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 ! 😋

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silco, arcane | current player/character

[powerhungry]

remembrance.

cw: bereavement, loss of a family member/loved one, suicidal ideation.

[ The days pass in a haze, slipping into and out of each other with no clear definition as to where one ends and another begins.

He doesn't cry — he wonders if, maybe, he never knew how to — but his body processes the emptiness at the center of it in other ways. His feet grow heavier, he thinks, in answer to the growing ache that sits in his chest like a tumor, pushing everything else out of his vision and out of his consciousness. Not that it matters. There's nowhere he can go to escape it, nowhere that doesn't remind him of her. Of what he had and what he lost, of the faint sense of having been handed a consolation prize to make up for something he never really had so long as she had been here.

I love you. Written and said over and over to a now-empty space. Had it been empty before? She'd said nothing, that day by the lake. She'd said— not that, never that, before she'd gone, in a conversation he can now scarcely remember, though he can recall the foolish, earnest leap of his heart. You idiot. She was never yours. Nor should she have been. Who can truly love a dead man? Who could bear tying themselves to a ghost, when the living and breathing exist only a hair's breadth away? Younger, prettier, kinder, realer. All of them sweet, when he'd hurt and lied to her before. When she looked at him and saw— what, her own failure? Proof of a curse that doesn't exist?

And it's less that, somehow, that strains him (happy for her, always happy for her to be loved, even if not by him), as much as the hollowness that remains in her wake. With her here, he'd known what to do. Had known that everything he did was to protect her, to ensure their place here. Without her, what is he good for? What does it matter what happens to a corpse?

He seeks out her portrait before he can think better of it. (Walks past his own without seeing it, thinking that she's the only one who'd stop to mind it. Or perhaps that's just another fool's hope.) Wonders, vaguely, if he could take it off of the wall and take it back to their suite. (His suite, now, not their suite. Empty and quiet, suddenly difficult for him to spend time in, as if more than a few minutes would make him suffocate.) Doesn't, in the end. Doesn't linger too long, either, when he knows that remaining near it would invite further condolences, further conversations he doesn't want nor know how to have.

So he goes to the lake, instead, a lit cigarette in one hand, the pack tucked away into his jacket pocket. It'd be easy to walk into the water. Easy to let it climb over his head, into his lungs. And there'd be nothing, then. Not her — he knows that. (And that's the hardest truth: that even death won't join them, when he knows she's gone to live.) None of this pain. Nothing except nothing.

He lifts the cigarette to his lips and takes another drag. At his feet, a hyena cub lies on its belly, its head on its front paws, its ears pinned back in unhappiness. Neither turn to look, when another person approaches. ]

wildcard.

[ hit me with anything you want if neither of these options appeal, or ask me for something bespoke! ]

remembrance

[wundagores]

[i just need a little time. the words have stuck in her mind for days, have been a ghost hanging over silco's empty office at the hex club, building into a sense of profound worry and dread.

wanda, though, has done her best to carry on with routine. as instructed, she's assisted hawk and jake in his absence, done her best to wear a smile during her shifts so that no one, neither regular guests nor fellow employees, know that anything is amiss. she hasn't sent any further messages, no matter how often she finds herself hovering over silco's name — and no matter how many days of radio silence continue to pass by.

then she sees the portraits on the wall, all of them, and feels her chest constrict so tightly that if she doesn't make it outside for air, immediately, something more drastic might happen. then, in the process, she catches sight of silco's profile by the lake, and, then —

gently, she approaches, feather-light footsteps stopping paces away from both him and the hyena cub at his feet. asks, in a voice just as soft,]

Silco?

[powerhungry]

[ The house feels empty without her. The her he doesn't name in their texts, the her that disappears overnight.

