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draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-07-06 09:30 am
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ππ ππππππ πππππππ ππ πππ π ππππ β£ JULY TDM
JULY 2024 TDM: LECTISTERNIUM
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 β 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, so all posters can use the title Β« CHARACTER NAME | CANON | NEW CHARACTER/IN GAMEΒ» 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
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 isnβt, stay in bed and wallow β eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe itβs normal for you. Maybe it isnβt.
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
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 β have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Havenβt 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, youβll 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 heβs as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, thereβs no reason why you canβt 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 doesnβt want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they canβt 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 doesnβt dissipate, though β 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, itβs 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. Itβs self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?
CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
Itβs been a balmy, warm summer in Saltburnt, with long, amber-hued nights making the house glow from the outside in. After the last party, things have managed to keep mostly calm and largely unassuming in the intervening weeks, with the focus kept on indoor activities β a scavenger hunt, a sex club, avoiding the outside trauma of cannibalistic cakes for as long as it seems to have taken the family and house staff to settle and, tangentially, forget. However, seemingly overnight a new structure appears on the outside grounds, under block construction fixtures and with loud building going on throughout the following day and night, tirelessly worked on. By the next day, however, the structure gets revealed β a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.
Between the columns and up the stone steps, youβll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods β six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) β as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, thereβs also a thirteenth altar, with a statue depiction of the guest of honor: one John Gaius, who has been ascended to Roman godhood for the party. Offerings have the potential of gifting little boons to those who worship, like increased luck or a small amount of foresight. Feel free to make up your own, as influenced by the gods that you sacrifice to as you like.
Beyond the foyer, the space opens up into a sizable atrium that doubles as a dining hall, full of colorful, cushioned couches made for lounging while you eat. There's an endless supply of food brought in throughout the day, ranging from a traditional three course Mediterranean meal served with honey-sweetened spiced wine, to a more modern adaptation for pickier eaters with fried chicken and Red Bulls, to more adventurous eaters with flamingo tongue and fried doormice. Pistachios are served by the bowlful, fat figs littered on every tabletop, all alongside water flavored with rose petals. Also among the feast are several artistically decorated cakes, each featuring the name of any guest with a birthday in June or July. In addition to the meal, guests are encouraged to lay out plates in honor of dead loved ones, a more time honored tradition of Roman history, although here it has the benefit of being complimented by actual roaming skeletons (courtesy of John) who give animated attempts at play eating the food left for them.
Further into the temple, there is an overlarge, public bathing room for guests to enjoy, the bath carved into rock while the ceiling stays open air, for a visual on clear blue skies or a starry sewn tapestry. Modern heating has been applied to the water to make it steam and bubble, effectively creating a giant hot tub for patrons to slip into, in whatever state of undress they're comfortable with, though nude is greatly appreciated. When in Rome, as they say. Along the back wall is a more intimate stage for small parties, bedecked in a range of instruments and a karaoke machine, for a talent show, or just entertaining a few guests. Velveteen cushions sit in a circle facing each other, for Socratic circle style speech and debates, with a random grab bag of topics to choose from, that range from who is the best NSYNC member? to what is the meaning of life, really?
There is a second story to the structure, although there are no rooms. It's a roofless veranda that looks out on the backyard of the temple, wherein a concave dirt patch has been baking in the sun, for gladiatorial fights and the people observing them.
VENI, VIDI, VICI.
CONTENT WARNINGS: violence, body horror, gore, animal attacks (specifically wolf), potential body transformations.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
You may have noticed in this particular party, a special leniency when it comes to costumes. Where usually semi-strict dresscodes are enforced, tonight it's more of a free for all for good reason: everyone dressed in a Roman inspired outfit (very loose is A-OK) will be seen as Roman royalty, while everyone not adhered to theme will be the royalty's slaves, servants, and workers. It's all for fun and more BDSM in practice than anything serious, but party poopers are expected to tend to their much more fun counterparts, especially once the gladiatorial fights commence. In addition, John, Furiosa, Hawk, Embry, Zoro, Matt, Nami, Chione, Hao, Koby, Alina, Tim, Alia, and Louis for their dedication to Otherworld have been gifted a single metal tag with their individual names on them, to give to collared friends of their choice for claiming purposes.
