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draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2024-09-07 10:00 am
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π πππ'π ππππππππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππ β£ SEPT TDM
SEPTEMBER 2024 TDM: LUGHNASADH
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, using Β« 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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
β momofuku's "cereal milk" β
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"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, some who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "Breakfast will be out in a minute," they say. What's that?
EDIT SEPTEMBER 2024: For those who have attended breakfast with the Balfours before, a change in routine might come as a shock, given how rarely they stray from form. However, as of September, CARMY BERZATTO has taken over Head Chef position, alongside his cousin RICHIE JERIMOVICH and always the bridesmaid never the bride, SANJI. In place of the self-serve style breakfast, there is an elevated menu, including: a self-serve juice bar, with pitchers of various juiced fruit and vegetables, shaved ice, coconut water, green and black tea syrups, potted microherbs, sliced whole berries, and finger limes. There is also, naturally, liquor and champagne available. Guests can make their own drinks, or ask the allocated staff member to serve them one of the "specials" if they're feeling adventurous.
That said, these are world class chefs, so the gold is really in the menu:
THE EGGS
πππ πππππ: one runny boiled egg shelled and recoated in edible gold leaf, seated on a throne of fried bread soldiers, plated with whipped butter and italian parsley.
ππππ ππππππππ: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
ππππ πππππππππππ: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
πππ ππππππ: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
ππππ π πππππππππ: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
πππππππ ππππ: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
πππ ππππππππππ: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.
THE SWEETS
β fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss β
β a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping β
β a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling β
β poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection β
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.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
ITSY BITSY TEENIE WEENIE
CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs, alcohol, nudity, potential for nsfw.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
POOLSIDE PLAYLIST courtesy of Robin
It's an innocent enough, offhand suggestion from the mouth of one (1) DIARMUID about wanting to learn how to paint, and honestly, the house couldn't agree more: a party is necessary. As August winds down, it's important to go out with a bang, and what better way than through an explosive end of summer pool party? To say goodbye to the waning summer nights, the manor is throwing a pool party with an artistic neon twist. Per the growing complications of everyone's relationship status in this new age of bisexuality, polygamy, and pegging, glow-in-the-dark bracelets with matching solo cups have been set out with the appropriate labels βΒ TAKEN, SINGLE, OPEN, and IT'S COMPLICATED, depending on your interest. Lounge by the water in your cutest bikini or trunks or nothing at all and engage in some very relaxing full-body painting using the supplies provided β that is, the paint is supplied, though brushes and sponges are few and far between. Better just to use your own body to paint your masterpiece. Put yourself on display as a model by the pool, or engage in a brutally competitive game of chicken fights, wherein the loser loses their clothes and the winner gets to keep them.
Not your style? Sneak off somewhere more private like the twinkling gardens illuminated with multicolored tiki lamps, lakeside decorated with bio-luminescent rocks, or the (perfectly safe, wolfless, we promise) maze to indulge in your inner desires. You might find that certain colors glow beneath the moonlight and unlock desires youβve kept tightly under lock and key. It's hard not to feel impulsive or unrestrained under the full moon's light, with your body paint as armor. People might appear more attractive to you under this witching light like a magic spell cast β but really, you havenβt had any trouble with that, here. Have you?
If youβre thirsty, the house has tasked RICHIE, CARMY, and SANJI (dressed as cabana boys) with an extensive poolside drinks menu, since theyβve been so helpful with breakfast. Thanks, boys. Ask them for anything. In fact, ask them for everything. They're here to serve.
As the night closes out, turn your eyes heavenward for a spectacular fireworks show. Many apologies to those of you who suffer from PTSD; you can head inside for an early night and cover your ears with a pillow, but do be careful not to suffocate yourself, unless you're into that. The fireworks shimmer and shatter, and those watching closely might start to see hidden messages written in the stars for you, though is that your eyes playing tricks? Better ask that friend youβre snuggled up with. As anxiety weighs a little heavier on your heart, you might feel compelled to confess a few secrets on this last night of summer, big or small, something loving or not. Seek out that destructive habit, or take some steps toward healing. Let the fireworks drown out the noise.