It's like walking through rapidly rising water. Each step forward is a push against a suffocating presence around him; each sound reaches him as through from a million miles away, dulled and distant. Internally, he swings from grief to resentment to acceptance — the last bordering on joy or relief, knowing that she isn't here, in a world where pain is more of a currency than sex, that she's somewhere where she'll be able to live fully, truly, freely — and back again, the mix manifesting as a dull ache that serves as a closer companion than even the hyena that follows at his heels.

He almost doesn't seem to notice, as such, as Wanda approaches, his gaze instead cast out toward the water as it to try to spot the place his body might slot, finally, into it. But he doesn't startle, either, at the sound of her voice. The line of his mouth twitches, first, not into a smile but merely in acknowledgment. ]

Wanda.

[ The pup at his feet raises his head, ears swiveling upward as it looks at her with shiny black eyes, tail thumping once, twice upon the ground. Friend, she'd written. The shape of the word pulses in his consciousness. ]

Apologies for the short notice, last weekend.

[wundagores]

[outside isn't really a relief. maybe the emotions around her alongside her own, the ones wanda feels without intending to, are less concentrated, but that doesn't mean they aren't there; they wash over her like the water would if she stepped to the shore of the lake, over and over again. specifically, they roll off of silco — grief, resentment, acceptance, numbness, back around the circle again — too much to be able to fully block out.

but she wouldn't need to be able to feel that to know. he turns to acknowledge her, and his face tells her an entire story. in return, she smiles, a lifeline cast, but her heart aches.

still, she makes sure it stays, that smile, as she takes one step closer to the pup.]

If anyone needs to make an apology, it's me. [rather than touch the pup, in case that isn't wanted, she bends down and reaches out a tentative hand — another offer, cast out.] I promised treats for the little one, and I don't have them.

wildcard — auction

[longlegs]

[ At first Cellar is paired up with Theo, displayed at the same time on that stage, holding each other's hand, facing uncertainty with the comfort of having their partner's support and energy next to them. The week advances, and then Cellar is called back to the party, placed back on that stage wearing something different: the light spider-web dress Jinx gave her, already seen by those who attended Silco and Ani's party before the end of the year came.

Her breaths are a little shallow — without Theo here, she doesn't know how the night might end, looking around the crowd, seeing guests and the strange new arrivals, fearing what the collar might make her do if the winner doesn't take pity, in some small part, and spares her from the more humiliating fates. The worst part is — it's that she wouldn't even know it's humiliating while the trap is set around her neck, because she remembers wanting it, whatever it was, until the purchased date was over.

And then she finds Silco, as if this dress weaves their fates, meeting when one needs the other's help.

Cellar's eyes stay on him. She says nothing, not even through a quiet movement of her lips, but her gaze lingers, blue eyes blinking with doubt. Can she look at him, should she, does he want her to— ]

[powerhungry]

[ Attending the auctions is a matter of obligation more than any personal desire or preference. In the crowd, tittering and cooing over the guests that get dragged up onto the stage, it's easy to melt into the shadows, to let the noise subsume him for an hour or two before he has to find some way to occupy himself again.

But then— the whisper of shimmering fabric and rhinestones, a familiar head of blonde hair.

Cellar.

As she's led up to the stage, Silco's brow pinches, his fingers twitching around the handle of the paddle that had been handed to him at the beginning of the night. He's still wearing that expression — a little daze, clearly concerned despite himself — when she finds him in the crowd. That's all it takes, in the end. The look on her face, in her gaze. In an instant, his hand shoots into the air.

The bids tick up. He raises his hand each time, until, finally, she's led down from the stage and to where he sits— now stands, as she draws near. Before he can say anything, the attendant who'd led her to him cuts between them, clearing their throat. There's a price owed, after all. Schooling his expression into neutrality, Silco picks up the knife that the attendant offers him and, without any further hesitation, makes a small cut across the pad of his left pointer finger. Blood wells up — enough to drip into a vial that the attendant then whisks away, leaving Silco and Cellar alone, or at least as alone as they can be in the middle of an ongoing auction. ]

I didn't want them to touch you, [ is what he offers, at length, more honest and more open than he'd really like. Haven and Cove, he means, or any of their too-toothy coterie. ]

We don't have to ... [ He trails off. Tries again. ] I can take care of you, if you like.

