house. Well, it seems someone must've burnt the bacon, now that your nose wakes you up, which is highly unusual for the skilled chefs here at Saltburnt. Flutter your eyes open and see a pillowy cloud of smoke filtering under your door, something that manages to finally alert you to the danger you're in. Out in the hallway, flames lick up the walls, smoke and ash burning your eyes. The next move is obvious: grab whatever you can carry and get out, as quick as you can. It seems that place you've called home for a day or a year is going up in flames.

Outside, flames engulf one wing of the huge manor, invaluable trinkets laid out on the lawn from the help, usually invisible, running in and out to grab what they can spare from the flames. Of course, people offer their helpful services — tending to burns and smoke inhalation, trying to put out the fire from whatever means they have, be it buckets of water stolen from the lake, or magical prowess from the population of guests. Regardless, the fire rages, and only manages to cease when about half of the house has been burnt down to structurally questionable bones, ashy remains, and the occasional falling cinder of burnt wood.

Before the mess, the Balfours stand in a range of different emotions — irritation from Bunny, paranoia from Rosie. The only one who manages to attempt to find a silver lining is Portia, whose plastic smile twitches around her watery eyes, hand cinched in an iron grip around Jonty's. There's a pleading look in her eyes for all of a moment before the patriarch of the family springs (more, dustily sways) into action, calling forth, "Giles!"

The man in question appears, soot-coated and harrowed, yet still immaculately well put together, bowing slightly at the waist. "Sir?"

"The —" he starts, somewhat unsure of himself, before solidifying his resolve. "The camping gear. In the shed."

A firm nod, manners impeccable. "At once, sir."

LIVING OFF THE LAND

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes.

By mid-morning, you'll find Portia Balfour has taken … liberties with the lawn decor. Aside from a brief intermission spent sobbing at the manor's scorched stonework, the lady of the manor does what she does best (in Portia's very modest opinion): she beautifies. Gone is the sad, sad state of all that empty sprawling green; what stands in its place is an encampment of tents stretching from the gardens to the forest boundary. And not your mother's backyard camping equipment, either — that would be so terribly basic and blase, darling. They're much more exciting than that. Fresh out of the imagination of someone who clearly consolidated ideas from flipping through a Martha Stewart Magazine and browsing Coachella's website, the bell tents (100% cotton, Portia is too happy to share with you) come in a lovely selection of colors. Beige, buff, biscuit, oatmeal, fawn. And Portia's personal favorites: the chartreuse, and a shade that closely resembles bile.

At your look of confusion, or distress, or perhaps distinct horror, Portia announces, with a stiff smile to rival a fresh dosage of Botox: "It's fine. It's fine! I wanted an excuse to finally redecorate, anyway. We'll just— we'll make a retreat out of it, my lovelies."

Well, where else are you going to go? Outside of each tent, Giles and his fellow staff have taken the time to generously assign you and your former suitemate to a shared tent, your names scribbled together in obnoxiously joyful cursive on a bright chalkboard. Just in case your amateur eyes can't distinguish between beige and oatmeal. Of course, mistakes are made. You can't possibly expect the housestaff to remember all of your names, or who you've shared space with before the "Little Setback", as Portia has taken to calling it. Some of you might find yourselves paired up with the wrong partner in the mix-up and reshuffling of housing arrangements, while others — without suitemates, or freshly arrived — find themselves shoved together by Giles' subpar matchmaking skills.

Whoever the two of you happen to be, you'll find that — while the interior is positively spacious — some concessions had to be made. Namely: there is, in fact, only one bed. Or, in your case, only one sleeping bag. Designed to lovingly cradle two bodies in disturbingly close proximity, your organic, artisan cashmere sleeping bag comes with only a narrowed zipper for entry and one built-in memory foam pillow, so you can meditate by listening to your partner's breathing at all times. Portia's private DJ turned ex-fling turned self-proclaimed intimacy coach, Ezio, insists it helps you and your partner connect to the same emotional frequency for maximum bonding. Whatever that means.

Luckily, not all of your belongings were unsalvageable. Giles has painstakingly begun the process of transferring supplies into your tent, from changes of clothes to personal effects to underwear you're 70% sure belong to another resident. Among them, you'll find both a camp counselor uniform that looks like it was pulled off the rack from an adult novelty shop, and a pair of athletic short-shorts and white tank tops for your scheduled summertime activities.

