𝐍𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 ▣ JULY TDM

[saltburnmods]

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 — 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 « CHARACTER NAME | CANON | 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

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."

WHICH WAY TO THE BACCHANAL?

CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.

It’s 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 — 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 — a Pantheon, and quite a sizable one (see: no, not terribly historically accurate) from the outside.

Between the columns and up the stone steps, you’ll find an entryway dedicated to worship on a grouping of twelve Roman gods — six male (Jupiter, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Vulcan and Mercury) and their six female counterparts (Juno, Minerva, Venus, Diana, Vesta, and Ceres) — as depicted by several busts with small, holy fires lit before them for offerings. Notably, there’s 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

[metalkinetic]

You were important enough for our captors to bring you here.

[ Erik can only assume that there's a reason they were chosen, why they were brought here, because he was brought here - a cocky arrogance that hides the discomfort and edge he feels when he looks too hard at himself. There's enough self-hatred and loathing to fill a thousand and one of these mansions buried in the depths of his mind, but he puts on the front as sharp and dangerous as the metal he controls. He doesn't intend to let anyone else take advantage of him, never again.

Alina rises, body shifting, and Erik watches her, letting his eyes trail along her body, shameless with it. She's the one moving in front of him, aware of her own nakedness, so he's not exactly going to lend himself to bother or hiding his appreciation for a handsome body. She is beautiful, her breasts look like a lovely handful, and his eyes are dark still when he looks at her. He's in a bath with a lovely woman: hard not to be - well.

The obvious.

Leaning back, lounging, almost as if he doesn't care about whatever she has to saw, almost as if nothing about her is important enough to matter, he lifts an arm and shrugs a shoulder absently. ]

I listen when what's being said is important. [ He'll listen to certain people. There are only one hand worth of fingers of people that might hold the leash to this particular collar, and even then Erik would rebel, vicious and angry. ] Or it's useful to me.

[peasant]

( people make mistakes, she could say, an ancient echo of that girl aleksander had dragged from the mud, polished until she was shining. it hadn't been a mistake, then, no matter how she had sunk claws into the last vestiges of a normal life until the illusion teared. she doubts it's a mistake now, in this new cage, every part of it as gilded and indulgent as the little palace, even if she has little idea of what collar they mean to place on her.

so — she swallows down the lie, under the distinct impression he would be able to scent a drop of her uncertainty, anyway, like a shark following a trail of blood in the water. there's a coy twist of her mouth, in its place, sharing some secret joke with herself when she drawls: )

Oh. Like typical royalty, then. You're already halfway there.

( it's not as cutting as her tongue could be. there's something to be said that there's a mercifulness to her biting, like she's enjoying it even as she's tempted to bristle — a back-and-forth that results in nothing more than kittens exchanging swatting paws. perhaps she would be bothered more, if his interest was more easily hidden, glinting in her periphery like treasure hidden in a shipwreck — a swollen tell that belies his arrogant nonchalance.

if nothing else, that's its own sort of power. one that seems safer to explore, than testing the tight, faltering leash she has on her abilities, the urges they inspire. )

That isn't entirely what I mean, ( she corrects after a moment, drifting toward the corner's edge. it provides the leverage she needs to arch her foot beneath the bubbles, prodding it indolently into his ankle. guilelessly playful, somehow, even as something charged thickens the air, an electric anticipation of a thundersome. )

I meant you don't look suited to sharing authority with anyone. Why should I rise to the top, if there's nothing worth having there? Or have you forgotten that a person can be just as alone at the top as they are the bottom?

( case in point: sankta alina, in the flesh, somehow elevated and reduced to a lonely pawn all at once. )

[metalkinetic]

My people have rarely been considered 'royal'.