[longlegs]

[ When her name and starting price are announced, Cellar goes somewhere else. A place in her mind where she doesn't have to deal with opening the door back to reality until someone knocks to tell her it's over. Eyes down, another voice urging her to trust in the crowd a little more, because maybe someone with good intentions rather than their own intentions might take her away from here and miraculously tell her that the way to make them happy is to stick to her own wants.

One of her nervous habits returns during the auction, picking at her nails, remembering the times August told her not to chew on them. She still did, she still does, at the risk of losing the interest of those who seek someone with more confidence in the process. Why is she more comfortable in the Pink Slip's stage, clothes off her back and chest, legs revealed all the way up to where the thigh meets her hips with some shade of glossy fabric covering the only thing that's left? Because she chose to be there, and because she knows unwanted attention will earn the rulebreaker an unkind trip out the door.

Here there's a stage, here she stands with more of her covered in beautiful luxury, and yet here she feels more exposed. It's where she's the most surprised to see Silco bidding for her until he wins out over the others, and Cellar wonders if she's seeing the right person, or if Silco mistook her for someone else. Any attempt to unravel that mystery succumbs once she's stepping down the few stairs, holding someone's professional hand all the way to the winner, while Silco pays the price with a knife and without hesitation. She's still not sure either of them is supposed to be standing in front of the other, but — she's glad that's the case, mistake or not.

Any other night, Theo by her side, Cellar would've been more confident, ready with a flirtatious smile and touchy hands. That's her boss's partner, that's the man she found in the darkness, dealing with a nightmare left by his own death like a punishment, like a disease. That's the man who recently lost the girl who meant everything in this world and the one they came from. Everyone could see that long before she disappeared. It figures that Cellar would be dressed in Jinx's gift. She imagines poisonous voices suggesting that it had to be on purpose, just to get his attention.

The collar around her neck switches all her thoughts and pushes her concerns into the darkest corner of her heart. There they will be kept behind a locked door with a hole to peek outside at what her body does and says to make Silco happy. ]

I'd really like that, Silco. [ Not a drop of hesitation or dishonesty, she tilts her head and steps a little closer. It's like her alter ego has taken over, instructing Cellar to do everything she wouldn't have been brave enough to act on one minute ago. ] Can I hold your hand?

[powerhungry]

[ Even if he weren't acquainted with the ways of the house, he'd recognize that something odd is at work, if not from the way her demeanor changes from when they bring her out onto the stage to when they bring her to him, then from everything he's seen over the past few nights. (Or maybe he'd take it as a lie no matter what, even if she'd been eager from the start. She spins around the manor like a beam of sunlight, meant to be looked upon and adored. All he is, in comparison, is a shadow.)

And yet, he's still surprised when she steps close to him — when she asks to be closer. At his sides, his fingers twitch. Just to hold her hand is arguably nothing, and yet his thoughts tick through what he would and wouldn't resent remembering, later, were he in her shoes. But, the distinguishing point: it's not something he's asked for. Maybe it's what she thinks he wants, rather than a genuine desire to which she's given voice, but—

He holds out his hand to her, palm up, waiting for her to take it and lace their fingers together, before starting to lead them out of the Rummage Wing. It's such a simple gesture that it makes him ache. The warmth of her hand in his. The softness of her palm, her touch. Had he really wanted this closeness this badly? ]

Would you take me to your room?

[ He glances at her sidelong. There's no hesitation in his voice, exactly, but he speaks in open questions, not the closed-off statements that comprise his interactions with the staff of the Hex Club. But he won't go back to his suite — can't, yet. ]

As much as possible, I—

[ I want to know you better. I want you to trust me. I want you not to regret this. A teeming morass of thoughts, all too vulnerable — too honest — to give voice to. ]

Don't go out of your way on my account.

