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draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
Entry tags:
𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ▣ NOVEMBER TDM
NOVEMBER 2025 TDM: INDULGENCE
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
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself 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 painkillers 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, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself 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 painkillers 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, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
TREAT YOURSELF
CONTENT WARNINGS: pressing of hard limits (examples including suffocation & drowning)
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
REDRUM
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
SHE THINKS SHE'S MADE OF CANDY
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw prompts (including lactation & a/b/o themes).
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
CANDIES OF THE MONTH
For an interactive game, feel free to click on whichever of the below candies appeals to your character, and reveal a (horny) side effect. Alternatively, click them all and find whichever side effect most appeals to you! Be warned — you are never going to get these stains out.
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
DIRECTORY
SET ( ENNEAD )
— ONE HALF OF ITS OWN POISON ( MALICE ).
— TO THE SOUND OF TRUMPETS ( REDRUM & CANDY ).
made of candy
We won't need a towel.
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Set warbles faintly, a curious sound evocative of a bird, or perhaps the distant shrill of a desert fox. The ends of his dark hair ( kept dark, for the costume party and following rave ) curl faintly, deepening to cherry-red as he loses a little bit of focus on his 'guise and finds his jaw working instead, soundless around words: what? why?, that he cannot help but mouth around before his hazy brain catches up. He can fill his lungs with that rich, wonderful scent of another god — familiar in many ways and different enough that he does not feel the urge to pull himself away and take flight.
The kisses linger, warm against him. The hand, warmer still. There's nothing elegant to be said, when his body slouches slowly and eagerly into the seat, strong thighs flexing as he digs his heels into the ground and draws his hips forward to the edge of the upholstery. ]
You will not let me second-guess any of this, right?
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He thinks he could do this ritual forever, make this moment of reverence last for as long as they'd both live, eternal and inevitably present, hand moving between Set's limbs to search for any wetness that's gathered there, bring it back to his mouth so he can lick himself clean. ]
What is there to second-guess?
[ A smile that's conspiratorial, bringing Set into this game they can play and let others watch. Zephir's gaze lowers to the other god's chest. Perfect, hidden. Set was a vision, sitting there, hands on his breasts, seeking relief. ]
Uncover them for me. I want to see you.
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Cat-like, he presses the toe of his heels against Zephir's belly and gives him a little push — play resistance as he feels those wandering fingers seeking the still-unfamiliar wetness between his thighs. ]
— whether it will be good or not, naturally. Would you believe I have never had a mouth upon me there? You have the opportunity to set quite the standard.
[ Teasingly, he flutters black lashes at Zephir while his hands move to provide him a response to his eager request. He touches fingertips to his legs, where the remaining drape of Morticia's gown sprawls across his bare skin, dragging it up high enough that he can part it around his hips and expose the join of his thighs.
To draw them up the curves of the female shape that he wears — as much a costume as the rest — until he can curl each finger into the front of his gown, sinking them below the part that gapes over full breasts, arching his spine to peel the front of his gown open and gracefully curve his hands below his breasts and lift them free of the material. His eyes gleam: stars in a night sky, like the body of his own mother. ]
I made everything myself. Do you like it?
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[ A thumb slides gently on Set's ankle, letting go to sit back and watch. Set is observed like a piece of art, like a rare phenomenon — northern lights, a pattern of radiant light before him, undressing for him, the curves of his legs exposing skin closer and closer to the source of the fluid. Blue eyes watch the constellation, laying a hand on his knee, lifting himself just as Set arches his body and bares his breasts. A shape perfected, made to be touched, licked, sucked on. Zephir is on his knees, slowly leaning up and forward, planting another kiss between the god's clavicle and chest, peppering him with his lips on the way to the peak of a nipple. ]
It's sublime. All of you.
[ He could've said divine, but that's a given. It's what Set came from, what he walks in, how he will likely go out when the universe cools and ends in total stillness.
Zephir dips his tongue out, draws a line around the edges of the pink circle, presses the ring of his lips and sucks softly. His hands part Set's legs by the knees, inviting more of him to drip; the more there is for him to clean up, the longer he has to stay and make sure no drop is wasted, the better. He repeats the slow ritual to leave the other breast slick with saliva, then lowers himself to lick the small puddle on the seat. Mouths at Set's inner thigh, traces a reverent path until he's tasting the source with the fullness of his tongue. ]
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cw: tentacle tongue.....?? lmk if i should change!