FRUITS OF LABOUR
CONTENT WARNINGS: body horror, gore, cannibalism.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
Saying goodbye to summer means welcoming in the new season, and as August nights turn into September mornings, the landscape of the grounds changes from verdant greens to egg yolk yellow and sunburnt orange, a gradient of autumnal colors. To that end, a week long festival erects outside to enjoy the last of the year's good weather β a generous harvest bounty fills up tables and tables of ample displays, full of ripened fruits and fresh baked breads, baked potatoes roasted in the coals of a bonfire, sausages, wheels of cheese, marshmallows, cider and apple juice, tomato soup, apple and blackberry compote, rhubarb crumble, all richly decorated in sunset hues. Among the servings, anyone with a birthday in August or September will find themselves a individualized cake, perhaps with some motif to define them, otherwise just with the harvest decorations of gourds, leaves, wheat, and fruit. Alongside that, a new smaller maze has been made from hay bales on the lawn. During the day it's just a silly and fun maze, but at night it takes on a new form and characters can easily become lost and find themselves in a maze that seems to go on forever, with the ominous lowing of a bull somewhere in the distance. Luckily, everyone is released at daybreak, maybe a little traumatized, but all in one piece.
What would a festival be, without some games to indulge in? Around the celebratory grounds, there are four pumpkins painted gold, hidden around the festival. Anyone who finds one is entitled to a boon from your very generous hosts (join the race HERE). Hunting not to your tastes after the last few goose chases? No worries, there's plenty still to do β from apple bobbing, jumping over bonfires, throwing discus/shotput, horseshoes, and more, it's a festival jam packed with games and prizes to be won, from little jars of handmade jam from France, to stuffed chicken plushies, to tin cans with the labels ripped off, full of ... well, it's anyone's guess, really. Crack it open and find out!
In honor of the handfasting ceremony, characters are selected at random and tied together at the wrist, much to everyone's amusement. Once knotted, the ribbon will not give way under any physical or magical duress, meaning you'll be stuck together until the tie undoes on its own. It could be day, a night, two nights, or more, but it seems like the ribbon is waiting for something in particular βΒ a genuine heart to heart, maybe? Consummating the marriage? Hopefully you like the person you're tied to, because you're going to be spending a lot of time with your temporary spouse, in immediately close quarters.
At the end of the week, there's a final end of summer ceremony, wherein the vampire ARMAND is given special homage for being an especially adored guest, donned in floral regalia and ordained with crowns of flowers, much to his growing malcontent. In fact, he and all the vampires present in house seem to be given the regal treatment from the staff with less grand flower crowns of their own, honored at the head of the festival's final gluttonous table, lined with naked, giggling bodies covered in autumnal produce, sprouting mushrooms, blooming flowers, and distinctly meaty dishes β steak and kidney pie, blood sausage, pumpkins stuffed with zebra meat. It's only after you drink the wildflower tea and locally (Very, Locally) crafted beer that things start to feel a little off. The happy bodies used as serving platters look sometimes, between one blink and the next, like masticated corpses, the gourds and fruits set more deeply in the cornucopia their opened chest cavities make. Despite that, there's no real sense of death in the air β get a better look, and you might find the veins of the dead work more like the vines for the plants, giving them life.
The question becomes: which is the hallucination? The smiling faces or the blooming corpses?
Though hysteria rankles through the crowd the more people come to terms with the visions they're seeing, given the population at the head of the table, it's a fairly easy riddle to crack. Can vampires eat the cursed food? In short: yes, they can. Sorry we made you eat people again.