[ Does he mean being Jewish or being a mutant? Either way, he gets very little in the way of respect from the masses, even now. Years might have passed since the 1940s, he might be far older than the boy who had been ripped from his home, but he has seen the worst of humanity. He had been victim to the worst of humanity. It's no wonder, then, that he doesn't want to be under the heel of them again, clinging and thriving to the idea of being a superior mutation of people.

Though he might act with the pride and power of a man born royal, Erik is nothing of the sort. Common as muck, some might think, less than human in the eyes of some and worth less than the food he needed to survive. His mind is a myriad of anger and irritation, so he shoves it all away, compartmentalising it as he focuses on the here and now. The last thing he needs is a wayward telepath coming to butt his head in.

A poke to his skin is distraction enough, and he watches her, the way the water glides over her body, and lets that emotion lead rather than his rage. ]

It's better to be alone at the top than with thousands at the bottom.

[ The way he speaks - that's first-hand experience. It rings with a truth of knowledge, and he shakes his head as he turns his attention back to her face properly, to look at her. Whatever she might think of him, it's clear that he means what he says. There's a brutal, painful honesty in his words. ]

And I won't be entirely alone. I intend to bring my brothers and sisters with me, to take their rightful place.

[peasant]

( the impish spark in her eyes dims and extinguishes, suddenly, a candlelight blown out. there's something ominous and prophetic in his words — to take their rightful place — that pings at her animal hindbrain, horsekicks her heart into an alarmed gallop — but it's a warning sign easily swept away, buried underneath the pained wave of his honesty. whatever lines had creased her face with mischief, they soften, now, rounded out by alina's unspoken understanding. )

Maybe.

( she relents, a concession, lips twisted together into a pensive pout. maybe he won't be alone. maybe it is better to be protected by power than stamped into the dirt like an ant hill. distantly, she thinks of grisha languishing in cages, conscripted to death or chains or service — of how lantsov kings and the darkling have used them all as fodder for their own means, turned them into the monsters in fairytales. thinks, too, that there might come a day where her feats in the fold could ever seen grisha exalted, accepted, free — forgiven for the crime of existing, for what aleksander has made them appear to be. )

But sometimes you can be surrounded by others like you, and still feel — ( she pauses, hunts for the word. ) Different from the rest.

( singular. unique. held at a distance, like watching the world from a throne above it all. her toes twitch where they slide back in the water, tentatively. it seems the right move to make, all things considered. with a shake of her head, she tucks a stray damp tendril of hair behind her ear, momentarily skirting her gaze away. )

Sorry. ( her lips twist, the faint glimmer of a rueful look. how does one civilly say sorry, i feel like a donkey's ass now. ) I didn't mean to touch on bad memories.

[metalkinetic]

I thought I was different. I thought I was -

[ He stops himself.

I thought I was alone.

You’re not alone, Erik. You’re not alone.

Learning to use serenity, peace and happiness to fuel his mutation had been a mammoth task, but there are some things that Erik cannot forget. He had been in an ocean of grief - quite literally - when arms had wrapped around him and pulled him out of it, the same hands attached to a mind that had found the softest spark of that and love that existed inside of him. He’d forgotten how to be happy until Charles had snuck inside and found it, and now…

And now.

Lifting his head back over to his guest, he flexes his fingers, dragging himself out of morose thoughts and into something a little easier, a little more comfortable. As if armouring himself, despite his nakedness. ]

I don’t want your apologies. [ He won’t say it’s fine, because it isn’t, but he’s the master of his own mental state (sometimes) and he can control his. He can bury this. Dark eyes flick back to her, and he shoves all the rest away.

It’s not important. It can’t be. ]

I’m sure there are other things you’d rather be talking about.

[peasant]

( with immediacy: ) You have them, whether you want them or not.