CLOSED — SHANKS
[ hey miyou it's time <3 ]
[ Around a corner, Set holds Shanks's face in his hands and purrs at him. Morticia and Gomez at their finest, doting on one another as if the rest of the world doesn't exist.
Wobbling on unsteady legs and filled with an intense yearning, he lingers in a state between inebriated and liberated. Stroking the strong jaw before him as he peppers Shanks's face with kisses: one for his brow, one for his mouth, one for the tip of his nose and the softness of a closed lid. He tips his hips into a seeking, strong hand and sighs languidly. They'll sort themselves out, later. Having agreed to set aside the bad blood between them, ( though the tensions do not leave them, far too cerebral and devoted to their respective scions as they are to ignore the burden of responsibility, adoration and territoriality that simmers between them ) Set cannot help sometimes but — want to play into it, a little.
Maybe the opportunity will present itself, tonight.
For now, he pushes into Shanks's hand and loosens the front of his striped pants, seeking to fist his cock without hesitation. To wrap his fingers around what he can of it, and squeeze down commandingly. Everything is his to have, when he wants, isn't it? Shanks would give him anything. A sharp burst of need between his own legs makes him writhe, rubbing his thighs together with a breathless sound. ]
— I want it. Right here. I ate so many treats for you, I want you to enjoy them.
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shanks responds in kind, squeezing at a tender breast trapped beneath the cling of the gown, his hips rocking into set's firm hand. there's nothing he wouldn't give when set wants, when he thrums with palpable desire — desire mirrored in the scorching desert heat rolling through him in waves, set's need an extension of his own. shanks hums in agreement, low and warm, too distracted by set's mouth and the pretty sounds that spill out of it to form a coherent reply. feverish and desperate to make it out of the hall, shanks throws his hand behind him to feel against the wall for the closest doorknob, pushing back on the open door with his shoulder, dragging set inside with him.
the familiar scent of sea salt air, aged wood, and linseed oil floods his senses, strong enough that he manages to wrest himself away from set's mouth and cast a cursory glance around the room they've stumbled into. he has to laugh, of course, because it appears to be the captain's quarters of a ship — lit in warm candlelight strung up in lanterns, glowing from sturdy, ornate candelabra; bright, cool moonlight streaming in from the open bay windows; cluttered by everything one would expect from a pirate: maps, bottles, chests of treasures and coins, deep oak shelves littered with books and trinkets, weapons strewn about with no real regard.
they can't actually be at sea, surely, but just outside the windows he can hear the faint sound of water lapping at the hull. however the house put this together, it's awfully convincing. (and much like the room of many tents that opens to the desert and the sea alike, the only other place where either of them can escape to, to be near the elements they've been stolen from.) there's a dull ache of homesickness in his chest — this is the longest he's ever gone without his crew, after all — a brief pang of yearning swiftly overtaken by a heady swell of arousal pooling low in his belly. )
Seems they've got me pegged. ( how many times has he thought about this before now? thought about bringing set back to the red force, parading him proudly past the politely perplexed faces of his crew, ravaging his wife in his own bed, on his own seas? too many, if he's honest. a true fantasy with no possibility of becoming reality. until now, it seems. well, halfway, at least. ) It's not my ship, but it'll do.
( the floorboards creak under their weight as they cross the room, shanks guiding set backward insistently, shrugging out of his jacket and tearing off his tie along the way, until they clatter into the sturdy mahogany desk fixed in the center of the viewing platform. he bends to one knee, his hand trailing the sleek curve of set's hips, down the slender length of one leg. bunching a pool of fabric in hand and biting at the rest, he yanks with his teeth, ripping a high slit in the elegant black gown draping his wife in midnight from head to toe. (his wife, who is just as beguiling in this form as he is in any other.)
he considers, for a brief moment, staying on his knees — but set's fingers twisted in his hair and the needy throb of his cock drives him back to his feet, back to the perfect shape of set's mouth. slipping his hand between set's thighs, shanks presses into the wet heat of set's cunt to slick his fingers, coaxing and sweet, as if to say open your legs for me like i know you want to — and then, the quick, teasing pinch to set's clit is the only warning he gives before he aligns himself and thrusts his cock into his wife's tight, soaking pussy. )
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Most mortals die before they satisfy a god. His sister has fucked men to death, ridden them until their hearts have simply given out — while Set has not truly put his own desire to the test. Not yet, at least. Normally, he matches Shanks. The yearning displayed, the love and attention given, were a better drug than any candy he could shatter between his teeth and swallow down, down to where he felt it all take root, insistent and commanding and mad with need: he wants what he wants, and he wants it until he's done. The single-minded insanity of a natural force upon the world, now pliable and eager as he claws at Shanks's shirt and sinks the points of his claws softly into his scalp, scratching delicate furrows of sharp sensation down the back of his neck as Set bites kisses into that dear, dear mouth.