The generosity doesn't end there — with Ezio's advice, Portia has arranged a gift bag for each tent, meant to strengthen ties amongst the House's residents. What better time to connect than in the wake of such a tragedy? Inside, guests will find: a guided erotic meditation track, mood-boosting meditative candles in scents such as Nag Champa and Afternoon Scrapbooking, a set of silk ribbons with slogans reading Surrender and Trust, heated massage oils marked for tension release, an ergonomically-shaped crystal pleasure wand sculpted from Rose Quartz meant for "grounding and release", silicone bands for your, ahem, instrument to help harness your "root chakra", and a guided positions manual for Kama Sutra with Portia's favorites meticulously circled. Happy healing!

No summer camp trip would be complete without activities. Ezio, allergic to wearing anything that isn't a breathable speedo, leads a series of trust-building exercises. A blindfolded obstacle course, set up with chairs hauled down from the attic as well as pool noodles and cardboard boxes, requires one partner to lead the other successfully to the end. Ezio's twist? You can only direct your partner through sincere, heartfelt compliments in the vein of, "you look so pretty when you're confused." If you lose patience and swear, you're forced to mandatorily hug each other — medically effective to reduce your blood pressure! For the detail-oriented, there's the Human Scavenger Hunt. Sitting in meditative circles, you're given a list of clues to find on your partner's body, ranging from locating the part of their skin that's softest to finding their ticklish points. That birthmark on your buttcheek will come to light. For the more athletically inclined, there's the honeyspoon race — with your mouth as the spoon. It's your job to transfer as much honey as you can into your partner's mouth without spilling. Or perhaps you'd prefer less mouth-to-mouth contact in the piggyback race, or a vanilla and traditional game of Tug of War, or even Bunny Balfour's strange rendition of Jason at Camp Crystal Lake. Those of you who can't outrun the killer get helped to a nice dousing of red food coloring you can cleanse off in the communal showers positioned at the treeline, with nothing blocking the rest of the camp's view of your natural assets.

Mealtimes are rigidly run as scheduled by Giles' demand, though the Balfours' menu is rather limited to simpler cuisine this month. Toad in a Hole, Angels on Horseback, Bubbles and Squeak, and what looks to be a charming attempt at S'mores served on digestive biscuits — all dutifully charred over a campfire and served with a variety of fine vintages spared from the worst of the flames. And if you come underdressed for the occasion? "We dress for dinner," Portia remarks from her place at the head of a honey-oaked picnic bench, overlage sunglasses shielding her eyes. You get the impression she's looking down her nose at your choice of wardrobe, anyway. "Black tie. No exceptions."

Eat up, gather your energy; you'll need it for what comes next.

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

CONTENT WARNINGS: emeto, slight body horror, potential character death, fuck or die.

While you were all asleep in your spacious tents and unspacious sleeping bags, the maze has shifted form, spreading its sections along the entire grounds of the house. You wake from what should be the end of your glamping spree already lost in a part of the sprawling labyrinth, maybe with your tent-mate, or the person you spent the night with, or someone completely new. You’re only sure of one thing — it seems like you’ve suddenly developed a pesky case of allergies. It starts with an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation that crawls over your entire body as you start to move. Sweat dampens your clothes despite the towering blossoms offering a rather pleasant shade from the sun, and soon your teeth are chattering with chills. So maybe you’ve caught a summer cold, or some of you might be spreading mono from having a pair of too-loose lips. In any case, it’s probably nothing you haven’t dealt with before, and it won’t stop you from finding your way out of the maze.

The natural thought would be to utilize your own skillset to escape, but you quickly realize that using any magical abilities yields no results upon the thick foliage — or at least you think there’s no effect. If you try to use fire to burn down a part of the maze, not only does it not work for you, but now, in a part of the maze opposite to you, there are burning flames that other house guests will have to get past. Being big and bad, in this case, means you’re probably just an asshole now. As you stumble through the maze, you encounter more and more magical obstacles that you might begin to recognize as coming from your own friends. Looks like everyone’s desperate to get out, and you’re only making things worse. (If your character tries to use their magic, please submit it here, so others can play with it!)