( for all it's sympathy, it's a sharply spoken contradiction — like a knife to a soft throat, leaving no wriggle room for an argument. she can't help if it edges toward defensive, either, in her refusal to let this man discard her mercy like it's empty, hollow wind in his ears. unflinching, her dark eyes target his, as though she might sear the sentiment into him. a doubtlessly impossible task — he seems as immovable as any steel, but what good is metal, under the melting point of the sun?

impressing the point, she flicks a childish hand droplet from her finger, harmlessly splashing him in the shoulder. )

I'm not a great conversationalist, obviously. I'm sure you've realized that already.

( tinged with self-deprecation or not, it's the truth of the matter — look at the evidence around them. her nose crinkles, rabbit-like, though she does him the kindness of neither offering an apology or chasing the tail of his aborted confession. as if in invitation to anchor themselves back to — something, in this drifting conversation, she lifts a dripping hand from the water. extends it, as the beads of water pearl down her wrist, waiting to see whether it's accepted. whether he'll listen to the quiet request.

curiously, ) What would you rather be talking about?

[metalkinetic]

[ The problem is that apologies mean very little to Erik. They always seem to ring hollow in his ears, even when they’re meant with some level of sincerity. I’m sorry, for what happened in the camps. I truly am.

I’m sorry, my friend. But we do not.

They mean little to someone who’s had little reason to apologise in his life, even if fresh guilt gnaws at him and makes him unsure, but now - but now he breathes and looks at her, and he shakes his head. If it’ll get her to relax about it, to have some of that awkward, irritating tension bleed away, then - ]

Fine.

[ Sinking a little deeper into the water, Erik focuses on relaxation, on allowing himself to feel his own tense anger fade into nothingness. He can’t help the urge to summon metal and let it flex between his fingers, the molten mishmash of coins he’d found dancing around his fingers as he lets his attention focus back on Akina. Isn’t it nicer, to look at a pretty woman than think of harsh memories?

Unfortunately, Erik isn’t a marvellous conversationalist either. Not with strangers, not with people he doesn’t know, or those who don’t hold a scrap of his trust. The metal melts a little until he tightens it, shaping it idly in to a bullet, a circle, an X. ]

Why don’t you tell me something interesting you’ve learned here?

[peasant]

( she very nearly laughs. fine. it strikes her as endearing, frustratingly petulant of a man so regal, but — well, the lantsov dynasty is testament enough that a throne isn't a curative for temper tantrums. her lips press together, smothering the flinching line of her lips, before they have the chance to flourish into an ill-advised smile. )

Well —

( hesitation stumbles her into a small, pensive pause. he hadn't been far from striking his mark, in accusing her of being eager not to disappoint; some girlish piece of her wants to hunt for an impressive answer, an attentive pupil itching for his favor, for pride to alight his eyes.

she never gets the chance. the whir of metal spun between his malleable fingers — the talented hands of an elegant sculptor, of an efficient tailor stitching masterpieces with their eyes closed — has her fingers encircling his wrist, tugging his hand closer, like she might be able to read some answer in the line of his palms.

even bath-warmed, her skin seems to lean unnaturally balmy, a touch of something summery when her fingertips slide over the sturdy line of his forearm, raptly inquisitive. )

You're Grisha?

( there's no hitch of fear in her voice, only lowly spoken surprise as the question comes, ensuring a secret stays hidden in the dark. pointlessly so, maybe; erik seems to have little qualms in revealing his sleight of hand, brazenly open, when alina has worked so tirelessly to cultivate a mask of someone unassuming, ordinary, in this place. )

[metalkinetic]

[ Erik remains frustrating and petulant and all of the above - anyone who has spent more than a few hours in his company would likely complain about his stubborn nature, as immovable as the metal he commands. He’s like steel, dark and dangerous but able to be beautiful and warm in the right light… It just takes a lot of light.

But then there’s a hand on his wrist, and he’s tensing, primed for a fight.

A smart man, Erik hears the word - grisha. He speaks Russian, he’s from Europe, and it baffles him for a moment. Grisha is a name, not a status of being like she seems to imply, and even with his wrist caught in her fingers the metal keeps moving. Erik flexes it, shapes it, maybe shows off a little, now that he’s caught some attention. He doesn’t know what the word means, but he recognises the implication.