An impatient snarl escapes past bared fangs, when Shanks moves them. The scents and sounds hardly register, because he's slipped head-long into animal imperative, some wild need that he's usually too in his head to allow himself to feel. Here, now, he can seize a handful of Shanks's chest and grope him in return — thumbs sinking into the flex and give of his muscles, gathering soft skin between the pinch of his palms as he kneads and strokes his husband's body through his clothes. His other hand far too busy with his prize: long, slow strokes of the other's cock, curling his fingers on the upstroke and across the head of him.
He's heavy, and strong. It's the same cock he'd demanded fuck him raw on the floor of their little cottage in the commune, seconds after Set had risen from the dead and found himself wanting against all odds — the same animal imperative to fuck rearranging his brain within seconds of feeling Shanks's warmth, hearing him, smelling him: a clean, masculine scent mixed with bright alcohol and the tangled web of his deepest soul. It's a scent Set had cultivated and cared for by caring for this man day after day after night after night, now his, all his. It's this cock he needs inside of him, more than ever before. ]
You stupid man — [ He hisses, as he loses track of Shank's mouth. A half-hearted complaint as red eyes flutter open to chase the path his partner makes once they reach the desk. He gets a hip up onto it, as his gown's torn. Fingers find the edge of it to pull it aside, to expose where he wears nothing at all underneath the little number he's donned for the party. That's where he aches the most, cunt aflame with a desire so maddening it overtakes all rationale. He's not the begging type, but when Shanks gets fingers inside of him, he all but hisses at him. Bared teeth and dark pupils gone to cat-like slits, cursing at his husband in the flowing, golden language of gods in a way that rattles the room around them like thunder. Half-threat, half-demand.
Shanks is inside of him, soon after he makes his desire known. A shriek rips from him, strangled on a yes of approval as he's driven back on the desk; a wracking gasp catches in his lungs, bowing his spine backwards as he all but collapses his weight there in an effort to tip his hips up. To get his knees on either side of Shanks's waist and hook a heel into the muscle of his ass, his thigh, to pin him strongly there. His cunt can barely clench down, spread around Shanks's cock as he is — where he can feel the rounding of the head crushing some part of internal anatomy that he's simulated, just like every other part of the woman's body he's slipped into like the costume he'd worn.
He tugs aside the front of the gown, palming one of his breasts as the other hand dips between their bellies to draw the edges of his claws across the muscle of Shanks's hips, finding the ridge of his hipbone and following it to the thatch of red hair crushed up against Set's folds, the fat base of Shanks's cock keeping him spread so wide, so open. Another animal noise escapes him — a bird-like trill, a coo of invitation-threat-demand as his insides twitch and ripple with obvious orgasm, simply from being entered. ]
Come on then, Emperor. Treat me like a treasure you'll never let go.
— TO THE SOUND OF TRUMPETS ( REDRUM ) do we have too much?
he sidles up to set not knowing it's set. )
Very Anjelica Huston. One thing this place has, it's the costumes. Hated the commune, but the commune fit wasn't... awful. Even got me a nice nightgown. ( Back here. In the house. He peruses the food on the table, before turning, clearing his throat. ) Maybe don't pass that along. They're comfortable as shit but you do look ridiculous.
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[ Morticia Addams knows your name, mister. The way her ( his ) brow knits is reminiscent of the perplexed expression of another guest of the manor — though in costume, Set's hair and eyes and brow are all darkened to black. Ink black, midnight black, pin-straight as his posture in the gown that he wears, because he and his Gomez have not claimed victory yet.
The rambling is charming, though. It puts a curling, cat-like smile on Set's ( Morticia's ) face as he thinks how wonderful it will be to tease the man before him. ]
I bet you look perfectly handsome in your nightgown. I have never had as many clothes as I do in this place, and all of them are fun to wear, even if I do not actually wear traditional [ he plucks at the front of the gown, tugging it back into place around his breasts, ] "clothes". Do you think I could win the competition?