Speaking of worse, those allergies are swiftly advancing into a full blown infection from — you guessed it — the foliage of the maze itself. The constant reproducing and shifting is caused by THE BOGWOOD BLIGHT, evident by the dark lesions spotting the plant stems, and white, fuzzy spores clinging to the undersides of the leaves. Your symptoms progress into searing pain as flowers, branches, and thorns begin to grow inside of you, your vomit coming up bloody and thick with masses of dead leaves. Young vines and tiny flowers seem to spool out from your own hair, curling around your throat if you don’t keep up with tearing them out. Hallucinations plague your mind, sharp desire both violent and sexual permeating your senses and threatening to push all other reasonable thoughts out.

It would be easy to succumb to this sickness, to let your base instincts fight or fuck one another until you’re all hopelessly lost and doomed to a certain death in the labyrinth. But there is a way out, for those who can hold on to their sanity and bear through the pain: participate in the trials, and earn your freedom.

These trials? Nothing like the fun and games of a night camping beneath the stars. The verdant landscape of the neatly trimmed maze has become flush with deadly obstacles, and it’s up to you to get past them all. Naturally, your first instinct is to grab your trusty iPhone and reach out to your closest and most trusted companions — but everything you send reaches the recipient in a way that utterly twists your intentions. A simple are you okay? turns into I’m glad to finally be rid of you. Trying to reunite with a loved one throws you for another loop when you finally do find them — three loops, in fact, because you encounter three identical copies of your love, all trying to convince you they’re the real one. In order to reveal the truth and continue your journey along the maze, drive a thorn into one of their hearts. Hope you know your lovers well. Maybe a little physical touch will help?

The maze might break into a small clearing for you, a wide open space with checkerboarded grass filling from one edge of the field to the other — two different tones of the same haunted green pervasive through the labyrinth. Certain spaces are occupied by expertly crafted hedges to resemble all the familiar pieces to a chess board, while the Kings are left empty, awaiting you and an opponent. Take your positions, or wait for a stranger to stumble upon you, if you were unlucky enough to face the maze by yourself, and play the game according to all ordinary rules of chess. Following a checkmate, you have the option of how you’ll claim dominion over the opposite side, or how they’ll claim it over you — a slap or a kiss will suffice, to earn your win. Strangely, physical touch seems to relieve the worst of your allergies. These things do have a way of escalating, don’t they? Best to keep your wits about you.

For those of you prone to clumsiness, you’re probably doomed already, but the viper pits are an easy trap for even the most seasoned of the bunch. Take one step, and the ground gives way beneath your feet, plunging you into a dark, flinty hole in the earth. The injuries you might have sustained on the way down are the least of your worries. Inside the pervasive darkness of the pit, it’s time to face your vipers — that is, your worst fears seem to press in on you, terror blooming in your very bones until your own nauseating dread is all you can feel. Maybe it's actual vipers, or rough waters pulling you down, or a thousand razors cutting your skin — the mystery of the dark is that anything can be inside it, waiting. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have a friend risk it all to help you out, but you can always just save yourself, clawing to the top while your greatest fears weigh you down.

If you manage to avoid the pits, they’re not the only deadly thing on the ground. Step close enough to smell the honeysuckle and you’ll feel a sharp clamp around your ankle. Vines, slithering out from the foliage, wrap themselves around your body in near shibari style — and these vines like to fondle and grope, ramping up the sexual side of your infection symptoms. The only way to get free? Turn to someone else struggling in the vine trap and get frisky — or let the vines turn from pleasure to true pain as they slowly squeeze the life out of you. Orgasm or die. It's a pretty easy choice, isn't it?

Just when you think it’s the dehydration of too many long days and nights scrambling through the maze that will kill you, you’re lucky enough to happen upon a water source — one of the many beautiful fountains, shimmering ponds, or rustic bird baths dotting the path of the maze. Whichever it is, you’re parched enough to drink deep despite the possibility of bird shit floating around. As you crouch over the water, your reflection stares back at you — only it’s either your most perfect self that you wish you could be, or the worst version of you that you fear you’ve already become. Once you catch your reflection’s eye, you’re caught, unable to stop yourself from being pulled into the water’s depths. The bird bath overflows, the pond turns dark and bottomless, and the gilded fountain statues laugh at your plight as you struggle to keep yourself from drowning. Time to face those ugly truths about yourself — fast.

After your harrowing ordeals, you reach what can only be the end — a narrow pathway lined with thorn-filled hedges, too thick and solid to pry through. The only way forward is onto the path. Luckily, a piece of bright hope shimmers before you — a single strand of golden thread, hopefully leading you out into the world once more. You step onto the path, following the glimmering thread, and it seems like all is well until the moment someone enters the path behind you. The hedges rush toward you, brutally narrowing the space as thorns dig into your flesh and rip fresh wounds across your body. Looks like only one of you can complete this painfully claustrophobic trial at a time, and the other has to watch your slow and bloody suffering, waiting for the moment the walls part and you can rejoin your love without consequence. Better hurry to get there. They’re going to need some patching up once they’re done.