Someone different, with powers, with a gift, with some kind of strength. He is all of those things and more.

Letting her fingers do as she likes, his eyes rise to her face, steely grey as he watches her reaction. The pride he has is obvious, fit to burst from under the surface: mutant and proud is an ironic statement these days, but he still feels it in his heart. It’s one of the few things he remains proud of, considering the actions of a lifetime. ]

Mutant. Not Grisha.

[ Whatever she intends that to mean. ]

Metal, and magnetism.

[peasant]

( her mouth curdles for a moment, lemon-sour, like biting into something sharp and debating whether she can tolerate the taste of it. it's hardly a passing judgement on his abilities, so much as her discomfort with the word he's chosen to wear like a crown. )

'Mutant.' Isn't that a bit rude to call someone? Not so sure I like the implications of the word.

( because mutant is one shade away from every insulting brushstroke she's been painted with. because mutant sounds like half-breed, sounds like mutt, sounds like monster, sounds like you aren't like us. she can't imagine wearing the title and not having it feel like a tight noose around her throat — but there's a pride to erik's stance, as though it's a throne, a jewel, to be known as such.

she understands it, she thinks — armoring yourself with what you are, in a world that rejects it. almost childlike in its explorative wonder, alina presses delicate fingers to the weathered lines in his strong palm, bends one of his fingers back and forth. not grisha. that much seems alarmingly, bafflingly obvious, when nothing she does interrupts the flow of his summoning. no, not summoning, she mentally corrects — his magnetism. )

I'm —

( she hesitates, a stunted pause. bringing herself to confess it feels like spitting out teeth, an apprehensive caginess that submits to the lurking fear festering in her chest. he's the first among them she's found to be like her, like calls to like, and while allies are in short supply — it feels dangerous, dragging her secret to light.

her throat bobs, cinching, when she swallows. narrows the focal point of her gaze, tunnel visioned, onto expression, when she forces herself to take such a hasty, haphazard leap. says, while her stomach twists inside out like she's free-falling: ) Grisha. Not a mutant.

[metalkinetic]

[ Erik has been called many things in his time. Poor, pathetic, Juden, untermenschen - less than human. He’s been called a monster and worn that as a mantle, a crown, a shield, a creation of another person, some Frankenstein novel creature come to life. He was born under the hand of twisted experimentation and the death of his kin, so ‘mutant’ seems almost like a kindness.

His expression twists a little as he watches her. ]

Mutant is better than whatever else the humans might call us. Mutation is the next stage in human evolution - our genes themselves are stronger, better. Why not claim the title?

[ Perhaps, in her world, ‘Grisha’ is a better term. It’s meaningless to Erik, who has the so-called science to back up his thinking, his pride, his arrogance. So many years of being lesser, of being broken, beaten, called worthless and nothing, just another faceless number: of course he wants to be more. Of course he clings to the possibility of better.

He’s seen what happens to people when the world decides they’re not worth keeping around. When fear becomes the mouthpiece of the masses.

Leaning forward a little, he brings the metal close to him, letting it move between their bodies. It strokes along her skin, then, warm from the touch of his power, his mutation, even if she loathes the name. It’s the mantle Erik has chosen to die on, and he’s give his life for his kin if needed. ]

I showed you mine. Why don’t you show me yours?