DIRECTORY
no subject
fire across sand, destructive colors, the harkonenn fuel burns purple, extra hot, but their bodies go crispy like ours, like mine, my hand in the sand, my hand blacked to ash, the skeleton black of burnt bones on my wrist, my hand, that hand that commands the fremen, the guides this holy war, that
he perks as alina approaches, coming back to terra firma, eyes sweeping her from her ankles up to her face, smiling softly, a shy shake to his head. some people are just born with an excess amount of beauty, and you're not supposed to kiss them every minute of every day? it seems an overlook, a failure of genetics. if paul wasn't supposed to be distracted, why make alina look like that. )
Hi.
( he swivels a leg over the bench, seated in a straddle, reaching forward with ease and snagging her by the outside of her thigh, dragging her in closer. there's no real expression beyond fondness on his face as he lifts up his opposite hand, his own purple bracelet glowing. )
Us? ( he nods. ) Let's talk, then. You first?
no subject
stiff, she nods, all of her knobby parts bumping into his as she shifts, fussing for comfort she won't find. the nearness makes it worse, somehow, as though — she won't be able to disentangle herself, unknot the parts of herself that live inside him, given over to him, if he decides he's done with her. her fault, alina thinks, for forgetting herself. for getting too comfortable with him, her place in his chest cavity, living inside of someone else's home. )
I ... I don't know where to start. ( it's a deliberate distraction, plucking at the purple bracelet wound around his wrist. not for long, maybe, alina's fingers snapping it back and forth like he'll leave me, he'll leave me nots, stalling for time — hoping she'll find a prophetic answer there, rather than in paul's reaction to a bomb dropped into his lap, liable to blow up in alina's face. ) You know I've been with other people.
( a poor start. the coward inside of her wants to say it didn't mean anything, it was an accident — an unfairness to alia, alina knows, whose only ever been kind to her. alina's fingers drop, picking at her knuckles, peeling back layers of paint glued to her skin. her eyes fall to watch, speaking to her fumbling hands. )
Not on purpose. It's — Otherworld. That place has a way of getting in your head. ( a hasty, rambling continuation. that's truer, even if she thinks of sharing warm, lakeside kisses with alia, innocently girlish. ) But I owe you the truth of who I've been with.
no subject
he still drops a hand down on her knee, squeezing. she looks so guilty, it wrenches his heart a little, eyebrows pulling together. his head bobs in an encouraging nod, biting his lower lip before speaking. )
I know. I really don't mind it β I kind of like it, actually. It's not just bedroom talk. ( every time he gets off on the thought of someone tasting him where he's stained himself inside of alina, every time he gives her instructions on how to fuck the next guy she sees, every time he offers and denies people the warm cinch of her body. paul hasn't been entirely celibate aside from alina, either. there was john, once. every other time, there was alia.
alia. right. he shifts a little, straightening up. he turns his hand palm side up, if alina feels like holding it. )
I have to confess, too. I think I know who you're talking about. ( is in fact a hundred percent sure, but it's better not to come across like some know it all asshole. ) The thing is ... there's really no distance between me and Alia. I know all of her, just like she knows all of me. More than all of me, in fact β she knows a me I have yet to become.
( he shakes his head. ) The point is, I know. You don't have to feel guilty, for being with Alia. You don't have to confess any of your sexual conquests if you don't want to.
( said carefully, with consideration. if there's more than the physical to her relationship with alia then, well. this conversation is going to go down an entirely different path, and paul is buzzing with excitement for what that means, what it could mean between the three of them. he won't nudge her in any direction, though βΒ this is alina's heart, and he's sworn to treasure it, every chamber, every thread. )
no subject
( she deflates, suddenly, a popped balloon with all of its anxious helium wheezing out of it. it's — a little uneventful, actually, a whimper when she had expected something more ... cataclysmic, on scale with the rending power of the fold. paul's response, at least, as difficult to navigate as that black swath of darkness — unsure of what she'll meet, when she stumbles forward next. the worst part of it is the sickening, irrational disappointment that follows over paul's non-reaction — no flinch of jealousy, no pain. no part of him that seems to care she's been shared with someone else, someone dear to him.
the point is: all of alina's turmoil has nowhere to go, a firework with no ignition to it. useless apologies die early on her tongue; her defensiveness curls up in retreat, sharp teeth put away. for a singular moment, all she can manage is a stupefied blink, her eyebrows crawling closer and closer together in bemusement.
then, with a wrinkled twitch of her nose: ) Don't call them conquests. It makes it sound more like warfare than fucking.
