𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 ▣ JANUARY TDM

[saltburntmods]

JANUARY 2026 TDM: ETERNITY

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."

MARKET PRICES

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes, human auctioning, human furniture, voyeurism, dub/noncon.

The manor rings in the new year Saltburnt style — that is, in an abundance of hedonism, decadence, and debauchery. So strange, you might find it, that there was no official party planned from your generous hosts, who take any opportunity to flaunt wealth and hungry bodies, but it might be a boon in disguise. The holiday is yours for the taking, though they don't leave you strung out for too long. Through word of mouth comes an urgent invitation in the following days, the unveiling of a brand new wing of the manor. Didn't know there was construction going on? That's not so surprising — the contractors were paid for discretion, after all. Named after Portia and Jonty’s personal (and very wealthy) friends, Haven and Cove, THE RUMMAGE WING serves as an auction house where you can acquire rare and desirable goods and antiques. All proceeds go towards Rosie’s personal charity for the benefit of crabeater seals, although Bunny is spotted loudly telling her that they are the most abundant seals in the world. No matter.

Put on your hottest party dress and most expensive fits, because all are encouraged to drink, dance, enjoy the hors d'oeuvres, and celebrate your survival into another year. The newest visitors in for the holiday — and apparently a good auction — stand with their arms linked, obscenely tall and boney, their long unkempt hair a strange waterfall of green. Haven and Cove Rummage, a pair of sisters and dear family friends, are anything but normal. Upon closer inspection, their skin appears colorless and almost translucent but with makeup caked on for the party. Remember that it's rude and tacky to comment on appearances. Despite the unsettling nature of their appearance, they are in fact having a grand time, taking enormous interest in people-watching, long fingers pointing at several guests as they whisper among themselves. Throughout the night, their shrieks of laughter can be heard echoing across the room, shrill but equally melodic, like an out of tune bell.

During the celebration, in between bumping and grinding to loud electronica and pop music, the festivities are cut in half by an announcement telling everyone to take their seats, as the WEEK LONG AUCTION is about to begin. What curiosities are up for buying? Why — you, of course. Interestingly enough, in front of some of your dinner sets, rather than auctioneer paddles are little signs for the front of your shirt or dress, printed off with a number. Don't feel like putting it on? No worries — you'll feel compelled to the stage once your number is called regardless, though interestingly enough you might not be on the stage alone. Yes, some lucky guests are auctioned off in pairs, grouped together due to similar dispositions, or something familiar under the surface that binds them, or — hell, maybe you just look aesthetically pleasing together. Regardless, the Balfour's friends (who all share a passing resemblance to the Rummage sisters) are buying, if you're into a lovely (see: kinky) date night with a stranger. Of course, given that the auction is a week long, you might be sold off to the highest bidder more than once — a buyer is only given a night, after all. They wouldn't want to be greedy with you!

Not up for auction but still want to take part? Of course, you can toss your hat in the ring for a date night with any of those up for auction, lifting your paddle to raise the bet. But what do you have to offer? The price will be made known to you once the auctioning is done and over with, the Rummage sisters coming to claim — one sorrowful childhood memory, perhaps, or the last few years of your tragic life? Maybe the clothes off your back, or a bit of blood? Remember, the higher the auctioning gets raised, the more you'll have to pay it forward. Make sure you make the date worth it!

Those auctioned off are suited with gorgeous collars in jeweled tones, and only when the buckle gets clicked in place do you feel an instinctual pull to show off for your bidder, and impress them with the bounty they just won. Of course — it's not really you doing it. Your body and personality maintain the image of perfect servitude, but your mind remains your own, feeling trapped inside a body you don't really recognize as your own, having no outlet but an easy smile and a perfect bow, and beneath that — a claustrophobic feeling of being stuck. Additionally, those of you auctioned off in pairs will feel separation anxiety when parted, making yourself sick without presenting as a duo.

Ultimately, you're bought and paid for for one reason only — the pleasure of your bidder. Those bought by the unsettling Balfour guests might be pressed into challenging positions, displayed like living furniture sets for their amusement, a tray of freshly shaken martinis balanced down your spine, the only thing keeping you upright is your dedication to being a good table, or chair, or footrest. People might try to touch you, to break your concentration, to make it more challenging for you. Others might be bought for performance pieces, guests who like to watch while you're made to fuck your partner however they direct you to, while they sit smiling on the sidelines. Still yet, some of you might be put to the challenge of endurance or different sexual challenges that require cooperation, like one in a pair being bound while the other person tries to get you to come, where being too slow or too fast or too bad at the task gets you punished physically. Some, one might say most, just want servants for the night, forcing you to the role of bartender and demanding you serve with your partner in perfect synchronicity.

Regardless of what you're made to do, it's plain to see that the strange friends of the Balfours are invested in one thing and one thing only: observing the fascinating behaviors of you lot, laughing all the while. You're such a strange bunch, you know — enjoy your rowdy fun for the week, but once all is concluded the collars come loose and you fall back into yourself, once again aligned in body and mind.