As you escape the stifling thorns, finally emerging on the other side and collapsing with relief to be free and hopefully to get some help for your worsening illness, you realize with a sick drop of your stomach that you haven’t made it out after all. The golden thread has led you into the heart of the maze, where you know the Balfour’s beloved Minotaur statue should be… only it’s nowhere to be found. Instead, there are two statues towering over your pathetic form: Medusa cast in gold, and Midas carved in stone.

MATERIAL GIRLS

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential character death, loss of limbs.

It's been a long, harrowing journey, but you're here now, likely with some friendships or trauma-bonds made along the way, which is what summer camp is all about. Each of the statues before you is decorated with a marble slab at the base, detailing EYE TO EYE below Medusa and HAND IN HAND below Midas. Curiosity eventually wins out against wariness — or maybe the charms of the maze have worn thin on you through the days, frustration guiding your motion. Whatever the case, you weigh your options and choose accordingly between the two, stepping forward and sealing your fate.

EYE TO EYE — Look to Medusa for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside her, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you begin to change. It starts at your fingertips, gradually spreading from arm to shoulder to neck, and so on, transmuting your body from flesh and blood to cold, icy stone. Those affected start to lean into their darker side, turning from the hero to the villain, the kind to the cruel. To stop your gravelly fate, amends must be made — forgive someone who wronged you, love someone you hate, clear up a misunderstanding you've let fester inside, make up for some injustice you've committed in your life. Give them the knife and let them start cutting. Beg for penance, and whether or not you receive it is beside the point — the begging is enough to redeem you in Medusa's eye.

HAND IN HAND — Alternatively, hold the hand Midas extends for a few seconds, and a door will appear beside him, granting you free exit from the maze. However, for the following days, you too start to change, following the same pattern of those more Medusa inclined — but gilt instead of stony, turning gold from the outside in. Those affected lean further into their brighter, more pleasant sides, cheer replacing sorrow, your mood uplifted to a potentially overbearing degree. To stop your gilded fate, sacrifices must be made — reveal a deep rooted secret, let go of something you're insecure about, give away something of important value to you. Material good are nice, yes, but do you know what Midas would like even more? Limbs, eyes, flesh, blood, something you're really going to miss.

Regardless of your choice, you're out of the maze, congrats! Act swiftly and all will be fine. Dither and, well — you'll make a beautiful, statue-corpse eventually, and the maze would be happy to have you. Of course, even a successful solution will take time to settle in. Your stony, golden limbs revert as slowly as they crawled up on you, any severed body parts taking days to reform but eventually coming back as good as new, with a small memorializing token — a hand or an eye shaped birthmark to remember what you've lost.

Out of the maze, you can see the work being done on the house, renovations well underway while you were busy messing around. It was so kind of you to give the Balfours the chance to start working on the house — and while it's unlivable for the next while, there are always the tents to keep you warm.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

cellar spider — original (current)

[longlegs]

GOODBYE SALTBURNT

[ You're somewhere in the house during the fire — maybe you wandered to the worst place, maybe you stayed too long or wandered back inside for whatever reason — it's a regrettable place to be regardless, as the flames are getting to the structure at this point, causing it to collapse right over your head.

Suddenly, it's very dark. Look up and find a layer of solid shadows shielding you from the house dropping in on you, flames still roaring and crackling beyond this supernatural cover. Look ahead and find Cellar at the other end of the room, holding out both hands to keep her shadow construct steady. She yells out, sweating, flushed from exertion and the heat, layered in the same kind of dark shield from the neck down. ]

Can you run over here? We need to go — now!

---

LIVING OFF THE LAND ( cw: nudity, ota for smut )

[ Way to make Mrs. Long Legs seem like she's got legs for days (nay, weeks) in these short shorts, y'all. Pity the white tank top's ruined with the food coloring after a lost round of outrunning the killer in Bunny's own curated game. Cellar makes her way to the showers by the treeline, looking forward to some cool water after all the running and team building, already peeling off the now-sticky top to reveal a sports bra underneath.