[ An echo of an older conversation, but this time no body at his side, warming his arm with a jovial smile. ]

[peasant]

( stronger, better. he doesn't have to draw a boundary in the sand for alina to take stock of that separation between us and them, ascending himself above humanity like the winding steps to a dais. for all of the differences between themselves — mutants as the next rung on the ladder of creation, against grisha that are as ancient as the beating heart of nature itself — she can hear the echoes of her own world in erik's retelling of his. the downtrodden, the outcasts, the fearful envy from the giftless. otkazat'sya that watch grisha with open scorn, like birds that can't stand to see another take flight, when their own wings have been clipped.

a shudder trembles down her spine. something in erik's reply reminds her of stoking an ember, a dangerous flame of an idea. or — maybe it's just the brush of metal along her skin like a heated kiss that's to blame for the jumpiness in her bones, the way her stomach goes topsy-turvy in response. distracted from the anxious gnawing at the back of her head, she chimes out a laugh, a little squirmy.

this time, when her nose crinkles, it's to murmur, bubbly: ) Tickles.

( it's a strange contradiction, the soft control he has over its manipulation. alina isn't dense to the possibility that he could do her harm, if he wanted — the way she's acutely aware of her own power's potential for devastation when she shifts closer, splashing up water.

there's a point to it, keeping her back to their audience, like closing the curtain on a private show. it's a secret shared, not a spectacle for wondering eyes. sunlight shimmers to her fingertips in a buttery-glow as she traces them along the lines of his palm — a careful touch that feels more like lazing in a sunbeam than the scorching burn it could become. in increments, it intensifies, until the veins in her skin seem to flicker pure-white like a thousand buzzing fireflies beneath the skin.

between them, the metal slowly liquifies, melts scaldingly down the soft skin of her abdomen. she sucks in a breath against the burning sting, the hot-wax sting of it soothed only minutely by warm bathwater, and lets the light fade and ebb into nothingness.

in the aftermath, she waits, bright-eyed and silent. expectant, nervous, someone used to a limited spectrum of reactions — and unsure which she fears most: the blind reverence, or the barely-contained wariness? )

[metalkinetic]

[ Erik has not yet reached a level of desire to kill all of humanity - that’s not what he wants. He’s seen what that kind of thinking does, how extreme it can become, and that’s not where his heart lies. What he knows is this: there will not be peace until mutants are accepted, protected, even separate from the rest of the world. He’s seen how easily humanity turns on this they don’t understand or know, and it means he’s filled with a bitterness that he can’t escape.

Irritation does little to ground him, to make him relax. There’s no peace in him. Not right now.

The metal keeps coiling and touching as she shifts, and his eyes are alight as he watches her come to life.

Once Erik had found out he wasn’t alone, wasn’t some kind of freakish monster, he’d grown an awe and fascination with mutation and the power that comes with it. It didn’t matter to him whether or not a mutation had a particular strength, focus, grit to it - all of them were worth protecting, as all of them would be killed under a human hand. Even in the weaker kinds of people there were some less suited to the kind of war he anticipated.

Watching Alina work, his eyes grow dark, his interest obvious. She has power and strength, but it’s the beauty of mutation - of being a ‘Grisha’ - that gives him the most relief. There’s something to be said for knowing he’s not entire alone in himself, that there’s others here, despite the horror of captivity grinding on him once again.

His lips settle into a smile more pleased than smirkish, and he nods his head. ]

Marvellous. [ No blind adoration or worship here. Erik has met strong mutants before, so he is not awed by her. He is one of them. ] You should be proud of your power, no matter what you call it.

[peasant]

( he looks better this way, she thinks, with his burnished smile, the polish of it radiating greater sincerity. a shy pride peeks past her parted mouth as her fingers flitter away, dousing themselves back into the bathwater, as if extinguishing the lingering smoke of a candle, despite every atom in her body vibrating with the need to reignite.

it's to be expected — that roil of disgruntled power, unsettled by being set aside like an insect battering itself against the glass walls of a jar for so long, waiting for her to poke holes in the glass so it can breathe. beneath the bubbling surface, alina's fingers furl inward, screwing the lid tighter on her summoning, until it sighs and settles inside of her. )

I am proud. ( a truth, a lie, all tangled up in a complex knot. it leaves her mouth little forcefully — like slamming a door, when she had only meant to slip it closed — for it not to be a sore bruise, defensive over her marriage to power. ) But I'm not stupid. I don't want to give them any reason to think I'm useful.

