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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
silco, arcane | current player/character
birds (maybe kinda dubcon)
And maybe she has been sheltered, outside of the danger she's gotten into with Peter. Because they haven't gotten into--anything like this yet. Gwen hears people talk about how good The Sacred Eye is, and she thinks, since the treatments are free, that she might try it. Another mud mask, maybe?
The door's shut behind her before she realizes what she's walked into. The room's dark, tight, feels like some of the supply closets she's hidden in, and there's a corresponding thump of her heart, like she might get caught.
One of the people she's watching looks, for a moment, like Peter. Brown hair, lanky, sweet smile--but it's not him. Gwen shouldn't be watching this, and something sick and hot twists in her stomach as their bodies start to move together, slick with oil and sweat.
She's so absorbed she almost jumps, when the hand extends toward her. Except she can't move, and all that can jump is her pulse in her throat, and the touch to her chin jolts her into speech, stammering a little. ]
I'm so sorry. [ Her face is hot. He must be able to feel it. Gwen's aware, suddenly, that she's in a dark room with a stranger and all she's wearing is a short silk robe that didn't feel so revealing when she was with the other bathers, but now... ] I didn't mean-- I didn't know.
nsfw.
But today, he draws even closer, looking at her like there isn't a separate show unfolding beyond the glass beside them. ]
You didn't know?
[ His voice drips with something like pity, a burnt up effigy of forgiveness. His other hand finds her waist, and slowly, slowly, he turns her around to face the mirror, to look at the boy who isn't hers as he fucks someone else. ]
You know now, don't you?
[ Even with the whines and moans that float in from the other room, his voice rings clarion in her ear, his mouth so close to her cheek that her hair shifts with each breath. His presence crowds in like a shadow, not so close that they're pressed together — not yet. ]
And yet you didn't leave. Do you enjoy it?
[ He still isn't watching them. Just her, just the trembling blink of her eyes and the part of her mouth as, little by little, he loosens that invisible hold on her, testing whether or not she'll stay, whether or not she'll be pliant. ]
Do you like watching them?
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Her chest rises and falls evenly, gaze searching, only hitching once he moves her to face the mirror. She watches the couple behind the glass without really seeing, because now her body's attuned to one thing: the man who's caught her looking, who's old enough to be her father, who reminds her of the men she looked up to who mentored her at Oscorp, became the victims of their own experiments in the end.
The phantom grip he had on her loosens. If anything, it makes her more aware of the threat--or promise--of his body behind hers, his breath prickling at her nape.
Gwen half-turns her head, and he's still mostly a shadow in her peripheral. She keeps her gaze low, somewhere between him and the mirror, lashes dark against her cheek. ]
Well, in fairness, you did make it a little hard for me to leave. Just now. [ Gwen's voice is low, husky despite herself, but she's not going to be scared until he gives her a reason to be scared. ]
Maybe I should go. [ It's not an answer to his question, nor does she move beyond pressing a palm to the mirror, her hip bumping back into his. She doesn't want to think about whether the couple on the other side might be able to hear them, too, but they've gotten--louder, and it makes Gwen's heart beat louder in turn, her ears hot. ]
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Of course. How rude of me.
[ When Gwen sways backward (warm, alive), his hand flexes at her waist, his grasp still light enough to be shaken off, should she choose to, but hinting toward the same kind of heat that suffuses the rest of this room, this place. As if on cue, the lovers in the other room part just long enough for the man to help turn his partner around, bending her over the massage table and pulling her flush to him, his hand briefly invisible between them as he guides his cock back to her waiting cunt. She whines as he sinks into her again, the tremble in her legs visible even from behind the mirror. ]
But maybe won't be enough.
[ To let her go, to let her leave. He doesn't step forward, doesn't move, and yet the gap between them shrinks. Threat or promise — both are material, now, his chest pressed against the curve of her back. ]
You're blushing, little one, [ he murmurs, something soft (strange, picked from a different life) threaded into his voice. His hand moves with the same strange care, charcoal-black fingers traveling down to the rise of her hip, coming to a pause only at the hem of her robe. At her other side, his arm stretches out, bracing parallel to hers against the glass. ]
Do you really want to go?
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the birds are off
she's grown to enjoy watching, an indulgence. the sacred eye is exactly the indulgence she was looking for, until something aside from the low thrum of pleasure glues her to her seat. her chin tips up as if to ease the pressure against his sharp nails, dark eyes hollow as the shadow becomes a man who looks her over with the same hunger as the foxes that used to prowl the riverbanks. ]
I am invited.