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( well, this is a surprise. )
You've seen movies, right? Well, she's an actress who plays Morticia Addams in one of the movies. If that helps the explanation. ( Shit, Set ... cleans up, is all he'll say and then he looks front and finds, hm, candy he eyes but doesn't grab. ) Yeah, you're probably up there. Figured you would fix it to win, if you had the power. You really like winning. ( Which is an understatement. ) Clothes are important, they cover up everything that needs covering in the uh, normal situations. Public. That sort of thing. And, I look like. a big dork. But, I pull it off.
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[ Briefly, he strikes a luxurious pose, all angles and curves and long, bare legs. It's a pity that he's had to learn that Morticia is a fictional character, because he was just thinking about what a splendid companion she might make. Shanks and he had agreed upon the costume after a late night spent blinking, transfixed at the Addams Family Values on VHS. He'd fallen for the love story, as much a romantic at heart as his redheaded husband. ]
I enjoy winning. I will tell you a secret, though: I enjoy competing more. War always has the conqueror and the conquered, and both aspects are part of my domain! Not to say I will not be giving it my all!
[ At the mention of covering up, he folds his arms back down into his lap, eyes gleaming as he watches Dean picking through the food. A curling, feline smile and narrowing gaze betraying some sort of devilry brewing within that warped mind of his. ]
Is this an abnormal situation, then?
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CLOSED — HOMELANDER
There's only one scar that Set can think to take care of: the lone, offensive mark from his death last month. He mops at the ointment with the edge of the gauzy shawl worn over his vintage swimsuit from summer's past, lifting his knee to balance the material and wipe clean his elbows. Attending Homelander in this way is, perhaps, a greater intimacy than the afternoon in the forest — and why he has adopted the fuller curves of his female form to accomplish the task. ]
You are all right with this, yes? We will be meeting nightly until it fades.
[ He shifts where he stands, briefly rubbing his fingers together to test the ointment and if his fingers have numbed from it, or if they're just tingling so strongly he cannot tell what is proper sensation and what isn't. ( Some insane part of his brain wants to lick it, and see if the tingling will spread to his tongue, too. ) ]
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Vought had done everything in its power to make him perfect, to make him look perfect, and he's— aware, in a creeping dread sort of way, of how he's aging, how there's no imperfection more noticeable than a wrinkle or a scar, especially one as big as this, like he's Frankenstein's monster. (Ironic, given how he'd come back last Halloween.) ]
Yeah, [ he says, finally, the word carried on a sigh. He still doesn't look totally sure, when he meets Set's gaze, but he looks sure enough. And his thoughts skip past guilt — for the fact that he's changed, for his sake — landing somewhere near uneasy interest, instead. After all, the last time Set had worn this form for him had been— ]
You don't need me to take care of yours, I'm guessing.
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[ With a bright laugh, he bridges the gap between them like a herding dog, urging Homelander to step back, back again, and to sit himself upon the massage table nearby. The permission is what he needs, whether his friend is wholly confident in the pact or not, Set respects him enough to wait for that from him; once he obtains what he needs, though, he's on the move. A reckless storm with one purpose: connect ointment to body. He leans there, hovering between the angle of Homelander's outer hip and the edge of the massage table. One, ointment-slick hand reaching out with
deliberate slowness, it seems.
His fingers uncurl as he spreads them over Homelander's strong stomach, flattening and widening as he pushes his palm over the center of his body and lightly, curiously kneads his thumb into the texture of the scar tissue. As if he has never really felt anything like it before. Looking up takes a moment, and addressing what is said takes another — as if he's entranced by the sudden, strange mark of his best friend's mortality. ]
You could. [ Take care of him, too. The scar burns itself into existence around Set's throat like a collar, slender and concave from the dire thread that had strangled his un-divine form to death. It's not the same, but he tips his head to the side and rolls it back to present his throat to Homelander, so very willingly. As if he'd give him anything he'd ask for, with nothing left to be sacred. ( #blorbo ) ] If you can be gentle, put my hair up first.
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Instead, he accepts his ministrations without protest, though his gaze remains on the god's face, noting the dizziness that creeps into his expression as he rubs the ointment into his skin. It's a reverie, in turn, that's only broken by the acceptance of his offer. He hadn't expected it, when he can change forms so easily — when he isn't bound to a body, instead made of seemingly endless sands — and there's— a tenderness to it that scares him.