That's coming off next, unless someone interrupts her. Then the shoes, then she shorts, down to her panties as she turns the shower on. ]

This soap better not have some freaky aphro stuff in it, I swear.

[ Except her dispenser is empty. Already? Time to check with her neighbor, splattered in fake blood from the neck up and on her arms and thighs. ]

Can I borrow your soap?

---

TEAMWORK — TRIPLETS

[ She tries to use her powers in the maze, but nothing works. Rolling her eyes, exasperated, she groans, ] Here we go again.

[ They keep taking her shadows off her hands and it's annoying — except they're still very much here and inadvertently ruining someone else's day right now. Left with no choice but to keep going and hope the fucked up allergies to destroy her, she turns a corner and finally sees another face. Times three. You and your copies, all staring at her while she wonders what else must've been in those stupid plants. ]

Whoa — uhm, okay. Hi. Are you real? Any of you?

---

TEAMWORK — KINKY VINES ( cw: nsfw, gag, plant/tentacle-y sex, fuck or die )

[ You turn a corner and find her managing to get a few more cursewords out of her system before the hungry vines provide a gag that keeps her mouth busy. All the swearing is reduced to grunts and angry mms, arms and legs tied, vines coiled around the swell of her breasts and the junction of her thighs and hips. Any clothes she's got left are either ripped or being slipped into while she struggles and squirms, looking at you. Don't need telepathy to guess her wide-eyed stare betrays something like are you gonna do something? ]

---

MATERIAL GIRLS — MEDUSA ( cw: likely nsfw, prompt-related body horror and personality change, pushing boundaries, tentacle shadows, dubcon* )

[ Cellar makes it back to the campsite like she just survived and yelled at another apocalypse, wanting nothing more than a shower and a week-long nap. Over the next few days, the stiffness sets into her fingers, turning gray, shifting into something neither dead or alive. Cellar ignores it. She ignores the change in her behavior, too: less patience for jokes, more unkind comments, lashing out when she doesn't get what she wants.

One night, Cellar wanders into your tent. Either you know each other or she noticed and thought you were irresistible enough to bother. Everyone's always horny for each other anyway, so this is fine, right? Why she doesn't do it more often is beyond her.

Lying down next to where you're sleeping, Cellar nuzzles your neck, hand on your chest. (It's heavier, too cold and too solid to be flesh. She can barely use it anymore and yet she does nothing about it.) She makes tendrils with shadows, using them to slither under the sleeping bag or covers to slowly wrap around wrists and ankles, more of a loving nudge than a trap for now. Find her smiling with genuine delight when she's seen, like she's so sure this is something you've always wanted. It's not her usual bright smile — there's an edge of something darker. (It's something you want because you don't have a choice.) ]

Surprise.

[ *If going the dubcon route, would prefer it to be dub-to-con. If it goes in the opposite direction I'd prefer to have her be shut down! ]

---

[ ooc: Info and kinklist! Contact me for questions/wildcards/etc at gucky ]

LIVING OFF THE LAND

[advertising]

( He's bloodied like the coach of an NFL game, not having participated but, apparently, still a part of the fun. Sucks, cause he doesn't have too many changes of clothes and he's been showering early in the day, both for modesty, like a gentleman, and just because that's his routine. But here he is, sun's still out and he's soaked. He doesn't get the game, for the record. Who's Jason. Why is it blood. And there should be a hockey mask involved.

Semantics, aside, Riley's showered around other soldiers before. Men and women at the barracks, and in communal showers at college.

He doesn't even blink as he, too, strips out of his now red outfit. He winces, lifting his shirt up and Cellar will be able to see fading bruising, and healing scratches on his chest. He moves for his pants, next, looking away when Cellar goes for her panties. Again, like a gentleman.

Bare-assed himself, he steps under his own stream of water, closing his eyes, letting it cascade over him. He can almost imagine he's not here at Saltburn outside in front of everyone.

Running a hand through his hair, he reaches for the dispenser but pauses, eyes now open as he contemplates the implications. He looks at the soap dispenser as if it might bite him. )

You really think they might do that here?

( Whomever they may be, but her question brings him out of his hesitation and thoughts. For now. )

Yeah, yeah, ( He says, giving her access to his soap as he moves for the shampoo. He pushes, to release it, holding his palm underneath. Letting it sit in his palm for a second, he decides he'd like clean, not sticky-bloody hair, so he lathers it in both hands. ) See you on the other side, I guess.