[ not by them, not by the lovers behind the glass, not by the wraith in front of her. her accent, thick and broad, is still melodic, a purring sing-song of a tongue that has never caught on to the stresses of english.
she offers the door key, flat on her open palm as it slowly, achingly, turns over on the armrest. her invitation. ]
(ooc note: no facetwins, while ulyana may resembled ani in coloring and build, it is nothing more than that please.)
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Do you abide by their rules?
[ The house's, the Balfours', whatever force it is that keeps them all trapped here like so many dolls to play with. He hates it, he thinks. It, them. Anything that would name itself master of another, that would so neatly strip away even the pretense of freedom for the sake of its own amusement.
The hunger in his gaze shifts, moving to accommodate the curiosity sparked by her answer, the desire to take her mettle. After a moment of stillness, he nods at the pair behind them, oblivious in the midst of their coupling. ]
Would you let them have you like that?
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she thinks of biting his blackened fingers, runs her tongue across the back of her teeth. ]
In their glass box, watched? [ she leans to look at the pair, to follow the line of the woman's spine as it's bent over the massage table, her partner's fingers light against her hips. uly hums, disappointed. ]
Maybe. I would make very good show. But not like that. He is weak, will tire soon.
but i'm on your side.
Even after all the conversations about empathy, understanding, knowing that those men and women had no control over their actions, only the instinct to kill, this is one of the deaths that feels impossible to forgive. She knows her bias well. It doesn't diminish the anger, glaring at him with hurt in her eyes. Cellar has faced bigger monsters back home. What's one more. ]
Does it matter?
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Of course it matters.
[ He sways on his feet, fingers curling even more tightly into the wig in his grasp.
Of course it matters. Each life he'd sacrificed in the name of a free Zaun, each piece he'd moved around the board — he'd known them all. (Had he thought so closely about who he'd killed, when night had fallen over the commune? Yes, of course, says one part of his mind. No, never, says another.
Hadn't he been fond of this girl — of Cellar — before the world had gone black?)
Of course it matters, because he's looking for someone, but she's not here. ]
Doesn't it matter to you?
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I'm Cellar.
[ She finally answers, fingers curling into her palms. She doesn't know if she's feeling brave or just angry. Hurt. All of the above. ]
Do you know who Iggy is? Do you remember him?
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I remember him.
[ When he opens his mouth next, all that issues forth is silence. Space in which he thinks, I remember what he looked like, opened up, and swallows the thought back down. This would be easier, he thinks — no, he knows — if his memories were clear, if his actions had truly been his own. Easier to take responsibility, to provide answers that would satisfy the bereaved. As things stand, it's like trying to wring water from a stone.
He understands that what he says next is less than a consolation prize, that it means nothing when the deed has already been done. ]
I didn't know you loved him.
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but i'm on your side
but he'd moved the wrong way, twisted his thoughts incorrectly, too close to the sharp-pronged danger of humanity, and suddenly he was all limbs and skin and needy, impatient lungs, clawing to the surface and coughing out lake water, lips blue and teeth chattering. and the silky sealskin wasn't floating beside him, wasn't there when he reached out, it was just gone, vanished, somewhere in the heated, complicated, overwhelming house.
and koby wanted to leave it, ignore it, wrap himself up and go back to sleep, but he could feel the tugtugtugging of the pelt, calling for him like the lake had, dragging him into the labyrinth of saltburnt, and it was like ignoring the need to breathe, so all he could do was grab one of the robes from the spa and set out following that insistent nagging, through the winding halls until he found himself in the costume room. it seems as good a place as any to find the skin, his skin, to take it and wrap it around his still-shivery shoulders, so koby rifles through the racks and racks of clothes, knowing he's close, but not close enough, seizing at anything pink and coming up with handfuls of silk or taffeta or cotton or spandex, over and over.
he's not paying enough attention, and silco gets the jump on him, silco with odd, jagged edges, silco unburned again, silco who'd been a wolf last month. and any other time, koby would've been startled, wary, but he's too busy feeling through the racks of clothes, breath hitching and gulping with frustration.]
