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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
peter parker | the amazing spider-man | current player, new character
[after the whole spa incident, peter makes the executive decision that he's gonna do what he should've done the first time: leave gwen alone. it's not often that there's a second chance for this kind of thing — actually, there's not ever a second chance for this kind of thing — and so it's really important not to mess it up. however they'd been brought to this place, whether by a portal or by something else, gwen can do her england thing, away from him, just as she'd been supposed to. it's fine. everything's fine.
except they aren't, really. nights are their own kind of horrible, because he just sees her fall, again and again, every time he closes his eyes, and all he's doing is just sweating through sheets that probably cost more than his college tuition. and, on top of that, there's no crime, nothing going on at all, and he still can't find his suit or his webshooters anywhere. all that there's left to do sometimes is literally climb the walls.
he's gotta find a distraction. some kind; any kind.
that's the long and short of what leads him to the spirit halloween popup on the lawn, browsing through the selection of costumes. he has to lose more time than he realizes doing that, because, eventually, someone walks over and hands him one, presumably to just get him out of the way.
looking down at the package to find a whole vampire outfit, complete with the fangs and the fake blood, he frowns.]
Seriously? [he calls out after this person, who's definitely not listening.] This is, like, the most cliche of cliche Halloween costumes.
[still, he doesn't actually have any other ideas, so he puts it on, plastic fangs and all, and keeps it on.
from there, he's on the move. he can be found in the haunted house, or, eventually, in the garden, shoveling a bunch of snacks into his mouth (plastic fangs notably dumped onto the grass) as he makes nonstop commentary on the film being shown. he has a lot of thoughts.]
she thinks she's made of candy.
[the concept of a party like this isn't exactly foreign to peter. like, he's in college — or, at least, he was in college, before all the laws of physics had been completely thrown out the window to fling him and all these other people here. people do this in college.
has he personally been to anything like this? well, no. there's been spider-manning, there's been taking pictures for jameson during said spider-manning, a lot of pictures because the rates on each one are so low, there have been the five, six months without those things because leaving the house had seemed pointless most days, and so he's just neither had the opportunity nor the want to do so.
but, here's the thing: it's this or another night of literally climbing the walls of his room, and he's kind of tired of the latter? so he's here, in the same costume (minus the long-discarded plastic fangs), trying to squeeze his way between literal throngs of bodies crowding on the dance floor, to —
candy.
he grabs indiscriminate handfuls of the stuff, eating skittles, acid drops, and wine gums all at the same time. yeah, he's probably gonna get a cavity in a month, but who cares?]
You had any of this? [he asks the first person who's in earshot, with his mouth full.] It's good. It's so good.
wildcard.
[have something else in mind? hit me! at his canon point, peter is 19, and i'm open accordingly for nsfw prompts; good for all the candy prompts, with the exception of jelly babies. i'm available at
redrum | garden, we'll ease into the gay
dressed as jason voorhees, he chooses to leave the mask on for some of the night. recent revelations have left him in a state he can't describe, and he'd like to avoid the carpenters for the time being. he hasn't processed who one of them is to him. he doesn't even know where to start.
so, he fills his cup from the keg and drops down into a chair by the snack table. he sips from the cup for a few minutes. he's seen hocus pocus before. who hasn't. it's not his thing. but, it's something to watch. crazy they're playing family friendly shit in a house like this. he heard what goes on behind closed doors in malice, you know what he means?
turning, he hears peter's incessant commentary. )
The way you're talking, you'd think you were the original writer of this thing. Let me guess, they shit all over your original script idea. Made it funny instead of scary. Dropped the foursome with the devil. Hollywood.
perfect
most people move away from him, which, you know, is their prerogative if they don't want to hear how their childhood favorite is ridiculous, that's fine, everyone's entitled to their peace.
one guy doesn't, though. he turns, and — ]
What?
[halfway to another mouthful of snacks, peter laughs, partly out of startle, and partly out of sheer disbelief.
turning, too, craning his neck toward the voice that's spoken to him, that next handful of snacks stays uneaten for now.]
Those three? And the devil? You seriously think they'd put up with the devil? [he shakes his head, laughing again.] Nah, man. No way. The devil wouldn't last two seconds here.
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( The Devil met his match with them, too. )
I'm not saying the Devil wouldn't have his hands full, and they're obviously after the kids more, but this movie could have real edge to it. The whole premise is that some kid who hasn't had sex lights a candle.
( From California, too. )
That's rife for exploration, don't you think?
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Now who's the one whose original script idea got torn up and he can't get over it? [an eyebrow goes up, up and up.] Because you've put a lot more thought into this than I have, just saying, man.