[longlegs]

[ She tries not to stare, but a body is a body and he's got a pretty nice one, eyes darting down to his chest to get caught on the waning marks of pain. Still, the attempt to be marginally respectful is mutual, even when they don't have much of a choice in who gets to watch them shower next to a camp full of people stuck here, half of a gigantic manor burned down in the not-so-distant horizon full of ruined bathrooms. Cellar misses her own already. She'd just organized all her bottles and cosmetics by size and color, too.

A self-deprecating grimace will have to serve as her apology for the inconvenience, scooting over with her arms strategically placed in front of her chest, bent at the elbows and wrists like she's shaping the shadow puppet of a swan. The process is awkward and stiff, but Cellar gets enough soap in her palm to return to her spot under the neighboring showerhead, washing her shoulders and neck, then arms. ]

Knock on wood.

[ An attempt to lighten the mood and un-jinx anything she might've manifested, but Cellar can't say she's confident in either direction. If it comes to that … he seems nice, at least? Cellar can't say the same about the food coloring, though. Fucker's stubborn to wash off, even when she scrubs harder. Time to groan about it. ]

Come on, seriously?

[advertising]

( The dye from his hair at least cascades down his body, red food coloring draining, but after dispensing soap and taking a few minutes to work at it, he too realizes the dye isn't budging on his skin. Determined, he dispenses more, working it into another lather focusing on his arm first. )

Damn it.

( He wipes soap out of his eyes, glancing over, just to see if she's having as hard a time as him. He's trying to be respectful, not looking at any parts, but her blood-red skin. )

It's not coming off, is it?

( Least he won't look like a clown, just that skinned guy in Hellraiser. )

[longlegs]

No— [ Clicking her tongue. Insert whine-noise. ] Whatever this thing's made of, [ And a beat, scrubbing with more intent only to give up, ] It was definitely not supposed to go on our skin.

[ Or it was, in the sense that 9 times out of 10, something's planned and custom-made to ruin their day. She knows it's gonna be an even bigger bitch to wash it off the parts she can't see without looking in the mirror, too. ]

There's no way I can get rid of this before dinner. Ugh. They better not lecture us.

[advertising]

What's the saying, black and white and red all over? Penguins with a sunburn? ( Small-town, quaint jokes he hasn't heard of since a kid. Staying looking the other way, he attempts to scrub under his armpits, something to scrub, even if it doesn't work. ) They expect us to look like penguins.

( So, there's that. )

Do you know whose idea the game was?

[longlegs]

[ There's a soft, unflattering snort, disbelief in her laughter. The joke catches her by surprise regardless of delivery, and now she's blessed with the accompanying mental images. Cellar slows down on the washing, testing the shampoo dispenser; that one's considerably more plentiful, at least. The soap has to have been used up by the previous serial victims, she imagines. ]

Wasn't it Bunny? I feel like this type of stuff is always Bunny. Why, are you thinking about getting 'em back?

[advertising]

And, how would I do that?

( He's curious. )

Not that I'd want to. Or, that I'd dare. Isn't crossing Bunny crossing Portia?

[longlegs]

I think we could get away with a prank or two.

[ 'We'. Oh my. She keeps washing her hair, eyes closed. ]

Are you too nice for that?

[advertising]

( Still looking away, the gentleman, he's starting to see progress. )

Try too old. Hey. ( He looks down at his own arm, back at her, then away, up, around. ) Think it's starting to come off.

living off the land

[diarists]

[shauna’s watching, because of course she is – shyly, under her eyelashes, shoulders angled away so nobody can see her own bared front, remembering gym class teasing – woah, milk duds, save some for the rest of us since middle school, the way she developed first, quickest, the way even looking at the other girls in the shower made a hot flush of heated shame glide down her spine.

but there’s an enviable ease in how cellar undresses, effortless and carefree, peeling off the layers and letting them drop, then starting the cool (if somewhat sporadic; bad water pressure is sort of a camp shower requirement, huh?) water. shauna keeps her head down, rubbing away the grime gathered from a day of hiding out in the woods, the back of her neck prickling as she resists the urge to look over.

until cellar speaks, and shauna looks over with those big, unsure doe-eyes for a beat too long before managing a little quirk of a smile.] Haven’t you been here for a while? Of course there’s some weird aphro in it.

[but she obligingly pumps her cupped palm full of sweet-scented, liquid soap, cradling it carefully as she reaches out the hand towards cellar’s designated shower area – hard to be strict about it, though, with no walls or anything.] Here.