It's me. [impatient, dismissive, fingers and bones and skin itching, aching as he wrenches garments aside, seeks out the silky satisfaction of sealskin.] I'm looking for -- it's a fur, it's pink, it's my size, it's -- mine, have you seen it? [it's a bad description, but the frantic, frenetic ache in koby's chest feels like fishing nets wrapped around his legs, dragging him down, down, drowning him in wrongness, and the look he gives silco is pleading, near-desperate.] Can you -- help me find it? Please?
cw allusions to death by drowning, immolation.
He should be the one desperately reaching for penance. No, the Shepherd. No, those who had discarded him without a second thought when he'd revealed the practical, ugly thing hiding under his skin. No, him, him, me, me, she's dead because of me.
With effort, he takes one step forward. (Through water, heavy and omnipresent, suffocating.) Then he takes another. (Through fire, unending pain, his flesh and bones sloughing away even as he tries to move them.) ]
Stay here. [ The words leave his throat in a rasp. ] Stay—
[ Stay living.
It's not clear whether he stumbles, or he chooses to fall, but he drops to his knees, his palms striking the costume room's floor. Again, the lights flicker, the magic that death has bestowed upon him beginning to rattle the whole room, the racks of clothing trembling and rattling as Silco's eyes close, the black veins that spread across his face like ink pulsing with effort. His fingers close around memories that feel as distant as his recollections of the nights he'd spent playing the Shepherd's game. Koby, in the maze. In the host club. The warmth of his breath on his face, the earnest flutter of his gaze. Too sweet, too sorry, too soft, too willing to suffer for the sake of others. Would he have lasted a day in the Undercity?
The thoughts take shape. Soft and damp, wetting his palms. When he opens his eyes, the room is still, and there's a pink pelt in his hands. ]
This is—
[ He looks up, squinting against the mellow lights, arms already lifting as though to help Koby put on a coat. ]
This is yours.
cw: brief dysphoria, weird gender stuff??? idek
no, it’s like this – koby is a boy who is not a boy, or not a correct sort of boy. he’s a boy wearing too many other skins, skins of expectation and perception and misapprehension. he’s a boy in a skirt that hits his knees and two long, long braided pink pigtails. (when he sees her for the first time, in the ballroom, hair swirling around her as she spins and hops and skips her way towards him, koby goes dizzy with recognition) he’s a boy who is a sailor who is a slave who is a prisoner who belongs entirely, entirely to another person. she tells him to eat or sleep or kneel or endure or serve and he does. he is nothing until he is a boy again, he is a boy who escapes, who starts a new life and then it
stops.
and there is a river and snow and warm hands on the silky-soft pelt patterned in pink and koby can only sleep when nami spreads the skin out on her knees and pets it, when shanks drapes it over his stomach to keep him warm in the middle of that endless winter. he is a boy who is a seal who is something else and for a while, it is Good.
and then there is a house, and koby is a boy who is a young man who is awakening, alighting, and he reaches out recklessly, heedlessly, opens his hands to any who will meet them, any who will touch his not-correct body and call it good, call it beautiful, call it desirable. and he is fortunate, because they’re all kind (enough) and honest (enough) and care about him (enough) and koby builds a life in between these eager tumbles into new arms, one after another, and he doesn’t say “no” and he doesn’t say “wait” until.
until koby is a man in a hedge maze and he’s standing so, so, close to another man, to a man who has never commanded because he’s never needed to, a man who loves a girl koby adores, a man who pulls him like the moon pulls the tides, who makes him want to be better stronger braver smarter. who offers out an open hand, and invites koby to meet them. a man who koby says no and wait to, because of that girl, because of that want, because he needs to be better stronger braver smarter first.
and now he is a boy who is none of those things. he’s a boy who died, instead. he’s a boy with a scar wreathing his throat and death crawling beneath his skin and his soul made tangible, resting in silco’s hands. and if they were back in the maze, as they are now, in a world that doesn’t have that girl in it for a while, a time, because they both left her and she said fuck you i can leave too – if koby were standing in front of silco and he received that invitation again, one more time, he wouldn’t waste it.
but they aren’t. they’re in a crowded costume room and silco stands with the sealskin in his hands and koby’s expression goes calm, serene, and his mind empties of everything, eyes soft, warm, dark, every bit of tension disappearing like snow on a riverbank. and silco moves like he’s about to offer the pelt, but koby doesn’t reach to take it, because he – doesn’t want it back anymore. because he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to live inside a body that died, doesn’t have to be anything except what silco wants him to be.
tell me to be her, be him, be anything, and i will, i will, i will–]
Yes. [sweet, soft, thoughtless and blissful.] You found it. Thank you. [silco’s thumb twitches, just slightly, and koby feels it in every nerve, feels it low and hot, feels it and his face goes pink, teeth notching into his lower lip as he looks up at silco.] What – are you going to do with it?
cw suicidal ideation.