[he purses his lips, considering.]
But, sure, maybe. If you shopped it to someone who wasn't Disney, because something tells me that definitely doesn't fit with their brand.
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( Not his whole life. This isn't his crap, or his idea of a good time. But it's the movie that's on. )
Yeah, witch-satan orgy. Never seen one of those in the House of Mouse. I'm Billy. You new, too?
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Can you imagine? Some parents bringing their little five-year-old Johnny to the newest Disney movie, and his five-year-old eyes are scarred by a witch-satan orgy? That's more than letters. That's — that's, like, lawsuits.
[there's more he could say, a lot more, because he's suddenly on a mental roll, but it occurs to him that he's been asked a question. so he stops himself, and rolls that train of thought back.]
But yeah — yeah. I'm Peter. Just got here a couple of days ago.
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she thinks she's made of candy.
so she shows up to the otherworld, a halfhearted effort put into her look (pale pink slip dress, fairy wings, glitter smeared on her eyes and cheeks). there's someone new sampling the candy, so she reaches for a handful of the acid drops, her mouth puckering as sour watermelon floods her tongue. ]
Wow. Yeah, that is good. [ she smiles, holding out her free hand. ] I'm Jackie - you're new, right?
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looking for her, hoping he doesn't see her because that's for the best, and also hoping he does, at the same time. it's awful. this is the opposite of a distraction, actually. he —
comes across someone else.
and she's cute. she's pretty. she smiles and he smiles back.]
Yeah. Yeah, I'm — [it's an awkward sort of laugh that tumbles out of him.] I'm Peter. Really nice to meet you, Jackie.
[he takes the hand she offers, since that's just polite, isn't it? aunt may would look at him with one of those terrifyingly angry looks if he didn't — and, somehow, he's pretty sure she could be capable of it, even over what he's pretty sure is another universe.
and that could be the end of it.
but she's cute. she's pretty. suddenly his eyes aren't scanning the crowd for someone who should be avoiding him at all costs. they're right here, looking at this girl he's just met. and he finds himself asking:]
Do you dance? [which comes out all quick, weird, and awkward, and that second awkward laugh that leaves him doesn't make anything better.] I mean, uh — do you wanna dance? Because I can, um. Dance.
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she's not here to think about that, though. it's her birthday, or close enough to midnight to call it that, and she'd like to feel something good instead of waiting by where shauna had been buried, or staring at the walls in her room. and right now there's a cute, sweet guy talking to her. he's sweet enough that she wonders what he's doing here, in particular, but she's not about to ask. she knows she wouldn't want to answer that question.
she answers his, instead: ] Yeah, I love dancing. [ she shakes his hand, then tugs him in the direction of the dance floor. ] It's been a while, though, so don't make fun of me.
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but then, you know, there'd been gwen, and —
he is absolutely not thinking about gwen right now, who he shouldn't be thinking about anyway, for her sake. there's a pretty girl saying yes to him, and leading him out to the dance floor, and that's good. that's really good.]
You serious? [this comes with another laugh, this time less awkward, more light and half-breathless.] I literally can't imagine a single reason why anyone would make fun of you. I mean — look at you.
[with his other hand, the one not holding hers, he moves it up and down, gesturing over her, a smile pulling on his mouth.]
That's not — that's not make fun of anyone material, and if it is, someone has completely lost their mind.
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but she's already determined that she's trying not to think about shauna until she's back. she's trying to enjoy her time and not wallow, and it's nice to be doing that with a boy who's kind and being very sweet to her. he's also not being dismissive of her efforts (she imagines that it helps that she's a decent dancer when it comes to parties; recitals or pageants would probably be a different story), and she smiles brightly at the compliment. ]
I mean, I could say the same to you. [ he's probably not taking home a dance award either, but he's moving pretty smoothly and keeping up with her. ] What did you say your name was? I haven't seen you before.
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maybe when he grins, he actually feels like grinning. and maybe when he laughs, it's not actually forced.
there's a brow raise from him — a kind of seriously? — but he'll take what she says. he'll keep trying to keep up with her, even if she's totally lying to him.]
Uh — Peter. I only woke up here a couple of days ago. [more or less. honestly, he's kind of losing track of time? anyway:] And here? Definitely haven't been here before. This is new.
[in a lot of ways.
briefly, he takes his eyes off of her, looking around.]
Is this, like, a place people go? A lot? Or is this party a one-time thing?
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redrum - haunted house!
Hope yelps, and pushes back the new person in the room; Peter might notice that despite him being, well,him, the push carries quite the punch. She manages to collect herself a moment later, creating a small sphere of light that floats between them.