[longlegs]

[ Shoulders kept high, chest barely concealed, Cellar finds that if she tries to act natural, people around her might be inclined to follow suit. People this time are Shauna, though, someone who comes with a few sweet memories and others that still make Cellar blush with the taste of metal in her mouth. Maybe it's that one, anything-but-wholesome memory, maybe it's the water that gets Cellar to absentmindedly lick her lips and swallow.

Thankfully, Shauna plays along and gets her to smile back, lowering her gaze while she collects much longer hair — she hasn't cut it since she's been Mila Singer — in her fist, squeezing water. The determination to Act Natural returns then, with her moving over, moving closer with hands brought together, up against Shauna's. This is the worst time to make a parallel with the situation crafted by those stupid tarot cards, and yet. ]

Thanks. [ The effort to just focus on the other girl is helping, somehow, pulling her right back from where she doesn't need to be. ] If something weird's gonna happen, at least it's with you, right?

[diarists]

[months of sitting still, shotgun in hand, watching the body language of birds or beasts to find the moment of absolute calm -- the perfect moment to strike -- means that shauna knows how to watch someone's unspoken cues better than most. cellar licks her lips, smiles, gathers up her hair and generally looks like some sort of mythological water nymph, standing there beneath the warm trickle of water.

so, emboldened -- if cautious, having spent most of the last two months hiding out in various empty rooms -- shauna slowly steps forward, reaching out to slip her soapy hand over cellar's, transferring the sweet-smelling liquid from palm to palm.] Yeah, I'm pretty good at handling weird shit by now. Or even making the most of it. [a quirk of a smile, eyes flicking up to meet cellar's, thinking of that same moment, her blood dripping messy onto the other girl's outstretched tongue.

acting on a whim, she gestures for cellar to turn around.] I'll get your back. I promise to tell you if you like -- start to sprout wings or something.

[longlegs]

[ She grins, conspiratorial and coy all at once, eyes down before they're on the other girl. Turning around, hands full, she starts to lather her chest and arms. ] ]

You can put my hair in front of my shoulder, if you want.

[ As Cellar pictures her grabbing long blond strands to tug them instead. Daydreaming is going to get her in trouble at some point. ]

[diarists]

[it’s like watching snow melt, the way it slips down from spring-swollen banks on the lake’s edge, slips out to the still, clear water, watching the suds slip down over cellar’s shoulders, her arms, her chest. shauna feels like she could stand there staring for hours and hours and never get bored of watching.

but she obliges, reaching out to gather back cellar’s long, soaked golden hair, meticulously, even as her back begins to chill with standing out from her own warm spray too long. shauna makes sure she has ever strand gathered up, then twists it into a bun on top of her head, so it doesn’t interfere with her trying to wash her front. plus it exposes the line of her neck, her shoulder, the notches of her spine, and shauna can nearly feel her mouth watering as she stares and stares.

swallowing hard, she lathers up her hands, starting to slowly move them over cellar’s bare back, starting right at her shoulders.] You, uh. Having fun at participation-required summer camp?

[longlegs]

[ Cellar stands there, her feelings somewhere between awkward and just right. She knows that Shauna doesn't get along with one of her newer friends — Melissa — for whatever reason, but that doesn't mean she can't trust her. She's kind of thought the opposite, actually. Macabre and wrong as the Tarot influence was, Cellar remembers the blood, but she also remembers warmth and relief. She remembers a girl who could give her anything; all she had to do was ask. Just like all you have to do is pray to a saint.

They're both far away from that place in time and in mind. Back to their usual selves with a detour back in June, Cellar holding the bun up, Shauna's hands moving like a light massage she didn't know she needed. Cellar lets her eys flutter shut, indulging. ]

Mm? Oh. Could be worse. Honestly, I think that I'll be over it by the end of week, like… two. [ A pause, turning her head slightly. ] How about you — are you doing okay?