A TIME OF REMEMBRANCE

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw themes, slight a/b/o.

You'd be forgiven for not noticing them on entry, but with your mind clearer and more observant, you'll spot in the new wing of the manor — grand portraits in heavy golden frames line the walls, only these aren’t your typical Balfour ancestors. These hauntingly beautiful paintings feature guests familiar to you, though ones you haven’t seen in some time. Emmrich Volkarin. Daniel Molloy. Roronoa Zoro. Alicent Hightower. Lucifer. Gideon Drake. Monkey D. Luffy. Aemond Targaryen. Quentin Toma. Caitlyn Kiramman. Lottie Matthews. Nick O’Broin. Travis Martinez. Nikolai Lantsov. Jinx. Furiosa. Alina Starkov. Paul Atreides. Spike. Of course, those of you new arrivals who haven't had time to miss anyone aren't left high and dry — dead friends and family members belonging solely to you join the portraits, seemingly plucked directly from your mind.

The paintings go on and on, proclaiming without so many words that guests who no longer walk these halls undoubtedly left a mark on Saltburnt — until the frames shift to a darkened silver, ornate carvings of leaves, teeth, and eyes wrought into the metal. The next set of paintings hold people far more familiar, because one of them might be standing right next to you. Eddie Munson. Ash Colchester. Silco. Wanda Maximoff. Lestat de Lioncourt. Buffy Summers. Jackie Taylor. Dean Winchester. Tim Laughlin. Oberyn Martell. Castiel. Parisa Kamali. The paintings continue down the hall, no explanations on the placards present besides a name. Lilies, chrysanthemums, and forget-me-nots decorate the hall. To fully ring in the new year, you must look upon the past without flinching. The Balfours have decided this is the opportune time to both honor and mourn the dead.

Guests are, of course, welcome and encouraged to mourn together. For the latter half of the month, the Iron Rooms of Malice have been converted to accommodate the ongoing remembrances, and are open to private mourning. However, once you enter, you're locked in with your chosen partner (or partners) for the next 24 hours — to fully mourn properly, of course. What's that? You don't actually know them, or who you're supposed to be mourning? Well, you've got plenty of time to figure it out. Each room is stocked with complimentary tissues, a charcuterie board, and twelve bottles of freshly imported Everclear.

To better get to know those who are still with you, whether they've died or not, a body-painting station is available every weeknight in the Chapel — tastefully situated, of course, to afford you and your chosen canvas some privacy. The only colors of paint provided are black and white, along with a soft, calligraphy-style brush, which you will use to paint each bone in your partner’s body, starting with their toes and working your way up to their head. Using the black paint provides a slowly burning arousal and a mounting feeling of euphoria. Your body begs for release, but you’re unable to touch yourself or find any relief until the painting is completed. The building strokes of white paint bring on death-like symptoms, such as extreme cold, slipping away from your body, and acts almost as a sedative. For those who have died, intense feelings can trigger the onset of your death consequence during this ritual.

Morning and weekend services go on as normal in the Chapel. If a guest who has died attends one of these services, over the next few nights you will begin to exhibit animalistic, almost feral tendencies. You will find yourself obsessed with the idea of guardianship over one person or multiple, though these qualities might extend to enhanced smell or hearing, increased aggression, and experiencing cycles of heat and rut. For those less into the literal behavior of animals, the Balfours have organized a scavenger hunt to lighten the mood amongst all the heavy mourning. Three different animal figures — a tiger, a dragon, and a turtle, signifying luck and protection — have been hidden around the grounds. Whoever finds them all will win a prize — one slimy kiss on the cheek from both Haven and Cove, which will serve as protection in the prompt to come.

After all that depression and sadness, a Celebration of Life will be held at the Remembrance Pool in the form of a reserved feast, hosted by none other than Haven and Cove themselves. Guests are given dark-colored mourning attire with brooches attached that are able to sense another’s grief, and the seating seems to be laid out strategically, in that you find yourself beside someone who has experienced a sadness similar to your own. You may feel urgently compelled to confess your grief to someone else, but for some of you it will manifest through the compulsion to physically comfort one another. For small confessions, hand-holding. For something deeper, you could find yourself pulled into someone’s lap, their hands delicately soothing your inner hurts. No matter what, even the most standoffish of you will feel the need to be connected as much as possible, through song, through dance, or through story. Everyone in the room feels on the verge of sobbing, whether you’ve lost someone or not, as if one minor comment could push you over the edge. Must be something in the air. Haven and Cove do the rounds to each table, silently expressing their gratitude for your presence with a brief touch to the shoulder, though they seem to linger especially at the tables where those are experiencing true grief, watching wet cheeks and outright sobs with a curiosity that veers upon sexual, smiles peeling up their lips like old wallpaper.

