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

ethan callahan | oc | new char/current

[wolven]

welcome — interlude

[ You see one breakfast, you see them all. Black tie, which Ethan resolutely ignores. He wears the same thing like uniform, dirt on his jeans, tracking in mud with the tread of his boots; plain tees, flannels. Always looking like he crawled out of somewhere else. Half alive, playing at being kept indoors.

By the fourth day, it's well past noon — the third day avoiding whatever bullshit the people here are buying into. Golden light streams through floor to ceiling windows. Outside, the bite of winter still remains, and Ethan stands in the middle of some reading room, staring out at the grounds. A cigarette, half-lit, hangs from the corner of his mouth. Ashes drop right onto the plush rug underneath his feet. It clings to it, made tacky by a muddy bootprint.

Somebody else comes in. Ethan glances over his shoulder. The cold sun, if only for a second, seems to make his eyes glint yellow. ]

That all people do here? [ He says, without much introduction. Gravelly and low, like he just woke up. ] Eat and fuck?

market (nsfw/cw gore/light autophagy)

[ They don't pay with money here, but money's not something Ethan's ever had. He pays for it with a bite into his own forearm, below a jutting cluster of veins, above a thick, silvery scar. His teeth gore his own flesh. Blood drips into a golden cup. That's about the standard around here, he figures. A sheen of riches, like it'll hide how much the rot of it smells. Wolfblood, destined to make anyone else as sick as it made him.

And then: a room. There are others posed like furniture, art to be touched. Ethan sits at an armchair. Jeans worn, boots scuffed — his version of dressing up was to wear a denim jacket over his tee. He nods to the floor at his feet: ]

Sit down.

[ His accent ties all the words together. Low and gravelly on syllables, Montana hewn, American dustbowl. Unphased by the weeklong puzzle of owners and owned. ] So who are you? [ He leans forward. Thick fingers balance across your jaw, turning your face up for appraisal. Left, then right, then left again. His mouth ticks upward. ] What'd I buy? Just somethin' pretty?

network — @ethan

[ Short, succinct, floated to the network: ]

So how many witches does this place have?

---

[ i smooch your beautiful faces. ethan is a werewolf who eats people! fun. if you remember him with a different name, no you don't. if you think he looks like bob, you definitely don't. wildcards also on the table! ]

👁️ market

[knelt]

( there's little to complain about with isolde's kneel — a straight back, hands folded in her lap, head bowed until it isn't, tilted from side to side with a thumb on her chin. the illicit nature does something to her. not just the livewire heat of existence — kneeling alone would do it well enough. but the appraisal, the grit in his voice, the idea of a stranger before her having her body in his hands and doing with it what he would. that almost makes her dizzy, head spinning with the lust and the shame of it, blonde eyelashes fluttering, a full mouth downturned in a permanent pout. she doesn't move out of his grip.

just something pretty? there's not blankness in her eyes but maybe an emptiness — an abandon, something that was once full but is now gone. something like innocence, maybe. something like happiness. )

Isolde Laurence.

( in her not-new york, not-irish, not-english, somehow all three and also none accent. she rests her hands on his boots, bracing herself while she leans forward, until her chin rests on his knee. )

Was I expensive?

[wolven]

[ Wolves and the animals they chase. It's the oldest story in the world, roles rote and worn into the groove of life. But they don't always look like her, do they? Young. Pale and blonde, the plush bow of her mouth. She rests her chin prettily on the round of one rough, denim-worn knee, and Ethan thinks: I used to know a witch just like you, pretty girl. She wanted what you want, too. His thumb, calloused and worn, smooths down her temple. Tucks a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. A crumb of tenderness, as if he might be interested in it for real. ]

Nah. [ A crooked smile unfolds, meanly, across the line of his mouth. ] Not worth anything at all, baby.

[ Does it matter if it's true? A thing to be kept — his thing to be used, that he can place value on. That's what it means to own something. He leans, spine against the back of a buttery leather chair. Half-lidded eyes taking her in for a spell; the scent of her, light, filling the back of his mouth. His cock stirs lazily, just the same as his appetite does. ]

Ethan. That's my name.