He could have him, like this. Could ask the boy to take to his knees, to lie on his back, could take and take and take, devour the sweetness left in him, and suffer no consequence when death has already set him at a remove from his body and his consciousness. His mouth grows dry with the thought, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. When he finally takes a step forward, his whole body seems to tremble with it. ]
You—
[ His daughter lies in the ground. His soul lies in the lake — no, it lies in her grave. He wants her back so badly it tastes like blood in his mouth. Like ash, his own flesh turned to dust when he'd been taken into that conflagration. He wants to be with her.
He wants to be with her.
Abruptly, he surges forward, his fists curled into the sealskin as he shoves it over Koby's chest, around his slender body. It is and isn't an embrace, too desperate by a large margin yet ending in the same place, as if he could force life and will back into Koby's body through sheer force. ]
You have to take it.
[ Guttural in his throat, buried in the pelt now covering Koby's shoulders. He can smell the sea. The lake. Black water. The endless scent of drowning. No, sweet warmth, and heat. Desire, more clearly than he's ever sensed it otherwise. ]
You have to come back.
[ For him. For her. Because things need to be put right. ]
cw MORE suicidal ideation
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but i'm on your side.
as if finding the bones of his ankles and creeping up further to the creases of his knees, the shadows grow, saturating the darkness until a man is standing there, fully formed. pearl watches shadows lick at his form like wisps of smoke sucking in the light around him. the blue of the wig is bright, nearly glowing like starlight against the darkness. ]
Pearl.
[ her voice, a soft melodic rasp, sounds loud in the quiet. the red cape in her arms pools over her wrists, hiding permanent shackles from view out of habit, though she doesn't know how long the shadow of the man was there. it could be a pointless habit. ]
Who are you?
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The black shroud that surrounds him, meanwhile, remains at it is — though the more she looks at him, the more apparent it'll be that he wears it like a cloak, rather than being able to lay claim to it like a phantom limb.
To wit, when he speaks, something else answers, first. ]
Death.
[ A wolf, he thinks, though the words never make it past his lips. The passenger inside him doesn't make room for that. ]
My name is Silco.
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Hello Silco.
[ a strange name, but the man himself seems rather strange right now. the manor itself does not seem to invite in the mundane. ]
Do you need help finding someone?
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My daughter.
[ A girl who barely comes up to his waist. No, a young woman. No, a corpse. The breath he takes in is no more than a shudder. His fingers curl in the strands of the wig, locks coming loose in the vise of his grasp. ]
She should be here. She—
[ A beat, a gulp of air. ]
I couldn't save her.
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naked eye
that would be this moment, this very one, with nami poised against the fake mirror, a notepad in hand, taking private eye-esque notes on the room's current occupants for the purpose of future blackmail. a very ludicrous job. it's a little like getting caught with your pants down, except decidedly less embarrassing and more like staring into an actual mirror. case in point: she knows silco is not a very good man, and not exactly a nice man, although nami hasn't personally experienced it. jinx is the way she is in part because silco is the way he is — and nami likes the way jinx is. a lot. follow that logic down the rabbit hole, and she likes silco too, duh. it's just also that silco happened to kill a fuck ton of people last month (not that nami can think of any of their names off the top of her head, and the only victim who actually mattered was koby, who nami knows wasn't one of silco's). when you're cornered in a secret room, unable to move, with a known murderer even if you happen to like the murderer, panic is the correct course of action. and yet.
there is a part of her, maybe tiny and insignificant, that's happy to see him. if silco's around, jinx can come back from — nami can't think about it, actually, because another blow to the heart might just do her in this time. just pretend it isn't happening. pretend jinx is alive and holed away somewhere, and silco was out getting a finger tan, and they're all back in place now and things can be normal, potentially. the businesses can kickstart again. she can have silco look over the specs. they can pretend not to be sizing each other up, like lions in a too small cage. (it'll be one of us, eventually. she'll make a choice. we both know it'll be you. so —
it's silco. kind of reliable. kind of always present. kind of always thinking three steps ahead for how best to use the tools at his disposal. kind of like a beacon who nami's always trying to impress. he died, and so technically got the last laugh, while nami stood, tears on his gravestone. alone.)