In any case, collared and claimed and laymen people are offered huge palm leaves for fanning, or grapes and pistachios and figs to hand serve their betters. Below, the gladiator fights take place all day β a somewhat humble dug out arena that's been lined with soft sand, accented in the back by an enclosed stone structure, no bigger than a single horse stall, where occasionally one can hear huffing and grunting coming from a too high to reach barred window. Anyone can take on a challenge, personal or for fun, and engage in a sparring match. The rules are simple: best of three rounds that end in a submissive pin or tapping out, wherein the loser loses their clothes after each fight. First go their clothes, then go their underwear. Fighting in the nude is an age honored tradition, of course, and we love our history.
That said, the stone building is a somewhat foreboding sight to anyone observing. As time goes on the structure begins to rattle, and as the sun starts to set, the integrity of the building becomes more and more questionable. By the time the last fight is over, a final challenge is announced to the public β a creature of great mythos, versus the entirety of the estate. From the rattling building, a 7ft Wolfman is guided out with gold, rattling chains wrapped around his impressive neck and wrists. Many onlookers applaud the spectacle, wrongly presuming it to be a play act for the party. However, the chains inevitably snap from those holding them, and the Wolfman gets set loose throughout the estate, running with supernatural speed on all fours throughout the temple and beyond.
Scared? Maybe you should be. The Wolfman is hungry, and indiscriminate with who he eats. It seems the only thing dissuading his appetite from certain people is the metal name tag some were given, like dogs recognizing their separate masters. Still, people will get attacked. A scratch or bite from the Wolfman will result in a similar transformation taking place, a necessary hunger set in your bones where vice and sin seem to infect you, become as necessary to you as breathing or sleeping. Indulge, and become more and more of a beast β abstain from all immoral acts, all wickedness for nine days, and the infection will cure itself.
If you find that too difficult, there is one other solution. Only 23 separate cuts will kill the Wolfman, who divides himself in odd ways with every penetration β less like he's being stabbed and more like he's being carved with every inflicted wound, the two halves of himself sliced apart. The 23rd and last attack completely separates the wolf from the man. It leaves a desiccated human corpse in its wake, and a full blooded wolf scampering off into the dark depths of Saltburnt proper, lost in its many rooms.
It'll probably be fine! Despite that hiccup, the Pantheon stays up for the month to encourage an ongoing celebration, the party inside ranging from feral, half-made Wolfpeople frenzy to a fragile relaxation depending on the state of the Wolfman. Thank you as always for bewaring the ides.
DIRECTORY
vini, vidi, vici
Unfortunately, he's never been much good at following rules or regulations, even in the best frames of mind.
His arm reaches out to steady Francesca, and his expression is one of thundering discomfort, even as he tugs her aside and out of sight of others. Perhaps she was lucky, this evening, that it was Erik she had stumbled into and not someone more inclined to take advantage of the situation. ]
Don't call me that.
[ A gruff, irritated sound. ]
Just - stand there. Is this really how you wanted to spend your evening?
no subject
It is the role I have been given. [Less of an answer on how she feels, what she wants, but Francesca has always been good at doing what she needs to get out of a situation. So if she needs to stand around and feed him grapes to pass the time until she can freed from this party, it is far better than all the attentions given as the Diamond. At least here no one knows who she is.]
no subject
[ Erik almost rolls his eyes. Almost. He manages to keep himself in check, but the frustration remains obvious - he dislikes all of this, and the urge to attempt to escape sits on his shoulders all over again, enough that it bites at him. The implication that she has no choice is what sours him the most, and he shakes his head. ]
You could just leave. No one is forcing you to play this game.
no subject
Francesca isnβt like Eloise, questioning the nature of a society. If this is the rules of the party, and she has been invited, it is not as if she is avoidant of it all. Would she rather be playing piano? Yes, but she would rather be doing that than likely anything else in general.]