For food and drink offerings, you’ll find sugared biscuits wrapped in black wax paper, upon which are printed verses ruminating on death. A separate basket of “sin-eating” biscuits sits adjacent; should you consume these while meditating upon a deceased or missing body, you can take their sins as your own as a way to alleviate their travels home, although you might feel a compulsion to act out some of their worst transgressions. Other selections include finger sandwiches, pork pies, scones, and vol-a-vents, along with chocolate eclairs, fruit kebabs, and lemon drizzle cake. The drinks are hearty and plentiful, perhaps the main course of the entire feast. Upon consumption, you begin to have curious visions of losing someone close to you in Saltburnt, should they be dead, dying, or simply gone missing. To anchor yourself from falling further into these hallucinations, skin to skin contact is required — the more intimate, the more effective. A hug or a kiss may spare you for a moment, but you really need to consider moving your mouth a little lower to truly pull yourself back to the present.

Even then, some of you might begin to notice that the crowd has grown a bit sparse. Surely your fellow guests — friends, lovers, those in between — have just gone back to their rooms for some privacy, either with a partner or to simply have a good cry on their own. Once night falls, however, and you’ve searched the halls for your companions, you realize those hallucinations might’ve held some weight. Undeniably, there are a number of guests missing. But where have they gone off to?

TRAPPED, SEALED, CONTAINED

CONTENT WARNINGS: buried alive, claustrophobia.

For some of you, the visions feel less like a dream and more like a blade, slicing to the heart of you, opening up your sorrow to something far more potent and devouring. It flows through your veins as deeply as your blood, your tears choking you, red-cheeked and blurry-eyed as you stumble from the Remembrance Pool. Away from the guests, you try to calm yourself in the quiet solitude, but you swiftly realize you’re not alone. One of the visitors — Haven or Cove, you’re not sure which, although this is the first time you’ve seen them separated — stands suddenly before you, too close, mouth stretched too wide as a cold, wet finger traces your cheek, almost lovingly, a look of grisly desire in their milky eyes. The touch makes you go weak. After sustaining so much grief, you suddenly feel at the end of your rope, your knees giving out when usually you would never succumb to such frailty. Before you have a chance to hit the floor, a pair of boney arms wrap around you, a wash of tangled green hair the last thing you see before your eyes slip closed.

When you open them again, it’s to utter and overwhelming darkness. It takes a moment for the haze over your mind to clear, the floor beneath your back unforgivingly hard, the air stale. You reach out — and your hands barely clear two feet before hitting iron. When you try to turn, you’re boxed in, the walls beside you just as hard, just as unforgiving. Panic creeps in slowly, then in a relentless flood as you push on all sides, even kicking your feet, only to meet solid, unmoving iron. The last thing you remember is Haven or Cove’s touch, and now the culmination of the so-called Celebration of Life has ended with you in a coffin, trapped and thoroughly alone. Any strength or ability that your body innately holds has left you. Those normally able to break through steel or magic their way to safety are left powerless. It’s only you in the dark, your sorrow a living thing pulsing in your chest, your fear swiftly growing in the enclosed space. Sobs come quickly, or wails, or screams of anger and cries for help. Your hands ache from furiously banging the lid, your fingernails bleeding as you resort to scratching the metal. It’s only when you’ve exhausted yourself that you fall silent for long enough to hear the sounds of someone near you, muffled as if they’re trapped. It could be someone you know or a guest you’ve never spoken to, but it’s a lifeline. You call out to them, and they call back.

Communication between nearby coffins is the way you learn that you’re not the only one who has been effectively abducted. Everyone here has the same experience — leaving the Remembrance Pool in distress, only to fall into Haven or Cove’s treacherous arms. Communication is also the one thing that keeps you from falling back into the terror of your circumstances. If your companion isn’t willing to talk, or you go too long in silent isolation, hysteria begins to bubble up, shivers wracking your sweat-soaked body, tears welling in your eyes. Just as it was at the Celebration, closeness remains the key to staying grounded — and those that take comforting the voices beside you seriously, whether you know them, love them, or hate them, are rewarded. With a slow creak, one wall of your coffin suddenly comes loose. With a few shoves, you’re able to knock it down, to reveal that the coffin closest to you has done the same, now joining your two caskets. Still trapped, but at least with company now. Settle in, because it’s going to be a long night.

In the rest of the manor, the Celebration of Life is long over and many of you are searching for your missing friends, haters, and loved ones. Calls and texts keep going not only unanswered but undelivered, although for some of you more absent partners, not getting a text back might be normal for you. As you check their rooms or the beds you’ve taken to sharing lately, small trinkets can be found on the pillow — an earring or a watch from your missing companion, as if someone is toying with you, mocking you, trying to push you. Doing a sweep of the room, you begin to find more and more disturbing breadcrumbs. A neatly bound lock of hair left by the sink. Their favorite or most worn piece of intimate clothing left out on the bed, where it wasn’t a moment ago. When you open the door, your heart pounding, you come face to face with none other than Haven or Cove, looking far more translucent than before, their tall, skinny frame reaching the top of the door. Holding out something for you to take, they smile widely and say only one thing. Looks like your darling is calling out for you from below! Before you can even think of attacking, they’ve vanished, and you’re left with their parting gift: one bloody fingernail.