nami juts out her chin anyway, nudging out of his grasp. nami can't stomach emotions, can't express them the way you'd expect, like she never learned how. when nami thinks i'm glad you're alive her throat says, )
Fuck you. ( fuck you for coming back like this. for finding me here, unprepared, unaware. fuck you for not falling into the perfectly labeled boxes nami has set out, let's not talk about it and let's pretend it never happened. ) I'm a thief. It's what I do.
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But he recognizes her — the shock of clementine-orange hair, eyes as blue as the endless sea — and the careful, confident set of vengeance in his head shatters. He knows she has to stay as she is. Because she (she, the missing girl, the yawning absence in his chest) would hate him for it. Because he's fond of her, himself, despite himself. Because she doesn't deserve that kind of pain. And he knows without knowing that pain is what he was made for. To soak it in, like a sponge; to dole it out to those deserving of it, and to those who aren't. To everyone, in equal measure, for the sake of a city that forgets more of him with each passing day, and which he'd let go of for—
His brow pinches. His fingers waver in mid-air, not moving closer and not moving back. I'm a thief, she says. You are, comes the echo from the black void of his thoughts. You stole her from me.
Except she would be here, if that were true. On the current of that thought, its inky undertow, his hand begins to shake. ]
I—
[ I thought she would be here, with you. I thought she would be here. I thought someone would have stopped her. I thought I wouldn't be alone. The sentiments don't fit together, let alone in his mouth. The shape in which they emerge isn't quite right, isn't even a real response to what she's said, but it's all he can manage when all he feels below him is a pit, waiting to take him back into nothingness. (Nothingness, preferable to this terrible ache.) ]
I was looking for you.
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The ghost haunts the body. The body haunts the manor. Or it might be the other way around. Armand drifts and drifts until he finds himself snagged in a place, existing without knowing it, blinking his eyes to find himself in a bed, a room, a shadowed hall. The periods of loss grow briefer as the week continues; his presence ebbs and wanes. Tonight, he's more corporeal, no longer shedding oily ashes onto the floor.
He finds himself in the Hex Club, which isn't open. It's dark and shuttered instead, quiet, chairs turned on top of tables, waiting for the staff and patrons to return. But he's not alone. The ocelot in his arms flows down onto the floor and pads across the carpet, seeking out the hyena pup. Armand approaches the figure sitting at the bar. ]
I remember.. [ He stops beside Silco, hands alighting on the bartop like birds, fluttering briefly before settling. ] The night we lit the fire. How we worked together, to arrange it.
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(He is waiting for Vander and Felicia, here at the Last Drop. They will join him soon. They are alive and well. He has never seen death cloud over Felicia's eyes. He has never seen Vander look at him with hatred. He is waiting for Jinx, who is not dead. He is waiting for Jinx, because he loves her. He is waiting for all of them.)
Silco's gaze falls, first, then flickers sideways, twin pinpricks of light cast from within a darkness as inky as the color of his hands. ]
I remember.
[ Echo and acknowledgment, when they've all already shared that the three nights they were compelled into action have come back to them in a blur, memories as seen through a filter, from some great distance. ]
I remember, when we were done, I felt—
[ Proud, both of what they'd managed and how well they'd managed to work together. All of them in tandem, in cooperation, even if the group of them had been thrown together against their wills. Happy, to be a part of a whole. ]
—good.
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Regret. And what he's found in the ashes, scraped together pieces of a family repeating itself. Armand knows the compulsion well; every few hundred years, someone reinvents the coven.
At their feet, the ocelot approaches the hyena, sniffing and making soft low noises in the deep pitch of the jungle cat. Babou noses comfortingly over the young creature, then starts licking at his ruff, grooming him with paternal affection. Above them, Armand watches Silco in silence for a few moments. ]
We were together. [ He pauses, frowning thoughtfully to himself, rubbing the side of his index finger against his thumb. In the gloom, his form is a little indistinct around the edges, trailing threads of shadow. ] I've.. missed it, that feeling. It's been a long time. I've been wondering if it's why we were brought together. All of us.. missing it.
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cw: implied references to csa, noncon
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