I am new. I wished to see the party.
[Fingers awkwardly pluck at the bark of the palm though. Is he releasing her? Are there ramifications for such a thing? She tries to not fidget, but sheβs also never been in such a position before. And she hasnβt moved despite it.]
no subject
And is the price you're paying worth it?
[ The servitude, the costume, all of it. Erik doesn't intend to make any demands of her, but he's not exactly good company, either. ]
You can stay here, if you want. To watch the party. I won't do anything to you.
no subject
She would likely stand out in such scenery if it weren't for the fact she's attempting to blending in with the large palm. Her eyes meet his when he says he wouldn't do anything to her, not that she was expecting him to, but then she lives in a very privileged world (in some alternate historical universe where the West Indies trade did not exist).]
And you needn't have me do anything? [Because otherwise she is just going to follow him around, still attempting to stay at the outskirts of the party, but just interested enough.]
no subject
[ There's no denying that she's pretty, in a way that Erik can at least appreciate despite his misgivings about the situation, but he is not the kind of man to take advantage over another like this. A master manipulator he may be, there are limits - lines that he will not cross, not just because of the kind of man that he is but because of his own experiences. He cannot fathom it.
So, if she would like some kind of safe haven, somewhere to hide herself so that no one else takes advantage of her... Well, Erik can do that. It wouldn't be the first time he had taken care of someone, it wouldn't be the first time he had stood in the way of something for what he thought was right.
Glancing down at her, he blinks, then glances away. ]
My name is Erik.
no subject
Francesca Bridgerton. [It is a habit to dip her head and curtsy, even if the petticoat she's wearing is entirely too thin to be considered a gown. None know her name here, her rank and status in society, but in some way that is quite freeing. There is also not seven others holding the same name, running about.
Perhaps she will not hate this place entirely. She had wished to get away, to be married without a love match, but something more sensible.]
no subject
Erik doesn't bow back to her. Unfortunately, the 1960s has far less decorum than the 1800s.
Shifting a little, he leans back against the wall behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. Distracted as he is, he doesn't think twice as he flexes his fingers - and a glass of some kind of drink floats over, the coaster under it metallic enough for him to summon it. ]
What are you thoughts on this place so far?
no subject
There are certainly wonders she has seen while she has been here, but to be so close to one, her eyes go wide. Is he some sort of magician? This entire place seems to be existing off of something of the same vein, though she doesn't have the words for it, just her brain attempting to fill in what she does not understand.]
I-- I thought it a dream at first. [Talking of her thoughts is easier. It is not feelings nor the things she is meant to reply us, just truly what she thinks.]
But it cannot be that, because I am not capable of coming up with such ideas. [The sheer depravity, the openness of it, her eyes drift back as she shakes her head.]
It feels too real. But then what is the point? The pure... gaudiness?
[Not unheard of. Even if she is from wealth that is near the same, an estate in the countryside not too far off from this, but Aubrey Hall would never be party to this. No Bridgerton would ever allow it. It is hard to imagine the reason, and it makes lips curl.
Why would she be here? Anthony or Benedict would do well. Perhaps even Colin with all his travels, but the women of her family have not been exposed to the same level, and it is an overwhelming wonder to look upon.]
I-- I am both from a place like this and not at the the same time.
no subject
[ Erik turns back to look at the rest of the party, his expression tense. It's the kind of thing that Shaw would've enjoyed, he thinks, decadence for the sake of it, indulgence simply because he could, and something that rattles at Erik and his nerves. He's never been the kind of person to partake in any kind of event such as this one; perhaps it is an echo of his own sorry past or his own discomfort around people, but either way, he is not happy.
He is on edge, like a wild animal, primed to offer up some collateral damage.