Panic will drive some of you to action — the hint below might be all it takes to lead you to the crypts under manor, though some of you might have to follow a more instinctual pull, guiding you to your trapped loved ones. Through it all, you have the sense of being watched — your pain or panic voyeuristically enjoyed by some unseen eyes. Still, after some time, you finally find rows and rows of coffins lined up in the crypt, some of them pushed up against each other. A chaotic search ensues to identify who’s who, and then the strongest and most magically skilled among you try to pry open the lids. It's just your luck, that not even those with amplified powers have any success — these coffins are sealed shut with something inhumane, and the moment you hit, pound, saw, or cause harm to the coffin, the person inside abruptly cries out in pain. Somehow, the coffins have been linked to them, and the more damage you cause as you try to open it, the more it hurts them. How bad do you want to get them out? More importantly, how bad do they want to get out?

Just when all hope is lost, your favorite sisters Haven and Cove, and their strange brood appear, to offer a deal: if you really want them out of their confines, will you take their place? Just for an hour. You might feel inclined to attack the strangers, which is understandable, and only met with their growing, ferocious amusement. They don't seem capable of death or even bleeding — thick saltwater will pour out of their noses, coating their disturbing smiles in a shine. Regardless, you either take the deal or not. One hour willingly in the depths of your panic and sorrow, or leaving your partner high and dry, in the thrall of their suffering.

The Rummage sisters and company will make good on their promise. Otherwise, by next sunset the strange company has left, seemingly by stepping into the cracked open frozen lake and turning into seafoam, ending whatever magic was trapping those in coffins, and freeing them up. Upon reuniting with your bed, there will be a note on your pillow, written in haunting script that can only have belonged to the sisters. It reads:

THANK YOU FOR YOUR GRIEF — IT WAS DELICIOUS ! 😋

DIRECTORY

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Comments

lisbeth salander | millennium trilogy | current player/new char

[eidetics]

MARKET (semi-closed)

[ Lisbeth is not compliant at the auction.

She intends to observe, stick to the shadows, but when her number is called she feels the compulsion to move to the stage—and her mind pressing instantly against the fog, noting the exits, calculating the list of drugs that might have been in their drinks tonight.

If she’s alone, she lashes out as the collar is fitted around her neck—she might be successful, one night, but too subdued by the forces at work on another. Steel-toed boot jammed to someone’s shin as she spits in their face, or grey eyes full of quiet fury as the collar snaps closed.

If she’s paired, she makes an immediate assessment of her partner: their clothes, their demeanor, whether they make the same assessment of her. Firms her jaw and looks at them side-long once the auction starts, ]

Did you sign up for this?

REMEMBRANCE

[ If you wield the brush at the body-painting station, Lisbeth isn’t shy about stripping, but she doesn’t make a show of it, either. Tugs her shirt and jeans off, leaves on a pair of black bikini-cut underwear. She’s covered in existing tattoos, her face and nipples pierced, and makes no attempt at small talk or introductions, though you can certainly take the lead.

If she wields the brush, she’s stripped out of her pants but leaves her threadbare shirt on, long enough it skims the tops of her thighs. Assesses you with a clinical gaze before meeting your eyes. ]

Take off your shirt and lie on your stomach.

CONTAINED

[ Lisbeth wakes in the dark to panic—black-liquid memory of her wrists and ankles bound, straps across her chest, arms wrenching up and legs kicking out by instinct. Her hands are free, but she’s not.

She pounds the lid and screams, kicks at the bottom until she’s sucking in breath, stills herself, focuses. There are other voices, sobs, more hollow thuds against metal surrounding her on all sides. ]

Hey. [ Sharp, but not loud enough. Lisbeth raps her knuckles once, hard, against the side of her coffin where she hears someone closest to her, raises her voice. ] Hey, listen to me. Are you alone?

NET

@ WASP

How long have you been here and what have you done to get out?

WILDCARD

[ Lisbeth is easy to miss, around the house; wears greys and blacks and hoods drawn up around her face, sticks to corners with a small laptop and a book or pen-and-paper journal at hand. Within a few weeks, she makes herself a regular at the Hex Club, never paying for company but parking at the same barstool or booth with a caffè latte or beer, always with her laptop and sometimes a copy of Mathematics From the Birth of Numbers by Jan Gulleberg, which she annotates.

Less frequently, she visits the Pink Slip, where she watches the dancers with a rum and coke and a cigarette, tips generously in kronor if they’ll accept it—for later, for when they get out. She also watches the bouncers, watches how well they watch the patrons—and if someone gets handsy with a girl and no one else steps in, Lisbeth will.