[diarists]

[shauna thinks about the showers at school, about soaping up jackie’s back after practice, just like this, about the feel of her body, warm and firm and strong beneath her hands. that first stirring of something beyond best-friend affection, the times shauna let her eyes drift where her hands couldn’t, down the length of jackie’s spine, to the curve of her waist, her hips, her ass. beautiful women in showers being a weakness is such a classic trope, damn it.

swallowing against the dryness in her mouth, hoping cellar will blame the rushing red in her cheeks on the warm water and humid air, shauna keeps slowly lathering soap over the bare span of the other girl’s smooth shoulders. her skin is perfect, sunkissed, and shauna wonders what cellar would do if she moved forward, kissed the freckles there and there and –]

Me? Uh – fine. [it comes out too abrupt, sending heat bolting up the back of shauna’s neck, she reaches around cellar to rinse her hands off, clearing her throat.] There’s enough to eat. I’ve been sleeping in the woods, mostly, though. I, uh, left my tent.

[longlegs]

Really? [ Frowning, surprised, puzzled. Cellar turns enough to look at Shauna over her shoulder, concern in her eyes. It could be that Shauna's just the type to prefer the woods to the improvised accommodations, but… she doubts that more than not. No better way to be proved wrong or right than by simply asking, ] Why is that?

[ Like she's getting ready to ask if Shauna needs a place to stay next. ]

[diarists]

[it’s the sort of sweetness shauna knows damn well she doesn’t deserve – especially not from cellar, who’s beautiful and bright-eyed and drenched in love all the time. beside her, shauna feels like something irrevocably broken, destined and doomed to be alone. her hands go still across the other girl’s soapy shoulders and she breathes in, slowly, eyes flicking away.]

Some stuff from home. Stuff I did. They’re pissed off about it.

material gworls

[medals]

[Jem wakes restrained. This is not the first time, and it won't be the last, but she isn't expecting it, this time, and this is why she comes to with a startled thrash, a sluggish series of blinks.

Through the fog of sleep, she asks: ] Cellar?

[She's a blurry figure for the first few blinks. She's a mirage against the blanket of Jem's shared cot, hazy-dream made flesh. She stills her thrashing when the image of Cellar Spider becomes solid and defined; confirmation and relief, though the latter comes and goes. It gives way to confusion, too sleep-addled to understand seduction from someone she isn't used to seeing it from.

She tries again, voice lowered:] How're you - what is this?

[longlegs]

Heeey, [ Low, affectionate, sounding a little drunk. Either she doesn't notice the struggle or ignores it along with the confusion, nuzzling Jem's neck, brushing an altered hand across her stomach. ] Do you think they used to do things like this? The girls we used to be?

[ The girls they never were, Mila and Jem, exes who were once in love, or something like it. The smooth, dark tendrils squeeze, loving and imposing, as stiff fingers try to trail up to Jem's chest. Does she even notice what's happening, or has Cellar stopped caring? ]

Were you having a good dream? I can give you something better now.

[medals]

[Too much happens at once, and it takes her so much longer than it should to catch up. Was she dreaming? She can't remember; she barely remembers falling asleep. Did they do things like this, she and Mila? She can't remember that either. She wants to say that wasn't me, wants to scream until she's blue in the face that she isn't that girl, that she's never been that girl. That girl had been miserable; that girl had been heart broken, had been taken apart and left to rot by the wayside.

Her lips are dry. She blinks, sleep-dumb, going slack in the shadow-binds. Says, throat scratching: ] You're drunk.

[longlegs]

[ Cellar's laughter is soft, feminine, and in the darkness, just slightly haunting. The hand imprisoned in stone is stiff and uncomfortable, something she ignores to pursue whatever she damn well pleases. ]

You're so funny. I'm not drunk. [ Suddenly, a mood change: the trap setting off, smile turning into a hurt frown. ] Don't ever say that again. I'm here because I like you so much. I'd never compromise that by being fucking drunk. Got it?

[ Denial paired with Medusa's wrath in her throat, making Cellar and upset and intense — not entirely unlike the girl Jem was in June. Nuzzling her neck, ]

Now tell me about your dream.

[medals]

[Whiplash response, hazy dream-like reflexes switched off, alert switched back on. For a second she's somewhere else, with someone else: they're blond too, of course, pretty blue-eyed monster with a trigger-switch temper. The dejavu of it is disorientating, so quick and dizzying she tries to sit all the way upright and finds herself straining against the shadows.

She tries, quiet, well-trained and well-versed: ] Are you okay?

[Her nightmares can wait. They would wait indefinitely if she had her own way. ]

[longlegs]

I'm fine. [ Cellar moves her arm, too heavy, too stiff. Cursed with an infection made of stone, growing each day. ] I'm fine, [ She repeats, as if that's what she has to do to convince Jem. To convince herself. ] Better, now that I'm here.