[ The V of his thumb and index grips her by the front of the throat. Not cutting off air, yet. But close that he can feel the pitch of her pulse right underneath skin, makes her have to crane up a little on her knees. It's only when he crowds in to kiss her that his hand squeezes firm — taking her air by force. Sealing her inhales, kissing away her exhales, like even the hot breath in her lungs belongs to him. ]

[knelt]

( someone who didn't know the truth of themselves might've flinched or frowned at the words — isolde, who knows any other answer would've been a lie, continues her impassivity with a slight narrowing of her eyes. ethan. when an opportunity for easy charm presents itself and you take another option, it's indicative of personage. ethan is not someone interested in her opinion of him. all signs point to negative, all points should be right there with it. unfortunately, isolde is someone who will always stretch her empty, hungry hands towards whatever hurts the most at any given time, greedy for suffering she knows she deserves. not worth anything at all, and she thinks yes, finally, someone gets it. we're all exactly nothing.

once he shackles her throat, isolde knows what's coming, though a uselessly surprised gasp still exits out of her once he cuts off flow, losing precious air that much quicker. she kisses him back while she can, until the blood starts rushing to her face, making everything feel pins-and-needles swollen. saliva waters up in her mouth, making the kiss messy, her fists tightening in the soft denim at the sides of his knees.

isolde isn't sure how not to yearn for the darkness on the other side of passing out, but inaction isn't exactly her strong suit. trained dogs will lash out when pushed in a corner. she sinks her teeth down into his kiss, biting his lower lip, a puppyish almost-warning. )

welcome

[retrogressive]

[ four days in, and she does consider herself a bit of an expert on all things house related, having settled in marvelously and with great comfort. this room is new, on an abstract list of potential exploration. the opulent rug is as expected, her heeled shoes sinking into the fibers. a beautiful divan of a blue and white pattern sits to the side, perfect to throw herself onto to enjoy the steam of sunlight pouring in through the windows, even if the room itself is a bit chilly in her chosen style of dress for the day.

terribly out of place in the room is the filthy man, who looks like he's been sleeping with the animals that must populate the woods. nevertheless, she smiles in greeting. ]

Yes, I think those are the main activities. Although if you fuck, you shouldn't come inside anyone. A very, very wise woman told me that. I think some also choose to bathe. The bathrooms are extraordinary. Have you seen them?

[ plucked from an end table — a dirty ashtray stuffed nearly full of old cigarettes. the messiness of the place is at odds with how nice it is, she has noticed, but it offers a certain lived-in comfort. she holds out the tray beneath his burning cigarette, catching the next bit of ash before it hits the floor. ]

Would you like to walk around with this?

[wolven]

[ Sort of funny, is the thing, to see a girl plucked right from her music box and made real. The dress. The shoes. A ballgown princess, talking about come, like her wise woman might also run around on a house with chicken's legs selling fortunes about husbands and first sons. His brows push upwards — a little skeptical and a little amused, the tip to his head almost animal. The way hounds react when tracking new heartbeats through the trees. Terribly out of place anywhere indoors.

Ethan exhales. Light shoots through the latest gray plume, blurring the prim little jut of her jaw. ]

Why would I do that. [ Mildly, slyly. The corner of his mouth kicks up. ] You're already holdin' it for me.

[ And who gives a shit, anyway. What's there to care for if this is what someone's spending their time and money on — some living house, some place that was built to keep, glint and gleam for lock and key. He knuckles the smoke out of his mouth, at least, and then offers it to her filter-first. The paper's wet, damp from mouth and spit. ]

Your wise woman have any other good lies?

[retrogressive]

[ so she is. strange, that she should default to servitude when being the only surviving member of a marvelous utopia means she's at the top now. being here is like being a tiny organism in a petri dish among hundreds of others. she's still learning how exactly to best fit in.

she releases the ashtray, ashes and cigarette butts going up in a small explosion as the heavy weight thunks onto the rug. his muddy boots hardly look different with little piles of ash smudged along the leather, but the (substantial) skirt of her dress now sports streaks of gray. she shakes out the fabric to loosen any trapped cigarettes. ]

A good lie? Do you come inside people? [ she leans in, painted lips wrapping around the proffered cigarette for a quick puff, leaving a rosy stain over the damp filter — only to immediately start coughing, flapping her hands at him. ] I am honored to meet you, and would be equally honored to meet your children. Fatherhood can be such a joy for those who live to see it.

network; un: thief

[latro]

Really does depend on what you define as a witch, I bet. Magic comes in many flavors and people are uppity about not sharing their labels, in my experience.