[longlegs]

[ She's entranced by him, expensive dress dancing and flowing with every high-heel step by his side, her hand soft and warm in his. The king leading the princess of some other kingdom away from the ball, away from the feast where people feed themselves with the victory and claim of another's evening. A lot more than that, when Cellar's usual admiration — curious, from afar, wanting to respect his space more than she felt the need to step into it — turns into the fawning kind, cheeks pink with make-up and infatuation. He asked her to take him to her room, which means he wants her to, which means she wants to.

Looking from the inside out, the untouched part of Cellar's self wonders how the night would've gone without the collar. She's nervous, sure, but — is there really anything she'd be doing differently? Not so far. Maybe not for a while. ]

Oh my god, no, not at all, [ With the breathlessness of a soft laugh to reassure him and herself. ] I'd love to take you to my room. [ And upon squeezing his hand, ] Let's go.

[ Cellar and Theo share the same room — rooms, plural, one side of the suite used just for them, the other a space to welcome guests, friends and lovers. The latter is what Cellar steps into, smiling over her shoulder, turning the lights on to reveal a space that's undoubtedly been touched by one artist and two creative, effervescent souls. She turns around, waiting for his reaction, hoping for his approval, finger brushing idly over the jewelry around her neck. ]

So, uhm… I can get you something to drink.

wildcard — end of the auction

[transfuse]

cws a/b/o lite, virginity

[ The last day of the auction, she offers what she no longer wants to possess. ( The lot description is a pathetic thing, amongst the atmosphere of debauchery and decadence offered by the estate: A lady's first, as if the deflowering of a maiden is at all worth the price. ) Poised and proper, she takes to the stage with grim acceptance. Severe desperation in the tremble of her fingertips, forced into compliant stillness by the pretty, gleaming collar around her throat — as if once more poised for the arduous process of creating a family portrait. The bids surround her, and she finds herself singing in her mind — Any man will do, provided he does not wish to wed me, too.

Her body is a burden, coveted and kept like a caged animal by her family for their machinations. Unburden me, her eyes beg, and beg, and beg. Until she is purchased. It is not a high price she fetches, and the Rummage sisters seem wildly disappointed to receive the modest payment from her purchaser; more enticing is the way Mithra does not flutter and wilt before the man who purchased her. When finally left to him, she does not flinch or look away from his scarred face, her pale gaze intense as an inked pen poised on paper. Black ink, dripping and pooling upon something unstained. ]

— you instructed me not to be afraid, in pursuing what I want.

[ She will not insult his pain, to look upon him with pity. Nor to question him, on the strength of his intent. That much is obvious, after all. ( And something briefly crawls around her irises, as writhing and wet and iridescent as unknown things hauled from the depths of Zaun's poisoned waters. ) ]

[powerhungry]

[ When Mithra is brought up to the stage, what Silco sees in her gaze isn't so different from what he'd seen in her eyes the first time they'd met. That desperation, that hunger — her maidenhood, offered for reasons that fall, given their degree of acquaintance, slightly outside of his understanding. It's enough, still, for him to bid. If pressed, he couldn't rightly say why, or recognize the reasons that spring to mind. Possessiveness is a trait he exercises in bare minimums, desire even more so. Neither serve him well. And yet.

And yet, he gives up a lock of his hair — shorn from the side of his head, well-hidden enough that none will startle to look upon him, tomorrow — when the bid ends. What purpose it serves, he can't say, and though it'd be a falsehood to say that it doesn't worry him, there's no platform upon which he can really barter, here, and— it seems like an insult, in its own way, to try to haggle downward in the matter of trading her.

In her room, shadows catch at the edge of his frame, as if recognizing one of their own. But he doesn't melt away, doesn't disappear. He watches her, instead, searching the black pools of her gaze. ]

Is it as you imagined, then?