At the gym, she has earbuds in and music as loud as she can stand it, hands wrapped for boxing. She has quiet, intense focus with the bags and dummies, but might not say no to a sparring partner. ]

[ CWS/ETC (please read): i don’t have a perms/opt-out post up for her yet (will work on it soon) but i’m taking lisbeth from the end of the fincher film. she has a history of sexual assault/abuse (including CSA) + institutionalization, and she attempted patricide at age 12 and revenge-sodomized + terrorized her most recent rapist/abuser. the AUCTION prompts have the potential for irreversibly negative CR if you bid on/try to fuck her and i’d like to discuss that oocly rather than get cold tag-ins.

if you have an existing public presence on the network she will scope you out/do a background check if you catch her attention, will not dig further than public posts for now w/o ooc discussion. can be found at seasalts for planning, until i have an opt-out post feel free to PM me here or there! ]

market.

[expositus]

[ whatever group activities jess has participated in since arriving have been, for the most part, involuntary, spurred on by the encouragement of their hosts or by some sort of compulsion magic that has its captors obeying its urgings. the latter feels more familiar than the former, leaving her skin and stomach feeling oily and the walls of her suite with another few holes in them once it wears off. tonight feels like an uncomfortable combination of both and she's gripping a glass of whiskey tight enough to crack the base of it as she moves through the party, up until they're told to take a seat, the night's about to begin.

people's numbers are called throughout the evening. for the most part, even if the person being auctioned is uncomfortable, they comply, as if resigned to it. they're bid on and won by people who have a relationship to them. up until someone a few seats away's number is called, and it's clear that she's fighting the urge the entire time, even as the magic compels her to walk to the stage. she kicks and spits as the collar is fitted around her throat, as the auctioneer starts announcing her stats like they have for the rest of those unlucky enough to be put up for sale.

jessica's still a fairly recent arrival to the mansion, but she's familiar enough with the people she's trapped with to recognize when someone is new. she glances around the people surrounding her for anyone who has a spark of recognition for the young woman, and seeing none, she looks back to the stage, her eyes meeting the woman's.

and she makes a decision, raising her paddle first when the bidding begins. ]

cw allusions to sexual assault / attempted patricide

[eidetics]

[ There is one small, sickening lurch toward safety in the thick of it: Lisbeth’s body complies, docile once the collar clasps shut, while her mind takes itself elsewhere. The specifics of this place may be strange, unbelievable at times, but being pinned down for another’s perversions is a feeling she knows. So she leaves in the only manner possible—not focused, for now, on the raised paddles, the unfamiliar faces staring up at her. She thinks of a milk carton full of gasoline and a box of matches, a screaming conflagration.

It’s only when a woman wins her that she comes back to herself, to some degree. Lets the anger swell fully in her mind, if not her body, her eyes cold with it. ]

continuing the cw for allusions to sexual assault

[expositus]

[ the auctioneer congratulates her once she's won the bidding and jess barely acknowledges them as she stands and moves towards the stage. he reads off a list of attributes and favorite kinks and acts of servitude to perform, and whether they're true or not (she expects not), her stomach turns at the further violation of the woman and her privacy. this is an act, she knows blowing it could endanger herself or subject the woman to another buyer if they decide to rescind her win, but she can't help the incredulous disgust that crosses her expression for a split second when the handler offers a leash to attach to the collar to lead her away. for whatever fun you want to have, he adds with a wink. ]

No. [ the disgust can't be suppressed from her tone, either, but she rallies and her following sentences are more neutral. ] Thank you.

[ she turns to the woman then, her expression carefully neutral. the woman is angry, coldly furious, and jessica can hardly blame her, but she tries to express what she can through her own gaze. you're getting out of here. you're safe, at least for the night.

she extends her hand instead, letting the neutral mask cover her eyes now. her words are chosen carefully, trying to think of a sentence that won't accidentally trigger an act of obedience if the magic remains in effect even after it's gotten you to agree to what it wants from you. ]

Let's go.

wildcard (hex club)

[aldhani]

[by now, cassian thinks that he's been here long enough to be able to track patterns. the same people tend to appear for meals at the times he does, something tends to shift in the house at the start of the month, and the hex club, specifically, has its regulars; the latter is his job to pay attention to on his shifts, because the more that a host can facilitate that, the more the club keeps said regulars.

so when someone new starts to make an appearance, he notices. he notices that, on more nights than not, this woman slides into the same booth, and that she doesn't interact much, beyond ordering a drink; he notices that she's always intent in her study of something, whether it's a screen or a paper volume. she doesn't tend to favor wearing bright colors, and usually has a hood pulled up over her head.

she's someone who isn't looking to draw attention — and that's exactly why she draws his.

on the night he approaches, he's on his way out of a shift, rather than in the middle of one; wanting to talk to her isn't work-related. with a drink in hand, he makes sure to sit at a nearby table and not at her booth, close enough to talk but far enough not to make her feel threatened.

after a time, he asks, casually,]

Is that one good? [he jerks his head toward the book to indicate it.] I've been looking for something else to read.