[wolven]

Witch is someone who uses magic.

[ Manipulates, deals, harms. Two out of three words one might use to describe wolves, too. ]

You one of those, or you got your own "label"?

[latro]

Now that is what I would call casting a wide net. Do you have something against magic users? I'm not judging; they can tend to be a little too pretentious for me. Pride is so unappealing, you know.

As for me, I've always disliked labels, but rest assured, I'm not in the magic business. How about you?

welcome / if any of this isnt ok send me to the gallows (pm me)

[endow]

[yeko favors silks, laces and velvets, everything inappropriate for the weather for a human but absolutely appropriate for her. she is at every breakfast and only skips some dinners, and for the first few she resorts to watching. it's a crisp morning when she catches his scent first– over the orange juice and bacon, hiding under freshly baked bread and sugar. dirty dog. yeko does her best to not let it bother her, to sit as far away as possible and ignore in hopes he leaves or disappears or dies.

she hunts him down when he doesn't. tracks his scent and prods around his mind with psychic taps. if he feels her, she's delicate in her invasion– her prying eye as soft as snowfall and warm as summer's sun, the same sun that has his eyes shift yellow turn hers into a glowing red. how does a fox corner a dog? in the daylight, with the door behind her becoming a not-door, smoothed over by the illusion of another wall.

when she smiles, pointed canines flash.]

Is that what you think? [you think is echoed as a whisper his ear, in the wind that creaks the window open.] You have a nose, don't you? It's everywhere. Where have you come from, dog?

[wolven]

[ Not the first time he's been cornered. Won't be the last. Ethan's eyes — irises blue and dull, always a little distantly focused, placid without hackles — linger on the flash of her teeth. So this is the animal, he thinks. The fox that's been leaving prints behind. In the daylight, so she can see him, and he can see her, and the little mayflies delicately prickling at his skin, searching for memories or thoughts over blood, finally has a face.

Lazily, his eyes track the space behind her. The door's gone. His brows push up almost like he's impressed. ]

Nice trick, kit.

[ The scent of magic follows her like a crime. Other scents, too, like cloves and soot and cinnamon. His lungs inhale another breath of tar and nicotine and expel the same. ]

Not where you come from. [ Of that, he's almost sure. Not a lot of others where he's from. If you spend your life avoiding something, you damn well know it when you see it. Facing the windows, his back is to her — less capitulation, more seeing what she'll do with it. A bird flits high in the sky, some distant speck of life, and Ethan tracks it blandly through the glass. Says, ]

What does that make you? You gonna eat me or fuck me?

cw a lil gore imagery

[endow]

[her lips curl. ethan is in a tumbler made to sharpen objects, not soften them. instincts tell her to lunge and sink teeth into soft flesh, to rip the head from his shoulders and bare witness to the muscle, sinew and protruding spine beneath, blood splashed on the floor. flesh prison. would he survive that? would he keep his scar? would someone have to fetch his rock?]

It's stupid to turn your back on the enemy, Ethan.

[fluffy fox ears sprout from her head, a sweet image compared to the malice behind her eyes. she can't access more of her power without revealing herself in turn. worth the risk, he's already sniffed her out. the window he faces begins to tilt, the bird tilting with it. how much can she make him believe the world is falling to one side, she wonders, or maybe she can make him stumble.]

I don't want to eat you, [laughter then, another mirage of herself sitting on the window appearing, legs stretched, boots braced on the sill to exaggerate the faux reality shift.] I want to know where you're from. You smell different, you know. You smell like someone who is already here.

[another wolf.]

@blackrock00

[temporicide]

At least one
Do you fear them or like them

[wolven]

Don't know why those would be my only two options.
I've liked some.

[temporicide]

That's true. But some people are so scared of witches they don't even believe in them. Crazy, right?
But now I'm curious about your curious. Will you tell me?

@stefan

[interpersonally]

A good number. Looking for a witch?

[wolven]

No.

[ Well. Not no no. ]

More than 13?

[interpersonally]

I couldn't say, but enough for a friend to start trying to get a coven together.

@shadowheart

[nightsung]

If you’re worried about hags, none so far. Otherwise, it depends on your definition.

[wolven]

Never had cause to.

[ Worry about hags, that is. ]

Witch is someone who does magic. Unseen Work.
Don't think people call it that here, though.