[transfuse]

[ ( Pick. Pick, pick, pick; she tears at the delicate skin around one of her nails. Tearing up tiny ribbons of flesh until it stings and blood wells up like tiny gems. ) In the quiet of her room, with her tidy bed and her modest vanity and the embers in her fireplace and the meager, austere trappings of someone used to imprisonment over habitation, she stands in her nightshift and dressing gown and regards him without pity or guilt. Just the hunger. The sticky, base hunger that was integral to her experience. ]

I have never imagined it.

[ Never. How she would be used for power and glory was the one thing made precisely, inescapably clear to her. Briefly, her gaze shutters. Dark lashes over pale eyes, as she turns her face aside in an effort not to — not to what? look weak before him? to calculate her approach? ]

T'would be a boring thing to explain why, precisely. Simple enough to say I was maintaining lower expectations than you.

[ By the way she says it, breathless and ragged as if she has been running, hunted — it's not her intention to evoke empathy with those words. It isn't that she has a poor view of herself ( how does one look inward and examine their worth, when they have no way of comparing where they came from to where they had fallen? she has always been a worm of a girl, writhing and obsessed with impurity ). Just that... she had wanted to keep her mind open, her options as vast as the sea.

Toward his shadows, she crosses. A hand extended to curl her long, thin fingers around his forearm. From the bare column of her pale throat, the subtle scent of violets and salt might reach him. A thin sheen of sweat on her collarbones and the muscle that twitches in her jaw betray the extent of her own nervousness. ]

I don't need to know why you did this. But if you cannot reach this damned purity within me, know I will return to that stage as many times as I must to ensure it is torn to shreds.

[powerhungry]

[ The secret that he keeps to himself — that his fingers ease their hold on, when she says I don't need to know — is that he isn't entirely certain why he's done this, either. She hasn't asked for his pity, nor is he a man who truly possesses the capacity for it. All she's asked for is—

His eyes pinch at the corners, just slightly, as he lets out a sigh, his gaze traveling deliberately over her pale features, the bob of her throat, the delicate set of her collarbone, bare over the set of her shift. Everything in perfect composition, if not for the desperation of the heart settled underneath. There's something freeing about that, in knowing what his role is, here, when the last several days have found him completely unmoored. That he bid upon her is secondary to her desire; he is a means to an end. He can understand that. The pieces click into place, with that realization. In the story she's written, there's a clear role for him. Better to inhabit that than the void he's existed in, otherwise. ]

Will you undress?

[ It isn't and isn't an answer to the sentiment she's expressed — he thinks of directness less than how best to phrase what he says, when he's begun to learn— something about the way in which words give her actions shape. A suggestion, not a command, as his fingers find the buttons and stays of his own clothes. He sheds his jacket, first, gently prying her hand free of his arm. Unbuttons his shirt, next, though he doesn't yet take it off. ]

I want to see all of you.

[ Again, not a command. Merely a statement — I want, not I will. What follows is, similarly, a promise, rather than a thumb on the scale of her agency. ]

Your feet won't touch that stage again.

[transfuse]

[ There needn't be a reason for them to come together, as she's not that sort of woman. What use would she have for an incomprehensible explanation, when her own imagination will let her replay something uncertain again, and again, in whatever way she pleases? That she is to be had by someone modestly familiar to her ( for she would not think the two of them close, by any means; polite acquaintances at best, fumbling co-researchers at best ), rather than a complete stranger, will make her future daydreams a little easier to formulate. Little Mithra, growing up at last, the chasm within her laughs, dusky-low, eager to throw open her gates to the first man she'd met in this place who had shown his desire to her.