( gross, too, considering — she doesn't think of alia as an object to possess, a prize to be conquered. it's crass of alina, maybe, but she's still jittery with nerves — a buzzing of pent-up adrenaline when she slides her fingers between paul's, even if every part of her aches to pace and fiddle and fuss. she turns over their joined hands, instead, channeling her energy into the motion. )
I still don't understand. Isn't it strange?
( she huffs out a breath, a disbelieving exhale tinged half-hysterical, with her attempts to reconcile the reaction she'd imagined paul having — repulsed, justifiably, betrayed and gutted with hurt — with the reality of it. his placid understanding, as unbothered by the revelation as a still lake. maybe, then, the problem is with her — an orphan's tacit misunderstanding of the unconditional love shared between one's own blood and bone. )
She's your sister. You would have every right to be angry with me for it.
no subject
It is strange. ( possibly. if anyone else fucked him and his sister, he'd probably find it stranger. he lets out a huff of air, somewhat resigned. ) But no stranger than I am.
( he bites back on the instinct to call himself a freak again, knowing alina doesn't like it. still, paul knows the score: normalcy isn't an option for him, being strange has always been his sole inheritance from the womb of his mother to now, the fate of the universe etched into his genetic code. it's not like the fremen are particularly precious about familial dynamics, either. none would likely bat an eye at paul and alia sharing, loving, marrying the same woman β they would simply say it is how it is. we cannot understand the kwisatz haderach.
but alina could know him. the way no one else could, she could understand. paul bends, kissing her multicolored fingertips before pressing them to his forehead, straightening back up. on another night, maybe he'd say something else. as it is βΒ honesty is on the tip of his tongue, and it feels good to let it go, to share with alina as wholly as he shares with alia. the north and south of his soul, which make up the world. )
Alina. There is no distance between me and my sister. I love her as I love you β wholly, without limitations, without doubt. ( for clarity, ) As physical as it is emotional, yes. Is that strange?
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without limitations. no distance. the blind fool in her mind wants to insist he means it as she's always thought it — the womb alia and paul had shared, the blood ties that bind them together, the inherent sense of familial togetherness alina will never be privy to. the outsider, watching them through the window of their happiness, a voyeur outside of their home. not — the sickening loop of images alina's mind feeds back to her of alia in paul's bed, sweaty and blissed out in the same sheets he'd promised her children in, just beyond the threshold of the bathroom they share. giggling and joyful, laughing at how stupid she must've been to have never noticed, never suspected.
the aluminum can in her hand creaks, a little, from the steadying force of alina's grip. it's tempting to press him, to tell him to take it back — to tell her to forget it, that he'd lied to test her reaction in reutrn. a cruel prank, at alina's expense, but one she could understand — retribution, maybe, for taking his sister to bed. the other part of her feels sick with it, with the notion of turning a blind eye, thinking of all the times she'd ignored mal tangling himself in women's tents — of aleksander's mouth in the dark, playing her for the lovesick fool. she shoves back at his chest, forcing herself quickly upright.
her mouth parts on an exhale, suspiciously, tensely quiet. it's one last chance given when she says, careful, each syllable clipped: ) What are you saying?