( she frowns, the corners of her mouth wilting. the truth of the matter is — they might already know. no one sets out to abduct sankta alina without the expectation that they can bleed her dry, dangle her on strings like a puppet queen, a pet grisha. a shake of her head swirls the dark strands of hair around her shoulders, dripping down into the water like inky pools. that isn't the point. the point is — )

You're not different here. ( or, more truthfully: it had been her own effort to bridge a chasm between herself and the rest of the balfours' guests, navigating her way out of her own loneliness, her strange existence as a singular creature. isolated, in her rarity. ) I thought you should know.

[metalkinetic]

[ Erik isn't certain he's confident in her admission of pride - there's something there, under the surface, that reminds him of Raven and her own growing certainty. She had claimed mutant pride without being completely confident in herself, and he can see that echo in Alina here, too. A bubbling of something that could grow into something much stronger, and he wants to foster it.

It's an instinct, now, because of his own growth into his mutation, his own pride. He'd been at the mercy of weak, pathetic humans, and he refuses to accept their determination to crush him under their heel. Never again; he meant those words.

Reaching out, the movements too easy for a man who had used his mind and body to get people on his side in the past, he pushes some water off her face, where it was sticking to her skin. ]

Good. [ A confidence, a certainty, because he is proud himself. He's so proud, to the point of stubborn, dangerous righteousness.

Erik is a monster. He is deadly, and dangerous, and can rip the world asunder if he focuses enough. Right now, however, he is trying to draw out pride and confidence, trying to see if her words are true - to see if she can believe in herself the way she seems to imagine. There's a kindness in that, even if it might be selfish in the end, not wanting to be alone and different.

He's been there. He's suffered. There's no denying it. ]

Among peers, then. [ He leans back, lounging, decadent. ] I've been learning. There must be a reason we were chosen.

[peasant]

( a breath momentarily seizes in her lungs. tiny, beaded droplets at the ends of her eyelashes scatter, on a flurried blink. there's something statue-still to the pause her body takes, seasoned fight-or-flight instincts at the ready. it's over much too soon for her to know what she might have done — if the warmth of his touch might have humiliated her into fumbling for more, if she might've welcomed it elsewhere. judging by the little pinprick of disappointment that stabs through her, she thinks she has her answer.

her mouth ticks upward into a delayed smile. when she dunks herself beneath the water and resurfaces, she's more confident she's rinsed the flustered shock from her face, where a pink flush has started to lather itself into her skin. then again, she's not sure she looks less ridiculous brushing the sopping, sticking curtain of her hair from plastering itself to her face. )

Not everyone here is — ( she pauses, lowers her voice into a more intimate hush, with a less than subtle glance over her shoulder. unsurprisingly, no one seems as interested in their conversation as they are in their fellow guests. hastily, she looks away, as if she's stumbled into someone's private moment, rather than being made to witness it. clearing her throat awkwardly, she mutters, ) — like us, if that's what you're thinking. You're the first person I've met here that's like me.

[metalkinetic]

[ Erik is painfully aware of the impact that he has on others when he chooses it, a charisma that he can't do anything except lean into - because it means he gets what he wants, and sometimes he doesn't have to resort to violence. His anger does get the better of him more often than not, but considering the kind of person he was chasing after and the people he was killing... He doesn't think that he can be blamed entirely.

The blood on his hands is deserved. Those people had earned their deaths, and Erik won't hear any arguments otherwise.

Disappointment does settle in his gut at the reminder, but he shakes his head. ] You're not the first I've met. [ Not that he's going to share. He might be aware of whom the telepaths are, now that he's met them, and nothing would keep him too far from Charles Xavier if he thought it was safe to be close to him, but... ] We're not alone.

[ Ah. The phrasing...

It makes him look wistful. ]