( No, she thinks. To a man who would never shackle her in marriage — because he loves and yearns for another. In that, he's perfect for this. )

Her eyes dip, as he begins to divest himself of his clothing; perfunctory and business-sharp, she appreciates the decisiveness. Goosebumps break out along her arms and belly, a chill coursing through her body as she reaches up to untie the ribbon holding the loose neck of her shift together. In a matter of moments, she draws it over her head and spills it to the side, across the floor like a ghost, like the last dregs of her soul. Bare-skinned, with her hair unbound, she rubs her thighs together and rolls her long, thin fingers over her wrists; with her body still filling out with regular meals, she's still a spindly and gaunt thing, her legs and arms and patches of her belly and back streaked with scars ancient, and scars mending.

( She keeps her thighs pushed together. Ever since visiting the chapel, her body has been strange. ) ]

I would like to see you, as well.

[ The company her brother had kept enjoyed when she fawned and flattered them, however desperate an attempt to keep them in a good mood it had been on her part. There is no compliment to give to Silco that wouldn't sound obsequious and backhanded, but there is action. There is the way she leans in, to briefly press her cheek to his: to the ruined one, with the burning-brand eye she wants to look over her and scald her with its strangeness, its terrible quality that draws her in. Moth to flame. The way she turns her face into his and kisses the marred skin without hesitation, her mouth forming words against him — feverishly — concluding prayer ( veșnica pomenire, she whispers ) against the corner of his mouth. ]

If I may request — not in the bed, and not on my back.

[ Not like a human, she wants to plead. Like a beast, base and monstrous. The heat-ache within her swells, the scent of him ( cigar smoke, mechanical grease, grief ) embedding itself in her lungs. ]

🔞

[powerhungry]

[ There's an instant, hollow sort of recognition that fills him when he sees her scars. You are like me. A curse, an emblem of imperfection and a terrible, yawning loneliness. The black thread that ties them together, that had drawn them to each other when they'd still been strangers. He fancies it burns when she presses her lips to his cheek. Instantly, his hands grip her arms, holding her there to him as the echo of words he doesn't understand — a prayer, lost upon a dead man — nearly paper over what she says next. Not in the bed, and not on my back. His gaze snaps to hers as if by a magnet, the muscle under his rotting eye twitching despite his best efforts to still it. For a long moment, he does nothing — like a beast caught in the torchlight of a hunting party, cognizant of its impending fate, of the chase that's about to begin.

Then— wordlessly, he turns her around to face the floor mirror that stands against the wall of her room. One of his hands slips from her arm to cup her breast, pulling her back against him, leaving just enough space between them to undo his fly, to press his cock, already hot and hard, against the curve of her ass. Slowly, as if testing her — as if she might be skittish — he grinds against the softness of her flesh, letting her feel out the shape of him on her skin as his breath begins to grow ragged. ]

Of course.

[ Spoken as he pulls her down onto her knees upon the rug that covers the floor and lowers himself down behind her, keeping her gaze in their reflection the entire time. His other hand splays flat against her stomach, shifting downward at the same time that he bows his head, his lips finding the curve of her neck just as his fingers find the heat between her legs, drawing slick through her folds before circling over the bundle of nerves at their peak. He kisses her with hunger on his tongue, hard enough to leave her skin red and promising to bruise when his mouth pulls away. ]

What else would you ask of me?

[ Beyond the final object that remains, hinted at by the way he now bends her over, forcing her hands to the floor. ]

🔞

[transfuse]

[ Throughout her years, she had learned to disguise the internal workings of her person; speaking out of place, displaying strong emotions, disobedience or reluctance were met with swift re-education. To want was to condemn herself to one agony or another: by the hands of her father or the hands of her brother. Silco wants to know what more she could ask for, and she falters momentarily — there, on her knees with his lean form behind her. She can see him in the mirror, hovering over her shoulder; feel the shape and heat of his cock, the way she had only felt his fingers before.