When has he ever nurtured, instead of destroyed?
Rather than make any remark in return, he looks for — and is met by, in the knowing generosity of this place — a hair tie (in colors that match Set's bathing suit), the band covered in a layer of crushed velvet. With it in hand (or rather, slipped around one wrist), slowly, carefully, he raises his arms to form a ring around Set's head, his hands collecting the soft red waves of his hair before he can think too long about the fact that he's never done this for someone before. Not Maeve, not Stormfront, not Stillwell, not even Alicent. Certainty leaks out of him like a sieve, but he presses on, twisting water-silk waves until they form a spiral of their own volition, then pulling the tie around in one, two loops. The result is a loose bun — ready to dislodge with just one emphatic nod — but proof, nevertheless, of a request fulfilled (if you can be gentle) to the best of his abilities. ]
Hold still.
[ And he dips two fingers into the pot of ointment, warming it with the press of his thumb before finally drawing it upon Set's skin, over the delicate line around his neck. ]
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cw reference to coercion.
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1/2
cw slight body horror (sexy?)
deprivation (cw suicidal ideation)
set’s room thrusts him back to a time that he wished for this silence. to barely exist, when he wasn’t worth looking at, a selfish, emotional fuckup. if the universe would have swallowed him whole, it would have been no big loss to anyone.
still, a pang trembles through his chest at the thought of how easily replaced he is. that he’s no one special. that he can’t provide anything that someone else can’t do better. that someone else should be sinking to their knees before set’s prostrated form. he doesn’t respond to his name, doesn’t seem to even register embry’s presence, so he reaches out and curls set’s bloodied hands in his, more careful than usual not to cause any more harm. the slickness of his blood mingles between their skin. ]
If you want to go, you have to look up.
[ face this lack of love, light, audience — everything, if he truly wants to escape. embry doesn’t say what sits sharply on the edge of his tongue. that he wants to stay. ]
i care they,
Without being able to hear or see anything in this end-of-places, all he can do is think and feel. Even with his fingers bloodied to bone, the pain has long left him. The repetitive gesture is practically a self-soothing one, at that point, until other hands wrap around his and still his motions. With everyone having gone before him, how is it possible anyone could be left? He can't hear what's being said, deaf as he is. Can't lift his head to see who is there, blinded as he is.
And what does it matter, that anyone is there? Other presences are temporary: the other gods have long since turned their backs on him, old companions exhausted their patience and prioritized their own health, own families. He knows he's stubborn, loud, obnoxiously pick-me-see-me-hear-me-i'm-here-too about everything he does and says and delights in — to be too much, to be incapable of tempering his need for attention to make better decisions.
Still,
he chases touch, the last thing he can have in this place of infinite nothing. Twisting his hands to try and capture the other's ( he cannot know who it is, only that they are there and he cannot let the opportunity go ) and hold them tight, fingers curled bruise-tight to the point where even his claws bite and hook into flesh. Unwilling to let go, desperate for contact as he pushes his face into the space between Embry's knees and curls into him. Mouthing against his leg a litany of I'll be good, I can be good. Don't go. I'll do anything, don't leave me, as he tries, very hard, to be a well-behaved animal so that the one who's left doesn't mistake his noncompliance as hostility. ]
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Set. You can’t stay here. Open your eyes.
[ doesn’t matter to embry if he’s good. goodness has never been a dealbreaker, not when loyalty comes first. he sears a kiss onto set’s skin that will undoubtedly turn into a bruise, then straightens and pulls him up, letting go of one hand to grasp his jaw, forcing him to face him. a smear of red marks his skin where he grips him. ]
It’s me. [ he searches his gaze for any kind of recognition, his pulse quickening. ] You’re with me.
cw taun tauns ( my lol )
Golden spellwork, structured like a net, winds around his eyes and ears to lock them away. Stripping away all recognition of Embry's face, his voice; but, Set's nose works. He buries it in the crook of the man's throat, shoving past the grasp that Embry has on his jaw to accomplish the task. Inhaling his scent in great gulps, picking out the innate core of his person among the desperation, the loyalties, the scraps of others who've put their hands on him throughout his life — staining some part of his existence for better or worse ( he can smell Greer in there, familiar as he is with her scent from nights spent curled with her like a pair of commas, laughing faintly at her curious questions ). His mouth hangs open, exhaling hot and wet across Embry's skin as he digs his face into his throat, into his jaw.