[eidetics]

[ Cassian has likely gathered that she’s not one for small talk. Occasionally, someone will offer to buy her a drink or one of the staff checks in to see if she needs anything, and Lisbeth either politely accepts or politely declines.

She knows the roster of hosts and bartenders and bouncers and she knows this place trades in favors and secrets. The hosts seem discreet, some patrons less so. Lisbeth has only done a cursory search on the network for each member of staff, and the man who addresses her now doesn’t have a footprint there. Which either means he’s another new arrival, or he’s careful.

Lisbeth is nursing a rum and coke, loosened enough by the alcohol that she doesn’t immediately shut down Cassian’s question. She slips a cocktail napkin between two pages as a bookmark, leaning back in her seat to regard him. ]

It interests me. [ It’s a tome of a book, spanning the history and theories of mathematics. Good is wholly subjective. ] There’s a problem I haven’t been able to solve in it.

[aldhani]

[it's late, and he has someone waiting for him, but cassian is willing to allow the time for her answer, if she chooses to give him one. with the general demeanor of someone who just happens to be here (rather than someone who'd taken this seat intentionally), he continues to watch her, more out of the corner of his eye than anything, lifting the glass in his hand to his mouth for a sip.

she almost surprises him, with how quickly she answers. then again, though, he doesn't actually know her, beyond an impression he's formed from patterns; this is why he wants to talk to her.

with that answer, he turns to face her more directly, expression and voice the picture of polite interest.]

Maybe I can take a look. [the glass in his hand is set down onto the table with a clink, the appearances of that less important now.] Sometimes a problem needs more than one person.

remembrance

[queimar]

[ A small woman with a large presence, he thinks, all assumptions and no extraordinary perception at work. It's in her eyes, the line of her lips, the way she carries herself despite the parts of her body that are available to his eyes. It's already worth the visit to the Chapel, little respect that he has for it or the dead portrayed as if any of those faces deserves the honor to be exposed for eternity. The display reminds him of all the portraits of patriarchs and matriarchs of various Noble families, and anything that reminds him of them is worth ridicule. Dead or alive.

Without a word, Da-Lua takes off his shirt, dropped next to him. He raises his eyebrows like he's silently asking is that all?, then complies with the second part, large back exposed for Lisbeth to do what she pleases. He has several ways of letting her know if there's anything he doesn't like, and it likely won't stop at words.

Words that he keeps to himself for now, not a single one offered up just yet. Just his body. ]

[eidetics]

[ When Da-Lua raises his eyebrows, Lisbeth just lifts her chin enough to meet his gaze, jaw firm. If she wants more, she’ll ask for more; if she doesn’t, she’ll walk away.

But he listens to her, and doesn’t fill the quiet with unnecessary questions or chatter as he stretches himself out on the floor. He’s one of the tallest people Lisbeth’s ever seen, and his face and body are nice to look at, even if he’s only half-undressed.

She straddles the small of his back, knees to the floor beside his hips, bare feet tucked against his outer thighs. She’s light in weight, all muscle and bone; his skin’s warm beneath her as she spreads her palm between his shoulder blades, and considers where to start with the brush.

Lisbeth isn’t an artist, but sitting with ink and skin soothes something fitful in her chest. She has to stretch to reach his nape, and drags the wet bristles in a slow curve down his spine, leaving black in their wake. ]

[queimar]

[ He feels the various parts of their bodies connect, one at a time, focus running from one warm spot to another, a slow wave of awareness that's almost meditative, one small frame taking control of their shared space. She explores, she orchestrates, she leans over and shows the ink how and where to lick his flesh. An extension of her hand guided by some vision or the simple motion that curves and darkens the path behind it.

Da-Lua is an impatient thing. It takes constant stimulation to keep him busy, a promising goal to keep him focused. Lying down and staying still is setting him up for failure, like the beasts that kick their Donos off their backs to crash into the ground and never trust a belua again.

Stimulation is what he gets. Warmth, tension, pooling low in his body and wherever the path of the brush takes them. Under the ink, spreading outward to either side of its path, skin is replaced with scales, moonstone-colored things, hue shifting with the angle of the light, moving with each breath in, each breath out. He'll repeat the slow, gentle shift wherever the brush goes. Some entertainment for himself, and perhaps for her too. ]

wildcard.

[powerhungry]

[ He's gone for the first weekend of the month. He returns by the second, as if he'd never been away, trailed through the club by the faint scent of cigar smoke. Soon after, the next time she arrives at the club, a caffè latte is delivered to her seat almost as soon as she's sat down. (A personal touch, the sort of thing that keeps customers coming back, though she'd visited regularly enough already that, materially, it doesn't make so much of a difference. There are other places to go to read and drink, is the thing. Yet she chooses the club. Some unseen equation has already been completed.)

It takes another week before he appears at her table, himself, seemingly materializing out of the shadows. His expression is schooled into something neutral, something polite. Something befitting the role he takes, here, as proprietor. ]

Are the drinks to your liking?