It's hard not to notice the way he shifts a little closer to her, as if to protect her from the eyes of the crowd, given the role she's found herself in. Erik wouldn't call himself naturally protective, but there's always been a part of him that is determined to take care of and protect the underdog, those who could not protect themselves necessarily.
He'd been there. ]
They want to show off, and enjoy the fruits of their labour, whatever it means for them. It doesn't matter to them who gets hurt along the way.
no subject
The younger woman isn't expecting it to be pleasant. Despite how tawdry it all is, it seems as if the undertone of it all is still dark, like waiting for it unfurl into something far more sinister. Francesca has never been around anything of the sort, kept away from even the seediest of what her own society offers, the worst of it is women that walk the streets. This is the first time she herself has not had a chaperone.]
And the depravity? It is meant to be alluring then?
[It probably seems as innocent and naive as she asks it, but she cannot help it. She is unaccustomed to it.
It seems like a trap, and yet, she feels perhaps much like a moth to the flame here.]
no subject
[ The darker, baser desires that are wrapped up in humanity; Erik is familiar with it. He's had his fair share of romantic encounters, one might say, but they've been a means to an end more than anything else, and none of them had crossed into this territory. Let people enjoy what they wish to enjoy, but don't force people who aren't interested to take part.
Glancing down, he watches Francesca for a moment before he shakes his head. ]
Sexual pleasure can be entwined with a lot of other things. Some people like to be hurt, or humiliated, and some people like romance, to be wooed. It's the nature of humanity.
[ Looking back over at the people milling around, his lips twitch. ]
It seems this group leans more towards the former.
no subject
He speaks with such certainty. She cannot help but stare back at him when he says 'sexual pleasure' as if it is a term she truly is learning for the first time. It explains it though, those lost in ecstasy. The brunette doesn't mean to stare, but hearing both ends of the spectrum put like that does make her think.]
Not everyone wishes for romance. [Of that much she can relate. She might not understand the pain or humiliation, but then again she did not entirely balk when they told her she was meant to serve.
It may seem strange for a young girl like her to proclaim it. But she has no lofty goals for it. As far as sex it's not as if she even knows anything more than the two sentences he's told her. She is a quick learn though, putting it together as they go.]
no subject
Now that he's achieved that, he's not sure what he is going to do with himself, other than do what he can to protect other mutants by any means.
His eyes drag across the room, drinking it in, the 'royals' and the 'servants', and he frowns. It would be easy to lose himself in this, to sink into the mindless pleasure of want and desire, but he's still too focussed on wanting to leave and escape. That's where his attention remains, even with the growing heat in the room. ]
No, it's not for everyone. You don't need to be in love to have sex, do you?
[ A twitch of his eyebrow. ]
For most people, it's the opposite. Love complicates it.
no subject
She just wishes for sensibility. And here, Erik is perhaps being the most sensible even if he isn't engaging. Perhaps it isn't a bad thing, if they are meaning to hurt and humiliate them.]
And the only two options then are hurting and humiliation at their hands or romance? Indulging is somehow playing into what this place wishes for. [If she is connecting the dots correctly.]
no subject
She's not even a mutant, as far as he's aware.
Shaking his head, he lets his eyes drag back to her, careful. ]
No, there are more options. You can indulge, if you want, but there are no promises on how respectful they might be.
[ Implying that he would be far more respectful than any of these strangers. ]
no subject
But he says they may not be respectful, and she's imagining there is truly a spectrum here then, and her chances of finding something in the middle is more limited. And how is she to go about explaining her situation to a stranger. Does it matter she would be so green about it all? Her eyes look back out, eyes settling on two men. Perhaps that is more shocking to her as well, but some part it isn't-- it is more how they they engage.
No, she shouldn't judge, but there is no guarantee of anything when she knows so few people here. Her curiosities may get the better of her, but he is right.]
I do not know what to expect, [She admits aloud, her eyes finally go up to meet his.]
Women of my place, we are not given such freedoms. If anyone from the ton was here, if they knew...
[Disgraced is an understatement.]
no subject
It makes a little more sense now.