He rips his claws free of Embry's hands, and goes for the collar of his shirt, shredding it across one collarbone in a desperate attempt to find more skin, to pursue the few senses he has left in this cold place. The harder he works at clothes, the angrier he seems to grow; claws uncurl into fingertips that wrap strangling-tight around Embry's throat, Set's body straining into his space ( he could split this person from groin to chin with the swipe of a single hand, shove himself inside of the warmth, the heat, wear him like a layer of armor against the knowledge that he's done this to himself — made himself alone and readily unlovable ).
As a god, he's effortlessly powerful. To get Embry's body underneath his barely takes anything, just the subtle flex of bicep and shoulder to throw him flat on his back and sit astride his hips. ]
— get this thing off me.
[ His voice, desert-dry and snarling, calls attention to the extent of his madness. From despair to naked fury, he needs to face his fear ( abandonment ), by recognizing who will come for him and he needs to be able to let them go, when they are ready. What his intent is, is to keep his visitor with him now. Forever. ]
I cannot hear or see you, and I know who you are. You should not have come here, Embry Moore for I am cannot let you go — your body will end one day and be buried here, [ Set's weight is enough to pin the other man down, allowing him to touch his fingertips to his own bare skin; to his collarbone, sweeping down to his ribs, his belly. Despite that he appears to be flesh and blood, an evocative image will burn like madness, a scalding psychic imprint as revelation or divine providence would in the mind of a prophet: the sight of infinite, rolling dunes of red sands / the desert where millions of bodies fall, decay and are buried deeply within the god's body / unborn to the world, blanketed and swallowed forever. ] Inside of me. Nobody will find you, but I will always, always know where you lie.
(no subject)
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malice (hers) cw: restraints
and grace in her blood-stained yellow converse, restrained on the table, looking very out of place.
her big blue eyes look at set, who last year had lifted her from a coffin like a lost goat who wandered off from her sacrifice and shoved her back into herself. she wants to feel relief at the sight of him, but set looks hungry and grace feels sticky panic pooling in her chest. ]
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Is that really you, Grace?
[ Trapped, and at his mercy? ]
Welcome back. What a reunion for us to have! I get to be very mean to you, but rest assured: it will only be until you let go.
[ Purposefully, he strokes the taper of her waist to her hip, leaning down, down further until the red of a few loose locks of hair brushes across her cheeks, until he kisses her forehead. Pressing his cheek to hers, he contorts to try and see the ceiling from her point of view, one hand elevating before her eyes — when he curls his fingers, his nails grow into animal claws: hooked and strong, like a lion's paw. Lowering his hand to her soft stomach, claws prick at her clothes, catching some of the material and shredding it with a tug of his wrist. ]
Which is it? Do you not want to be held down, or is it the nuance of being unable to escape? I could do anything to you, like this.
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at his question she struggles against the restraints, gasping as her movements bring his gentle claws so close to her delicate skin. he could no doubt cut through her skin just as easily as he tears through her clothes. her teeth grind together as she swallows, trying to find her voice, trying hard to keep it from squeaking out of her. ]
That's what I don't like. You could do anything.
[ her shoulder rolls, presses into the table. she's not so far gone that she can imagine the phantom pain of the knife stabbing through her shoulder, but the reminder is there. that set could do the same thing that alex did. ]
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[ He reiterates it again; this time deliberately, voice slow and deep as he spreads his fingers wide over her fragile stomach and leaves his palm in contact. Warm and strong, as he presses down and sweeps contact to her waist, then up to her ribs; the whole while, those deadly claws hover like a threat. Any moment he could curl his fingers inward and sink them into her, puncture her skin and slip beyond bone to the soft places within her.
Slowly, he glides his hand up and over her breast, cradling it with the lingering, distant memory of the last he had seen of her. She'd lost the pretty thing, he remembers, as he bends down, down over her and presses a kiss to the curve of her chest. Then another, to the side of her throat. His other hand, unseen and far more subtle, slips claws into the material of her skirt and begins to wind the fabric like a reel — drawing it up her legs and over her knees, folding it to the side little by little to expose her. Calves, knees, thighs. ]
I think you might have to trust that I will not choose to hurt you, to be free of these restraints.
[ The backs of his knuckles stroke along the top of her thigh, petting into the crease of her hip with curious, deliberate softness. Teasing, and taunting, all at once. ]
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