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naturally, another oversight β paul, genuinely shocked by her reaction. he has a calculating mind that works by the products of binomials, you and alia plus me and alia equals ... well, a trio. three strands to a perfect braid, an intersection of equaled and shared feelings all bitten back at each other. alina the sun, alia the moon, paul the stars in the sky filling up the lightyears distance between them.
unless, of course, he was wrong. maybe she doesn't love alia. the more threatening, stomach churning, heart racing hypothetical: maybe she doesn't love paul.
it's a nasty feeling. he regrets it once he thinks it, admitting to himself that there's nothing he wouldn't sacrifice to keep alia happy β nothing he wouldn't sacrifice for alina's continuing bliss. except, of course, each other. he can no sooner separate himself from alia than he can take the marrow out of his bones. he could live without alina as easily as he could live without the blood in his veins. isn't that obvious? doesn't she see she's killing him? he doesn't require her love as long as she stays next to him, always. if she sat down, she'd never have to say another kind word to him again β he'd be grateful for her presence, for her life, for her lash on his back.
he gets it under control in a second, weirding way tactics dropping his expression to completely neutral, no muscle out of line. you can't unring a bell, and paul respects her too much to lie to her. he steadies his chin, seals his fate. accepts that someone who cannot permit him to love his sister cannot be with him at the end of all things, where he and alia will go into oblivion. what future could permit alina and not alia? none at all, none.
( what future could permit alia and not alina? the one true fate, as life was written βΒ before alina brought love back into their hearts. no life at all, none. we desert flowers need our sunshine. they'd be better off dying, than to love and learn and lose. ) )
You and Alia are my right and left arms. I love you both. ( he stretches out his fingers, feeling the burning heat of alina's hand still branded on his palm. the hard truth: ) So do you, Alina Muad'Dib Starkov Atreides. You can't cut us out of you with a knife.
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she hates him for that, a little, too. she hates that she hates him at all.
alina's chin wobbles, in counterpart. too flawed to be anything but alive, upset with her own existence, the wriggling too-feeling organ in her chest. she's all ripples to paul's stillness — a violent tremble in her fingertips, clutching at her sternum like she might rip through her chest, like — she's giving true thought to rearing back and reshaping his nose, the way she'd done to nikolai. her chest labors through it, a swelling rise and fall of her chest as she crumples the can in her head, letting it sail past his head.
it's not satisfying, to hear the pathetic tin dink of it as it slaps into a lamppost. paul's not entirely victimless; sprays of rum and coke join the neon paint slathered messily into his shirt, doing frustratingly little to make him look entirely put-together. unfairly composed, when he's overturned alina's world, as if it was nothing. as if this is nothing, from her, just a child's irrational temper tantrum at the booboo he's caused.
she leans in, hot breath skittering across his face. a pulled-back snarl to her upper lip — the sneer of a monster, the wet eyes of a hurt girl. )
I can try. You would hardly be the first limb I've had to amputate.
( she pushes herself up, ignoring the way her limbs have gone numb, each motion almost mechanical — forcing herself through the emotions, even as it feels like he'd warned. gouging a knife into herself, bleeding out onto the floor, and still trying to drag her dying carcass to safety somewhere else, somewhere other than here. )
I'd spit in your face the way you've just spat on mine, if I didn't think you would take it for a gift. ( her fingers curl, cut into the fleshy pulp of her palms until it hurts, until the scar tissue threatens to tear open to make a new dissecting line. ) You love me. What a joke.
You love me so much you couldn't even tell me so without saying another woman's name. But I suppose I should share that with her and be grateful for it, too, shouldn't I? I don't get to have any part of you for myself.
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he doesn't move when the can come his direction because it doesn't hit him, though honestly he wouldn't move out of its path if it did, because alina can always do whatever she wants to him. there's his own measure of anger in his eyes, though his expression is more stubbornly pleading than anything else, trying to understand her, refusing to violate her privacy. )
A joke. ( he huffs a breath like an angry dragon, trying not to burn fire. ) Alina, if I so much as suggest I might need you for something other than breeding, you freeze like a wolf in a trap. You act like loving you is something only a fool would do, like I'm an idiot for even suggesting it.