[eidetics]

[ Lisbeth knows who he is before she meets him, familiar enough with the faces on staff and taking a passing interest in a few, once she’s skimmed the network. The woman who runs the Pink Slip and the man who runs the Hex Club seem wholly unlike each other, at first glance: Ani Mikheeva is neither quiet nor shy on the network, but Silco turns up few results. Mostly recruitment ads for the club, with little embellishment.

He also has a hyena. The tiger took her aback more, the first time Lisbeth saw it sprawled across an entire booth by itself, but by that point her logical capacities had been stretched by disappearing doors and moving hallways, a place in England no one can name, coffee conjured from thin air. A pet tiger isn’t so bizarre, by comparison. Nor is a hyena cub.

Regardless, this is the first time she’s seen Silco’s face properly. Older than Blomkvist, whom she resents thinking of at all, with scars lining one side that make her think, even less kindly, of her father. Not fire, though. Maybe a chemical burn, or something stranger. There are stranger things here, after all. ]

The coffee’s good. The beer’s fine. [ A half-shrug of one shoulder, as she sits back in her chair, one empty coffee cup and a fresh one beside her laptop and a book on mathematics. ] I have no complaints.

[ She could leave it at that, and would, if this were an ordinary cafe in Stockholm. Lisbeth has no interest in small talk. But this is a club that trades in favors and information in a place she has yet to locate on a map—a place wholly cut off from the outside world—and Silco is unlikely to be an average bar manager. ]

There aren’t many businesses run by guests, here. Yours is unusual.

[powerhungry]

[ It's a blunt answer — good and fine, hardly ringing endorsements, though it's (as stated) not a complaint, either. Good enough for him, when it's enough for her to make conversation with him, and when she keeps coming back. The fact of it pleases him; a sign that the club is working as intended. ]

I prefer to keep busy.

[ Which is the truth, if not the whole truth. (Granted, the whole truth is a little more complicated, now, when the hex in question has flown the nest.) Busy is a word that contains multitudes, besides. At his feet, the hyena pup appears out of the shadows, its eyes glinting in the dark as it looks up at her, its little nose working in the air to pick up her scent. ]

I hope it's helped you settle in.

[ The implication being that she's new — that he's noticed. ]

net / text — un: SAPPHIRA

[retrogressive]

Hello, Wasp!
I've been here for 4 days, and I've gone outside several times to enjoy the grounds. There's a maze with beautifully kept hedges. And a lake! It's frozen, so you can walk on it and hope the ice doesn't break.
Does that help your research? I can answer many other questions should you have them.
💕🫶

[eidetics]

[ It takes Lisbeth a moment to realize her question’s been misread, and that the woman’s not just stupid. ]

Be careful on the lake, on warmer days. [ Says girl from Stockholm, for whom winter here is warm. ]

Have you been out to the boundaries at all?

contained

[bronze]

( in a box, again. what a very likely place for buffy to be, eyes on the metal dark above her, remembering — death, that lukewarm illusion of it, that place she once went to empty of any pain. now, she feels like she's all pain, all the time, everywhere, of course. likely place for her to be, buried in the ground, tears streaming down her face, knuckles bruised to bleeding on the lid of her casket. coffin. buried, all the same. fingernails gone to shreds, cuticles torn — eventually she's just writhing, like a self-soothing baby but more violent, hitting the sides of her coffin back and forth, back and forth, thrashing, a freshly caged animal without the sense not to hurt itself. she thinks —

mommy? are you up there? where did you go when you died? are you standing on the dirt of my grave and are you happy, are you crying? mommy? when do i get to see you again? when does it stop hurting?

something knocks back and the motion stops, buffy suddenly solemn in the quiet dark of her cage. it's not something scary, though nothing really seems scary by comparison to this — buffy lifts her hands up and tries to look at her fingers in the dark, steadying herself to take more intentional breaths. she knows climbing is the only way out. )

Alone. ( raw from crying, her voice squeaks. she sees spike in her bloodied fingers, thumbs on her knuckles. ) Yes.

( it lulls, which scares her — she doesn't want to stop talking. rolling, she faces the side she heard the voice from. ) Are you? Don't stop talking.

[eidetics]

[ A girl. She sounds scared, and she’s been crying, and Lisbeth understands. The panic in her own chest quiets, in the face of something to focus on: calming the girl down, finding a way to get them both out. ]

Okay. [ To the request not to stop. Lisbeth is better at thinking things through silently, but she can manage this. ] Yes, I’m alone. Metal on all sides. I assume the same for you?

[ And then, knocking a fist against the roof again and listening closely— ]

Don’t hurt yourself trying to push out. I don’t think there’s anything on top of us, but it won’t be like breaking through wood.

I have steel-toed boots. I’m going to check for weak points at the corners of mine. It will be loud. Okay?

contained ( cw torture, self-harm )

[cryptofascist]

[ A week of flesh-peddling mindfucks. A wall lined end to end with the faces of his crew, his friends, his last love. A sudden spate of disappearances, desperate to poison him with the thought that he can't protect anyone. Maybe it was all leading to this, breaking him down so that even once he was out of the dark, he'd throw himself back in. It worked.