Oh hey, it's a regular looking person. Well, he's dressed in some corny vampire getup, but he looks normal regardless. ]
Sorry, I knew the monsters can't really get in here but this darkness is getting to me. You're not hurt, right? I didn't mean to push you back.
[ Is she wearing a maid outfit? Are those cat ears? ]
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so, no, he gets no warning; he just finds himself shoved, with a lot of strength, and almost knocked off his feet? it's only that spider balance that keeps him standing. breathing really hard, but still standing.
by the time the light floats between them, he's shaking his head.]
No, no, no, it's okay. I'm fine. I'm okay. Not hurt at all.
[there's a beat of silence as he looks over the person he's found himself in the room with, the one who'd shoved him, for the first time — really looks at her. his eyebrows go up at the maid outfit and cat ears combination, but you know what? ni judgement. he's not gonna say anything.]
I think the, uh — the more relevant question is are you okay? Because you sounded pretty scared, and I'm pretty sure my ears are still ringing.
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It's a funny thing, almost every guy around her age range looks at her with a mix of wariness, fear, or even resentment; comes with being the legendary Tribrid, sure, but ever since she ended up here, people actually look at her like a girl, a woman. It feel oddly validating, but also a bit embarrassing. The duality of being seen, it seems.
She's also a catgirl French maid, so as far as first impressions could go... ]
Ah, sorry! [ She already said that. ] The things in the hallways, they don't seem to be your average guy in a cheap suit. And hiding on this room got me on edge.
[ Hope paces a bit, the light staying between them. ]
To be honest, I would usually just fight my way out, but they are somehow immune to everything I've thrown at them. Now that is scary. Also, the fear is probably part of the whole attraction; you get scared no matter what.
[ She stops, hands on her hips. ]
Oh, right; I'm Hope, should've started with that. Usually not a maid, but in the spirit of Halloween...
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she doesn't have to tell him she's on edge; he can see it, like, literally all over her, in everything about her reaction. mission number one is probably reassuring her, right? that's what you do with someone who's scared.]
I'm Peter. Also not usually a vampire, in case you were wondering. [she probably wasn't, but!] I like the sun too much, you know? Can you imagine never going in the sun?
[he shakes his head, as if to literally shake himself off of that train of thought. there's something else to address here. so:]
I was kinda noticing that, too, though. The whole they'll-take-everything-you-throw-at-them thing. [a beat.] Not that I threw much at them, I mean, I'm just a guy, I don't fight my way out of stuff like you fight your way out of stuff. But you know what I mean.
[does she. actually. frankly, he's not even sure he knows what he means anymore.]
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He tries to minimize his efforts, but Hope doesn't entirely buy it. He's far less rattled than her, and she can tell by the way he handles himself that he's a lot braver than he lets on. Still, humility is a good quality to have, and one she should work on, as well. ]
I mean, there's not much to throw at them, to be honest. [ She motions at the ball of light, which floats to the middle of the ceiling, lighting up the room like a regular light bulb would. The room is mostly barren, but there's a few boxes and tarps thrown about. ]
You might be wondering what's... that thing.
[ She points at their improvised lightbulb. ]
Do you believe in magic, Peter?
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his eyes follow to where she's pointing, and he studies it, brows knitting in curiosity. yeah, he'd been wondering, but —]
Like, are you quoting the song? My aunt likes that song. You know — [he hums the first few notes, and it's not exactly on-key, so he just stops.
a beat. then:]
Or is that an actual question? That's — [his mouth closes, then opens again.] That's magic? Oh man, that's really cool. I've never actually seen magic before.
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wildcard
Gwen knows she's the one who broke up with him, this time. That maybe taking space isn't a bad thing, but the more time passes--the more it becomes clear that they can't up and leave anytime soon--the more it hurts to not see him. The more it feels like she did something wrong.
And in the past couple of weeks, Gwen has kissed other people. Has done a lot more than just kissing other people, under the influence of whatever drugs they slip into the food and drink here, but all of it sits with a squirm of shame in her stomach, now. Like Peter will look at her and know.
A lot of the indoor spaces feel charged, or not reliably findable, so Gwen asks Peter to meet her in a corner of the garden that's made more or less private by tall hedges and topiary on all sides. Gwen's sitting on a stone bench under a red maple, thick grey clouds overhead that haven't yet opened up, looking at her hands as she picks at her cuticles when she hears someone approach, looks up.
Gwen told herself she wasn't going to cry. She makes it one word, looking at Peter, before her face crumples a little, eyes wet. ]
Hi.
Are you avoiding me?