( so, yeah. maybe his feelings are a joke to her. but she knows how he feels about alia β alia is the entire world to him. in comparing the two, he's saying you're the world, too.
of course, it doesn't come off like that. alina sees the ampersand between their names, a perpetual reminder to share with the class. he can't if she wants him to choose alia over her, because he can't choose anyone over alia β the only thing anyone can ever be, the highest rank of love in his heart, is the & between their name and alia's. not even jessica ranks so high. not even chani. )
I'm not an idiot. I do love you, and you know it. You've known it this whole time, every time I've slept with you in my arms, every time we've read in the library. ( he lifts up his shirt and picks the crysknife tucked into his waistband out of its sheath. ) And you didn't come here just to tell me Alia is your bed partner. You haven't told me anyone else you bed. Oh, Alia is my sister? If that was it then you would've told me months ago, when it first happened.
Here is the truth you have to face: you told me because you feel guilty. Because it's not just fucking with Alia, because you like her. Her and me. You and her. Me and you. ( he toes off his shoes. ) You need a part of me, just for yourself. You want a finger or a toe?
( alina knows how to cut off limbs. paul wants to bleed. alina needs proof. paul is desperate to be seen. )
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( it's immediate, biting at the exposed heel paul has left for her. you don't expose your bleeding wounds to a wolf and expect it won't scent the weakness, won't rend its angry canines through the skin. cruelly, she hopes it hurts — hope it elicits the same flinch he had earned in her, hope he feels the fanged bite of her love the way she had felt his. not the petals she had dreamed it to be, the first time she had imagined paul whispering the words to her — but all thorns, slicing her open, the girlish fantasy he trampled carelessly. )
But we both know neither of you have ever waited to have my permission. You've already done that, haven't you.
( she doesn't need the confirmation, doesn't leave him the room to wriggle like maggots do, eating away at whatever rotten love she has left in her chest. part of her feels vengefully nauseated, every time she imagines it: paul murmuring the same promises into alia's ripe womb, sowing the same seeds of a family he had planted in alina's mind. her eyes burn with it — the one connection alia and paul will always have, the one special part of one another alina could never hope to leave her prints on — forcing alina into a furious, battling blink. she's wasted enough water on paul atreides without spilling more, even if every immature part of her is tempted to coat his shoes in vomit, in juvenile revenge. )
Yes, I felt guilty. I've felt guilty lying to your face about your own family, about hiding things from you. But I see I was lashing myself for no reason while you were fucking her behind my back, the entire time. You were visiting her bed and mine when I only ever visited yours. You are the only one I've chosen to be with, without tricks or — or stupid ploys, in that stupid place.
( it's infuriating — the lack of remorse when alina had been prepared to fall on the knife, eviscerate herself for his forgiveness, the guilt he can't pretend to spare her. the obvious truth, then: alina has always been the one doomed to care, far beyond what mal, or paul, or aleksander has ever been able to return. never the captor in love, but forever the captive. she scoffs, a harsh expulsion of breath, some inexplicable heat in the air — an anger that rolls off of her like a sweltering desert, thickening the layers of oxygen around them. )
And do you know what the funniest part is? Do you know what she told me? That she was happy I gave you back to her. Like she wasn't the one who had you all along, from the start.
( alina had cherished the sentiment, then, thought herself powerful enough to tap some space inside of paul that alia herself hadn't been able to bleach with sunlight. now, she just feels — cheated, shaping paul back into something loving, boyish. a boy meant for someone else, not alina starkov. quick-handed, she wrenches the knife from his hand — ignoring the stinging slice it cuts through her in the process of wresting it away, tossing it down into a nearby flowerbed. some sacred object made a mockery of, the way he's making a mockery of her now, offering his toes, his fingers — not the organ in his chest, no piece of it privately alina's, nothing she can touch that hasn't been held already.
her hand squeezes back into a fist, ignoring the trickle of warm blood that drips from it, watering the grassy ground. )
I don't want anything from you. From either of you. Tell her she can have you now — all of you.
