𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐒 ▣ NOV TDM

[saltburnmods]

NOVEMBER 2024 TDM: RENAISSANCE

Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember — dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.

Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.

WELCOME TO SALTBURNT

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, 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

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐘: 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.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓: vinegar poached eggs with hollandaise foam on a bed of toasted freekah and baby spinach.
𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐀: two eggs poached in a ramekin of pureed tomato, served with a crispy grilled cheese cut to dip.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐘𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘: french omelette with a light cheese filling, topped with crushed potato chips and chives.
𝐎𝐄𝐔𝐅𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒: fluffy scrambled eggs in brown butter, served on sourdough.
𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓: mini-quiche made with caramelized red onions and jamon pata negra ham.
𝐄𝐆𝐆 𝐌𝐂𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐇: bacon, egg, cheese and sausage breakfast muffin that tastes weirdly like it was made at a popular chain with golden arches.

THE SWEETS

❖ momofuku's "cereal milk" ❖
❖ fette biscottate with a sour cherry jam and peanut floss ❖
❖ a warm cinnamon bun served with a shot of espresso coffee for dipping ❖
❖ a macadamia-marzipan croissant with a wattleseed and burnt-honey filling ❖
❖ poffertjes with a liquid nutella injection ❖

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.

"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."

2 GIRLS 1 CUP

CONTENT WARNINGS: nudity, potential for nsfw.

Over the past few days, a bit of construction has taken place on the grounds of the Saltburnt estate, and while it's difficult to piece together what exactly is being built, it's clear to see: whatever it is, it's massive, taking up a huge percentage of the grounds with multiple included structures. On the outside it seems almost like a neighborhood is being sprung up — new houses for people to live in, maybe? New shops, disconnected from the manor at large? All is revealed on opening day, when upon entry all are greeted with cheery hellos from jauntily clad persons shouting, "Huzzah!" and "Hail and well met!" For the more medieval and fantasy inclined among you, it might feel like stepping somewhere familiar and homey. To the rest, you know — you've just walked into a Ren Faire. Costumes are expected.

Not sure what to wear? Those born between SEPTEMBER to FEBRUARY are dubbed part of the Unseelie Court, which is associated with darkness and decay, generally dressed in deep, dark colors. Those born between MARCH to AUGUST are part of the Seelie Court, which is associated with stars and sky, in lighter, brighter colors.

On either side of the split path, you're assaulted by the scents, sights, and sounds of any ordinary Ren Faire. Vendors pawn off garlicky mushrooms and full turkey legs, or flower crowns and juggling sticks in exchange for a kiss, a secret, a lock of hair, or something of equal nonsensical value. Step inside a shop and see sellers offering crude jewelry and satchels of loose leaf tea, fudge sold by the ounce and porcelain ocarinas. Essentially, if it's kitschy and thematic, you can find it here, being sold to you by people in costume who refuse to break character.

Shopping not quite your style? Fear not! If you're lucky in your wanderings, your might spot the Unseelie Queen ALICENT HIGHTOWER or her counterpart and opposed Seelie Queen LAURALAE carried on palanquins towards the very back of the faire, where the real heart of the show takes place in a small stadium for entertainment purposes — a tourney for distinguishing yourself as the best among your peers in the manor. Prior to the tourney, all characters are given a favor of some kind ( an embroidered handkerchief, ribbon, garland, or piece of jewelry ) to give to a person of their choosing, be they a competitor or not, to show their support. Strangely, this favor seems to link them through an empathetic, sensation-based bond, so they feel everything their chosen competitor experiences. Mutual favors result in a mutual bond.

The challenges are set: ARCHERY/KNIFE THROWING, SWORDFIGHTING/HAND-TO-HAND, and a BARD'S TOURNEY. In addition to the more ye olde flavor of competition, there are also challenges for COUPLE TENNIS, HORSE POLO, and CHESS. And, in true Saltburnt fashion, there is also a somewhat lewd display of voyeuristic NUDE WRESTLING, where the first person to have an orgasm loses. (You can sign up for these competitions HERE.) To every challenge there is dubbed a winner, who in the old Westerosi tradition gets to crown a chosen "maiden" with the title THE QUEEN OR KING OF LOVE AND BEAUTY and an extravagant wreath of flowers, their victory dedicated to the lucky lord or lady. These wreaths are both fashionable and functional — while wearing them, no one can resist following whatever queenly command your character gives. Additionally, winners will receive prizes courtesy of Saltburnt, all to be determined upon victory.

Whichever queen has the most winners at the end of the tourney is crowned HIGH QUEEN OF THE FAE. The Queen is paraded around and celebrated by all, and while tribute is not necessary, it certainly is appreciated!

RING AROUND THE ROSEY

CONTENT WARNINGS: potential for nsfw.