[nightsung]

Consider me a witch, then. But I’ve never heard the term Unseen Work before, no.

welcome.

[worded]

[ They say a wolf can scent its prey from at least a mile and a half away. So she knows, when she spots him at breakfast, that it doesn't matter that he doesn't see her. This place is only so big. There are only so many people. He probably scented her the moment she got here. It doesn't matter a whit that she dyed her fucking hair blue.

(For the first 48 hours, she doesn't sleep. It seems too much like a nightmare — the excess of magic gives her a headache, and on top of that, she can't find ████, can't sense him, can't call home, can't do anything except wonder just how shitty a mother she must be to lose track of her son so completely, or who on earth would need a witch so badly that they'd snatch her without explanation. But that's not quite right, either. There's no one shaking her awake, demanding she perform a miracle. There's no one at all, actually, just stranger after stranger, until—

Well, that's not quite fair. There is a maid, and there is a Word. But the girl doesn't know anything, and Mandy feels like a fool, after.)

The light is warm — a pretty kind of gold and amber, light that illuminates each floating mote of dust — but she feels ice cold when his gaze finds her. It's pointless to run, when he's always been faster. At her sides, her fingers flex, curling into the fabric of her sleeves. The hoodie she wears, large enough to skim her thighs, has faded from wear into a sort of ombre, washed-out pink to soft red, just a few shades removed from the color her hair had been when they'd been together. ]

What does it matter?

[ In the back of her head, she starts building the Word. ]

Only ever did what you wanted to do, anyway.

[wolven]

[ This place is only so big, and there are only so many people. Hers is a scent he'd dreamed about for twenty-nine days before he ever saw her in the flesh — his witch-girl, her hands over his bloody ribs, the whimpers of a dying animal stubbornly locked behind his teeth. What do you owe someone who saves your life, anyway? Life, in return. Theirs. Plus interest. The memory of it, carved right into the bones of his skull.

Ethan looks at her. In this strange place, in this strange house, with her hair no longer red. His not-so-strange Mandy. The line of his mouth kicks upward and he exhales a long, thin stream of smoke, a rising coil that turns the light hazy — deadens it, with ash and embers and tar. ]

Suppose you're right. [ Noncommittal. Careless. The way children rip apart lightning bugs, just to collect their glow in a jar.

Filter between his teeth, he turns to face her. (He'd left in the middle of the night, like animals do. No card. No note. The keys to his truck left in the ignition, his second favorite pair of boots lined up neat by the door. A week still remaining until the full moon. A week before rent was due.) When he takes a step closer, his head fills with her again — oranges and wet summer concrete, cinnamon, ████. The smell of brackish water, stronger with ever swallow of her throat: Unseen Work. ]

Wouldn't do that, if I were you. [ She could hurt him with a Word. He could rupture with a smile. Seconds and sentiment have always made the difference. ] Can always tell when you're thinkin' too hard, Red.

[worded]

[ (The sad, funny, sad-funny thing is that she remembers feeling relief at seeing the truck. A gut instinct in the shape of at least he left us something. The truck, big enough to pack up and move all of their belongings before the month ended, car seat buckled into the cab next to her, because she had enough money for gas and a motel but not enough, not by herself, to stay.)

Oranges and wet summer concrete. Cinnamon and panic grass. Ozone over an estuary. Witch smells and her smells. The faint curl of vanilla, new since the last time he saw her, like a poorly applied salve. A sweet scent for a girl hoping for a sweet life.

As she looks at him — no different, really, from the way she remembers him, so raw that it hurts just to hold his gaze — the line of her mouth changes shape to accommodate the way she bites down on the inner flesh of her cheek. In her head, the Word stutters, because he gives it a color. She'll have to pick those thorns out, first, if she wants it to work, or she'll have to start over. ]

Good thing you're not me, then.

[ A substitute for what are you gonna do about it, like she doesn't already know. (Like he hasn't done this before — like she hasn't had a Word splinter on her because she's been too frightened, too confused. He wouldn't have that silver scar, if her Word had worked. And of course, of course this is the way the Unseen Work reveals itself to her, faulty and fragile. Just as fucked up as her wolf.) Her lip wobbles, which only serves to make her angrier. There's more she could say — that ████ isn't here, that she wants to know where he went when he left, that she can't sense a way out of this place — but all she manages is: ]

Fuck you, Ethan.