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relativity is real, and it's slowly killing him.
and, okay, maybe the fact that part of him still looks for her is a factor, too. he can't not look for her, not when he knows she's here and near him and alive, and all the things she hasn't been for five, six months. he has to make sure she stays that way, you know? from a distance, because that's what's better for her.
he keeps telling himself that when she reaches out, when he spends the better part of an entire day staring at the words can we talk? no matter how much it's killing him, no matter how much he just wants to type back one single little word, he can't screw up his second chance at keeping the promise that would've made all the difference. he doesn't eat that day; he doesn't sleep. he —
can't take it anymore.
that's the long and short of how he ends up here, going to meet gwen by this bench under a tree on purpose, doing everything he shouldn't do. that thought gets stronger, feels like something that'll make him sick, the second he sees the tears in her eyes. he's the reason for them. this is a mistake.
he should go; his feet keep him right here. he should shut his mouth; it opens. says,]
Avoiding you? Nope, no, not avoiding you. [he shakes his head, then shakes it again. and again.] It's just a, uh — [there are tears stinging in his own eyes, and a big lump in his throat, and it takes some time for him to try to get rid of both. he doesn't quite manage it with either.] It's a big house. You know, easy to get lost in, not — not see people in for a while.
[shoving his hands into his pockets, he stares down at his feet as he shuffles them.]
That's all.
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[ Her voice cracks. It seems incredible, sometimes, that he's kept who he is secret from the whole of New York City except for her.
And maybe that's because the whole world knocks askew when the two of them are together. This magnetic pull where Peter enters a room and all Gwen can see is him, all Gwen can think about is him. She talked herself into leaving that orbit for school, and school is probably a couple hours from here, tops, but it's also an insurmountable distance.
Peter's a couple feet from her, not even looking at her, and that feels like an insurmountable distance. Gwen stands, hugging her arms to her chest, biting her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. ]
I know I broke up with you. But it wasn't--supposed to be like this.
[ She'd thought about what she would say, before she got to the garden, but now that they're here she can't be polished or practiced. Because it's Peter, and her shoulders hitch with her tears as the words tumble out, ]
We're stuck here. Aren't we? We're stuck here, surrounded by strangers, and I miss you. I miss you so much.
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he can't swallow anything down fast enough, can't blink back his own tears fast enough, to keep that from happening. gwen is here, and he's crumbling, and he could completely collapse.
looking up at her again, finally, is almost the real tipping point. it's also everything holding him in place, all at the same time.]
I miss you, too. [his voice cracks under the weight of his grief, months and months of it.] I miss you so much. I've missed you every single day, and I —
[he takes a step closer, only to stop. only to remember. he draws back, almost exactly that same distance, like the force of remembering reality has actually slapped him.]
You're better off not being around me, Gwen, and being stuck here? That doesn't change that. You've gotta — [his voice shakes, and inside his pockets, his hands are wringing, but he has to finish this. he has to.] You've gotta go where you need to go. Just — just pretend I'm not here. It's okay.
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[ Gwen is crying in earnest, now. Ugly, puffy-eyed crying, her mouth wet with salt as she continues to grip her elbows so she doesn't rattle apart, wanting to close the distance between them and knowing that she can't. ]
It's not okay. I can't just pretend.
[ She wonders if he sees her father's ghost beside her, still. If he thinks that the promise he made will keep her safe, or if there's guilt too heavy for him to hold. They've done this dance so many times and Gwen can't keep doing it, wipes her eyes with her sleeve, her whole body shaking. ]
I love you, Peter.
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so he's forced to look at her, now, crying in front of him. which makes him think about something else, about the day she'd cried in his doorway, and he hadn't stepped outside.
his knees are shaking. he's pulled a loose thread in one of his pockets to the point of tearing it.
this is killing him. it's killing him, and he shouldn't have come here in the first place, and he should just turn around and walk away before this somehow gets worse —]
I love you. That's how I can say that. [that's what he says instead. it's making something worse, with how harsh it sounds, because there's this big lump in his throat, and the tears are coming faster than he can stop them, and — god.] You don't want the person you love to be around something that's just gonna hurt them. And I don't want that. I definitely don't want that.
[he should go now, but as he swings on his heel — he does the opposite; he heads straight for her, holding out his arms until he reaches her, wrapping them around her shoulders.
maybe he shouldn't, he definitely shouldn't, he just... he can't let that nothing be his last memory. even if she's crying, because of him, he'll take that, especially over her being dead.
it's a loose hold, and she can break away anytime she wants, but it's there. in the moment that it is, he considers the last words he wants to say to her. lands on:]
What I want is for you to be okay. That's the only thing. That's all that matters.
[even if what comes out is shaky, it's okay. he can live with this.]
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