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except, there was alina. there is alina, she's right in front of him. there is a path forward and he can see it, as clearly as he can see alina's body in the gauzy fabric of desert drapery, body in dunes, hand fisted around the star-hole heart of paul's chest. )
Alina.
( he eyes get emotively wet, but he doesn't spill his tears, doesn't lose his water. )
You've had a foot out the door this whole time, waiting for some proof that we won't work out, or that I'm overzealous with my affection. This is not that proof. I am rock solid. ( his fingers tap the center of his chest sharply. ) I have two people. I have you, and I have Alia β that's it. You want to know why I'm not jealous of the people you fuck? Because I'd never, never take away something that gave you happiness. Because if you can find something good outside of me, then you should do it β I want you do, I want to support you while you look, and do you know why I won't bat an eye? Because I have faith in us. I've never lost it, not for a day, not for a minute. I know you're it for me, I know it, and if you walk away, you'll take a part of me with you. Something I won't recover until you're back.
( when she's back. he's pretty sure she has to leave now, but the path of yellowed brick and sunbaked sand is still clear to him, even now. it seems a moot point to mention he and laia have only ever come together in this depths of otherworld too, because paul wouldn't have denied himself anywhere else either if the impulse struck. and anyway, alina is life β is the decision between happiness and duty, that choice between what is his and what has been foisted upon him, and jessica would be disappointed how easy the choice is for him to make: alina or the universe? alina, alina, alina. )
Don't do this. ( he extends a hand hesitantly out, asking for her bloodied one. knowing she won't give it. ) Please. Please don't do this.
( alina taught him love, loss, and pain. what she also taught him: how to beg for it all, anyway. )
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what's left, in the aftermath: the devastation, the shrill ringing of her ears from artillery fire, the same numbness that comes with seeing war-torn ravkan cities when she looks at paul, seeing everything he's set abalze. seeing him destroy it and still tell her you did this — here is what's wrong with alina starkov. here is all the ways in which she is broken. here are all the ways she should be grateful paul tolerates her flaws, anyway, even if he has to live inside of his sister's cunt to make it bearable for him. here are all the ways he allows her the freedom to be happy — she must be the unrepentantly selfish one, to deny him the same right. she chokes on a shrill sob, a sound cut off at the knees by the gritted bite of her teeth. blood oozes a stain into her chest where she cradles the wound defensively to her chest, dirtying the neon-bright smear of paint. )
I'm not doing anything! ( the veins under her skin crackle, defensively bioluminescent, despite her best efforts to contain it — the subtle, flickering lights of lanterned jellyfish, warning predators to keep away. ) You did! There is no us anymore! You ruined it! You ruined everything!
I thought — that I was wrong to doubt you, that I could trust you. I let you inside of me. I let myself believe your lies, and your promises, this whole time — you were with her, telling her the same things, sharing the same things. It was supposed to be special, and you ruined it.
( it's unfair that she should have so little to turn on him when's twisting knives into her gut, when he can't even bring himself to deny her suspicions. for lack of anything better, she wrenches off the bracelet on her wrist — tosses that, too, like it's a shackle to shed, chest laboring under her bursting hysteria. )
Alia has lived in your shadow her entire life, and now you expect me to live in hers. ( what's a shadow of a shadow? easily: nothing. she sniffles, refuses to let it rain on her fury. instead, she swipes angrily at the leaky faucet of her eyes — another sacred piece of her she's given over to paul. ) When you told her you loved her, did you bring up my name? Or am I the only one who gets scraps? How generous you must be, Paul Atreides, to give me Alia's crumbs.
( she knows the answer, of course. alina and alia might be his two arms, but it's a fitting analogy: you always favor one hand over the other. writing hand, sword hand. that's alia, reliable, important. alina is just the spare, as always. she shakes her head, a slow motion, as she skids further back. digs down deep for the one thing that might come close to the same punch to the solar plexus he's given her tonight. )
You want me to be happy so badly, then leave. Bring Mal back. ( she chokes on a wet breath. ) I wish you were gone instead of him.