Not because he has anything to prove. He just knows he can survive it. Though he was too precious an asset for the Terrans to touch, they tortured him by proxy. Others, too. Wails from the agonizers bleeding from the speakers, their occupants dragged past the cells for other prisoners to see. He managed not to recall them too clearly during his first hour in the coffin, exchanged for Michael's freedom. On this second go, offered up for a stranger, the muffled screams are stirring at the back of his skull.

They get clearer and louder as the minutes tick by. The mantras that served him well before now fail him, so he resorts to a quick hit of pain to reset his mind, and punches the side of his coffin. He's massaging his knuckles when someone speaks up, speaks to him. From a direction that, not long ago, was a cacophony of panic and rage. ]

Yes. [ he answers, sternly audible. Measured. ] But I can tell you that they're listening.

[eidetics]

[ Lisbeth looks up at nothing, the coffin too dark to catch more than the blackened shadow of her own hands pressing once more to the lid and then falling back to her sides, fingers flexing. ]

Those sisters?

[ It’s not really a question. She knows. Every nasty event since she’s arrived has been orchestrated by them, and she hasn’t been able to dig up any information on the network or in the libraries. More to herself than the stranger speaking to her, ]

Sick fucks.

@thief

[latro]

Out?

You must me in something to get out, first.

[eidetics]

We’re trapped in a manor house with no means of leaving the grounds. That’s in.

market wildcard

[rehandle]

[ It's late on another day at the auction. The people he needed safe are far from the hands of the lanky strangers lounging around with their paddles, but he has feeling, a bad feeling, one he can't quite shake. So he goes back. Takes a seat at an empty table, content in the flawed knowledge that there's no calling of his number he couldn't ignore (how many times has he been rendered helpless here, how many more will it take for him to realise that means he is helpless), and watches.

There's a sign of clear resistence. It's not hesitance, not shyness. Not uncertainty. The woman drawn up to the stage does not want to be there. She does what she can to keep the collar from her throat - and the moment it closes, all that fight drops right out of her.

Only it doesn't, does it? There's no way it does. Nobody gives up that easily, that finger-snap fast.

The bidding kicks off, and he makes certain to win. Disappears for a while as she's led down from the stage so he can find the Rummage sisters and make his payment, and then reappears with a light sweat at his temples and tension around his eyes, arm held bent against his front like a waiter with a towel or a suitor preparing to bow and ask for this dance.

He's neither. He does his best to look reassuring, smile tight but wry, and offers her a nod of greeting. ]

Doctor Stephen Strange. Shall we walk and talk?

[ He has a rather pressing issue to attend to, but at least until they're out of the bidding hall, he'd rather travel the regular way. ]

[eidetics]

I know who you are.

[ Immediate, terse, once Stephen addresses her. The collar around Lisbeth’s neck is glossy obsidian, and doesn’t look so out of place on her, but she looks distinctly out of place here, guests and locals all dolled up to bid on slaves for the night while she’s in ripped black jeans and combat boots, black liner smeared around steel-grey eyes.

Lisbeth has been here five days, and within the first 12 hours made note of names that popped up again and again on the local network. Ani Mikheeva, proprietress of The Pink Slip; Koby, who compiles information and tends to welcome newcomers; Stephen Strange, a so-called wizard, though Lisbeth’s doubts about the veracity of that title erode more and more with each shifting corridor she walks down only for doors to disappear behind her. Either they’re all being regularly dosed with hallucinogens (possible) or there are things here her own logical understanding of the universe can’t explain.

Regardless, he’s a controversial figure. Lisbeth’s body moves without her consent, walking alongside him through the auction hall, the sights and sounds of which make her want to scream, shatter glass, put a bullet through the Rummage sisters’ skulls. She can do none of those things.

They’re alone, once they exit the Rummage Wing. Lisbeth’s teeth have been working at the inside of her lip, where her ring loops through, the pain sharp and clarifying. She takes two jerky strides back from Stephen, the amount of effort it requires evident in the sweat at her brow and tremor in the hard line of her jaw, managing to grit out, ]

If you touch me, I’ll break your hand.

[ There’s blood in her mouth, where she bit down around her ring. The collar’s physical weight around her neck is heavier than it should be: like something is pressing around it and pressing in on her, wanting to lock her back in line. Lisbeth fights it, nostrils flaring as she clenches a fist and digs her nails into her palms, hard.

Her gaze flicks over Stephen, and she thinks of how he looked when he approached her, thinks of what people have given up for their prize. Secrets. Blood.

She clarifies, ]

Again, if that’s what you offered them as payment.

net. @admirals

[murderbooks]

Two days, and I tried walking out as far as I could. Ended up right back in the same bed with a pounding head.

[eidetics]

Which direction?