Within her, there could be nothing but the savage throb of her heart, her pulse shuddering throughout her — fluttering in her throat, her chest. In the mirror, she meets his eyes with her own, and silently shakes her head: no, there's naught more she could ( or would ) ask. Everything is points of contact. His mouth on her throat, his fingers rolling against the peak of her clit. She doesn't feel hesitant at all. She wants this, more than anything she's wanted before; her fingers curl into the rug below them, her knees widening as she arches her spine. ]

Nothing, [ she murmurs, feeling the ache in her hips as she presses her knees wider and lifts them. Her shoulders rounding as she bows herself forward, little by little, until her cheek pools on the backs of her knuckles as she can gaze over her shoulder at him again — pale eyes, dark lashes. A hand that reaches back and between her own thighs, fingertips brushing against the curved head of his cock in an effort to elevate it, to point it like a blade toward her flesh. A key, toward a lock. He's hot, lean. ( He'll be inside of her, more of him than just his fingers were: Anything you want. ) ]

[powerhungry]

[ She's a pretty thing, pretty with delirium and pretty with misery. As she bends over, he runs a hand down the length of her spine, making no effort to hide the appraising color of his gaze. ]

Nothing?

[ And this is a little backwards, maybe, when he's the one who'd won her at auction, but— she'd put herself up on that stage for a reason. For this reason. When his gaze meets hers again, he uses his other hand to finish what she's started, guiding his cock between her legs, smearing precome and the slick of her arousal over the folds of her cunt, pressing against and then — insistent, hot and hard — into her. ]

Do you want me to be sweet?

[ The words carry on a sigh. He knows the answer already, despite playing at ignorance. Behind her, he spits into his palm, then reaches down to stroke the length of himself that has yet to enter her. ]

Do you want me to be tender?

[ Another inch. ]

Do you want me to be cruel?

[ And the rest of him, all at once, with a rough snap of his hips. He can't help the groan that leaves him as she takes him in, impossibly tight and entirely his, if only for the night. ]

[transfuse]

cws period-typical misogyny, implied incest, v.. virginity

[ ( A bit like sinking your thumbs into an overripe peach, if you do it right, her sister had said to her, once. Back when her sister was bold and brassy and unbroken by family and duty and her own sex. That's right, dear sister. Push your fingers in there just like so and draw them apart. That's how it ought to feel. ) And it feels a bit like that, she thinks. Silco's cock is not like his fingers — nor, unsurprisingly — like any of the fingers she's had slipped inside her: her own, exploring and curious, or the doctor's, to ensure her purity. The head of him is blunt, it gives only modestly as he pushes it into her.

She doesn't feel much like a peach, though her body yields to him — soft and sticky-wet — she's still tight, a small cavern of a thing that twitches her hips and bows her spine lower to the ground until she can drag her belly upon it with. a low, repressed gasp. Of pleasure? Of pain? He spreads her open, the firm heat of him right to his hilt. Something inside of her — it tears, gloriously. Like ripping open her stays after an agonizingly terse conversation with her father, bearing down upon her while she attempted to control her breathing lest he think her terror unbecoming an Antonescu heiress. Like sinking her nails into papers she despises the words upon, liberating them from existence as she shredded them into scrap to feed the flames of her fireplace and return them to her mind, every letter a phoenix.

A stronger woman would snarl or keen an answer. Perhaps that stronger, assured woman would laugh and declare she wanted him to be any of those things, or perhaps she'd want him to be hers, or perhaps even she'd be gluttonous and want all of those things at once. While possessed of a deep, aching hunger, Mithra knows what kind of a woman she was — not strong, not clever-tongued or confident, not anything like the other women of the household who reveled in their glory as women and demanded-received-existed for reverence. She takes what she can get. ]

— nothing more than this, not for me.