It's hard not to judge other people who are engaging in things that are new to you, and he recognises why she might be both overwhelmed and curious. The 'Ton' means very little to him, having grown up in Germany and in less than good conditions, but he can put the pieces together. Sheltered, uneducated on this, and unsure of her footing.
That's understandable, at least. ]
They're not here to know, are they?
[ Erik raises his eyebrows, leaning closer. ]
If there's something you want to do, you ought to do it. No one here will care, it seems, so the opportunity is a good one.
no subject
And here it is. As he means it, and she smiles again, perhaps more playful as she tries to comprehend the βthingβ in something that she could want.]
And if I should just⦠want? Without knowing what the something I desire is?
[All of it seems overwhelming on a spectrum heβs clearly showed her. But she knows that the heat of her skin, that the press of her thighs is new enough to tell her that the desire is at least physical in nature.
Perhaps she should watch them out there longer.]
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Apparently, she has found herself under that banner. Troublesome indeed.
She leans up to look at him, and he gazes back down at her, only an edge of hesitation on his face. It's clear she wants something, and if she's bold enough to admit it... She's earned it. ]
You should ask. There'll be someone who can educate you.
[ Perhaps that someone is him. Perhaps not. It depends on her desire, doesn't it? ]
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It is not something she has asked for or even knows the words for what she is asking, but she's here, and technically she has been given to him. He's made his case that going out into the fray of it all wouldn't be the wisest, so she's left here with her heart pumping and a desire calling to her.]
Would you? Show me? [Is it an instruction? Does she knows what she is asking? She knows the feeling, something that is hooked into her now as she's looking up at him, hopeful if anything.]
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Erikβs eyes flicker over her, drinking her in, even as his body shifts in angle - to block her from the rest of the world, perhaps, given the way their conversation has gone. His eyes search her face for a moment, almost as if heβs considering the merits of her request; itβs just sex, after all. She might not even want it all, which heβs more than fine with. Thereβs something fun in the novelty of learning.
One of his hands lifts, touching the shape of her cheekbone gently. Sheβs asking, and heβs curious. Sheβs consenting as well, which given her costume is something of a relief. If he thought for a moment that she was being forced into this then heβd have abandoned her immediately.
His expression remains carefully neutral all the same. ]
Is that what you want? [ Heβd like to hear it. ] You can see what the people out there are doing. What do you want to experience this evening?
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Like perhaps she has been waiting this long for such a thing to happen. She might not understand this place, feel out of place and like she is overwhelmed for it, but she also is excited suddenly at the prospect for more. And she is not asking him solely because she technically was given to him either. She knows how he feels on the subject, but it is more of a lending of where this conversation has gone.]
Yes. I would like you to show me. [She spells it out, hands going in front of her, propping straight out for a moment before he asks her what she wants to experience as if she once again has the vocabulary to express that.]
I do not know. It is all new to me. No one told me what any of this was, what it feels to be so flushed at the thought of another person, always deemed improper topics of conversation to be had around young ladies. Even discussing such a thing could call a lady's honor into question.
[And no one would do so to a Bridgerton daughter unless there was truly proof of it besides gossip.]
But I find the lack of such propriety freeing. [And she is encased by him now, so she cannot look out onto the others to watch what else they do to try and describe it all.]
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She reminds him of someone, and he doesnβt dare put a name to that particular emotion.
Instead, he focuses on the woman in front of him, learning her wants for the first time. Itβs both endearing and heady, and as she tilts into the touch of his hand he feels a small, pleased smirk settle on his face. Erik canβt claim to be a good man by many measures of the word, but he can at least claim to be a decent on in these matters.
He leans closer, close enough to touch. ]
You can ask me the questions. Iβll answer them. Any new desires you have? I can teach you.
[ His thumb brushes over her lower lip. His attitude to the party is still sour, a tsunami of irritation in his mind, but her curiosity has softened him a little. ]
Why donβt you start with a kiss?
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