[ ( Any man would have done, she reiterates to herself. ) Turning her head upward until her cheek smears across the rug and she can look across the floor to the mirror, to see his burning eye and the way his body leans over hers. The place where his cock splits her open aches and burns, and the pain clarifies like relief in her mind. Her hands reach back, fingers seeking the ends of his open shirt — backwards, like reins — to steady herself and push the curve of her ass firmer against him. The inside of her body might feel alarmingly deep, her temperature cooler the further inside he plunges, she clenches hungrily around his cock and inhales sharply. A quiet lover, all muted gasps and throaty noises. ( God, Blessed Masters. She wants him to fuck her so badly, to be the first to ruin her, leave her mangled and sweat-soaked and filled with him and flayed open for the next man she'll take, and the man after that. She'll never be able to stop now. ) ]

Just as "yourself". He's the one who bought this, he should be the one to have it.

remembrance. cw: bodily deterioration/decay, faint allusions to suicidiality and self harm

[apathet]

[ Days pass, one by one by one, and she keeps them all. Most of them. Enough of each that it begins to feel like her own life. She wakes in the same bed each morning, alone. Goes to breakfast, eats bland food, meets new people. For the first few days she'd climbed into the same outfit over and over, habit, practiced disinterest, the long term irrelevance of personal taste. Even that's gone by the wayside now. Her routine expands to include the wardrobe. She takes her time. She chooses.

She thinks perhaps she hates this, the novelty of it aside. But what else is there to do?

She stopped sleeping a couple of nights ago, so it won't be much longer. Can't taste. Can't smell. Can feel only the deepest pressure, the sharpest points. For the time being - out of stubbornness, spite, and a vague and clawing hope that will not leave her - she leaves nature to take its course.

The warmth inside makes it worse. That would be a benefit if she thought this time would last, but it won't. So she keeps all her windows open, ventures out often into the cold English air, makes the grounds her haunt. The season and the scale means she's alone more often than she's not, but she dresses carefully anyway. Plenty of layers. Bundled up against the weather like she can feel it, like she has any reason to fear it. Today, a long walk cycles back around to the lake, and when she and her hat and her scarf and her coat emerge to the shoreline she finds she's not alone. Across the water, a man.

She makes her way around, heading back to the house, and the light of his cigarette keeps catching in her fading vision each time he lifts it to his mouth, bright against dull landscape. Somehow, in spite of her instinct to be alone, in spite of his obvious preference for the same, she finds herself sticking to the water's edge. It curves her around, leads her off course until the trudge of her boots brings her in line with a decision to make. A brief pause. When she starts up again, it's to cover the final few paces until she's close enough to ask - ] Bring any spares?

[ She hasn't noticed the cub, just a faint shape from across the lake and too low up close to make it into her gradually tunneling vision. But it might have an easier time noticing the truth of her. Beneath the perfume, the soap and shampoo, the layers of fine cotton and thick wool, she has a certain smell. ]

[powerhungry]

[ (What else is there to do? Silco asks himself the same question in so many words, as the new year unfolds. The house is a toy chest, filled with tin soldiers to be thrown together at a child's whim. Some new, some old, all destined to be destroyed. In the days in between, time stands still. Without her, time stands still.)

He doesn't recognize the young woman who appears in the distance, but he does her the courtesy of at least pretending he isn't all too aware of her approach until she actually speaks up. If she wanted company, if he wanted company, one of them would have waved. Instead, there's just this — silence, the kind that could generously be described as companionable — and the brief pause she takes when she's a few steps away until she comes to a stop near his side. It's easy, then, to look over, to nod, to reach into his jacket pocket and produce a silver cigarette case that he flips open when he offers it to her.

Below, Jawsy gets to his feet, shaking himself as though the cold were something he could shed before— not drawing closer, exactly, but leaning from the spot where he's standing, head bobbing as he takes in her scent. If it bothers him, he makes no sign of it, instead looking from her to Silco and back again, as if waiting for permission to move forward.

In the time it takes for him to look down at the creature, he pulls a lighter from the same pocket with his other hand, a few clicks bringing a dancing orange flame to life. He's— gentlemanly about it. Cups a hand to keep the light alive until her cigarette is lit.

Then, with a nod down at Jawsy, who offers up an inquisitive whuff: ]

Do you mind? [ If he moves, if he approaches. ] He's curious, but he won't bite.