The Ren Faire fixture runs adjacent to the tree line of the forest, which one can enter through a booth manned by THE GREAT WIZARD ARCHIBALD, who warns you to be prepared to enter the Realm of the Fae beyond his backdrop curtain, before handing you a flower and a pair of antlers (or a head piece from your fauna choice) for your journey to the beyond. Upon entering, you are greeted by a forest that bears no resemblance to the woods you've grown to expect in your time at the manor, everything more exaggeratedly lush than it had been even a day or so prior. Plump fruits with slightly glimmering skins grow fat on the vine, every leaf on every tree vibrant and healthy despite the changing of seasons, gone orange and red with the cold. Despite that, it's surprisingly balmy in the forest, everything illuminated by glimmering fairy lights and strung up lanterns. Flowers bloom under your feet, alongside perfect little red mushrooms, everything so idealistic it almost borders on discomfort.

Despite any reservations, there is a wild compulsion to everyone who enters the forest. The flower the wizard gave you is pungent enough to dizzy your head, leading you to the instinct of frolicking — or if you're not the type to frolick, then wandering — through the woods, to find some counterpart to your particular flower in a very innocent (or not so innocent) game of cat and mouse. Once you find them, a simple kiss will serve as enough to claim your prize and ease the compulsion. Unless, of course, you want to give a little more. It couldn't hurt, right?

Wander further through the seemingly never ending woods, drawn on of the beauty of faerie, and find yourself at a somewhat rundown chapel surrounded by foliage, the roof and walls broken down with age, invaded by exploring plant life that crawls and vines through every crack and opening. While the stone altar of indeterminate denomination seems like it hasn't been seen for hundreds of years, let alone cleaned, there's the distinct impression you are walking on hallowed, sacred ground when you move to inspect it. Those clever among you might note different runes etched on what appears to be a wooden tabernacle on an ancient pillar at the back of the chapel. Looking into it, there's a word from an unknown language carved inside, complimented with a cheat sheet bit of yellowing paper which reads F. M. K., with further explanation: FRIENDS, MARRY, KINK.

What could it mean? Well. You and whoever you entered the chapel with, or whoever enters next, are stuck until further notice unless you complete one of the proffered options. FRIENDS, it's time you bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones and accept our faults moving forward, together, to the future. MARRY, let's seal our bonded union with the trees as our witness, in a church of our own making. KINK, if the altar can't be used for the former, it can certainly be used for the latter. Nothing vanilla will do — kink up or shut up.

Once completed, you're free to leave and roam around the forest at your leisure. If you wander far enough you might hear a distant, organic sound whirring and clicking from the trees, but don't worry. Whatever is watching you probably doesn't bite.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

[dictator]

( he understands belatedly, that he forgot to put his glove back on before touching her. a simple mistake, from one not yet used to the permanent fixture of his gloves. but — he hesitates now to put them on, curling his fingers into his hand, and rubbing them against the fat part of his palm still comprised of flesh. imagining he can feel the heat of her skin through his fingers and press it all over, though he cannot.

paul is instead at the mercy of her hands, when she chooses to give them. he can be patient, and doesn't mind waiting — his head tilts as she plucks his flower, before he reaches to do the same to hers. kismet. acknowledgement. )

I know you.

( he's all smiles now, in a way he hasn't been for weeks, a wilted flower tilting up towards the sun, eating for the first time. a little flustered by her attention, the apples of his cheeks slightly pink. )

I didn't bring an offering, unless you'll trade in words or actions. In that case, I have a lot to offer. ( thoughtfully, he hums, letting his wrist brush her chin when he drops his hand, turning to send a meaningful look to the tabernacle. ) Or I'll pay you with an idea. Faerie's choice.

[peasant]

( unsubtle, her eyes flicker to the shifting pillars of his fingers. her breath catches again — nauseated with self-loathing, this time, to imagine the lingering aches of what she's unknowingly done. the stalk of her flower doesn't seem to bend, doesn't seem to wilt, in the stone of his grasp despite it — though alina has to wonder if it's her own manner of coping, to think of wildflowers sprouting in concrete cracks, persevering. gentle miracles that can still grow, if they're cradled and nurtured.

like the brush of alina's own fingers to meet his own in their descent, cupping them in her palm. the first jolt of cold tenses her guts until they lurch, trading his temporary discomfort for her own. she lifts them to her mouth as she should have done for his dying body, as she hadn't had the mind to — blowing puffs of hot air onto their tips. trying to warm them all to life, really, for all that she knows she'd been a failure at restoring him, the first time. )

That's a typical mortal mistake, offering options to selfish creatures. ( beneath the dark trellis of her lashes, her eyes searchingly find his. looking for any seed of doubt, any sproutling disgust for her, and finds — nothing. just the rosy blossom of his cheeks, calling to mind simpler times, when he hadn't known her. hadn't known better than to withdraw from her orbit. a little wistful pang of nostaglia shadows her stare. ) You shouldn't trust a nymph not to swindle all you own.

( or — she's the one caught in the sticky honey of a trap, most likely. anticipatory and anxious both, a pink peek of her tongue sets out to wet her lips. )

I'll have both, once you have a solution for my riddle. I've been struggling to find the answer, lately. ( her heart squeezes impossibly tighter, a wringing fist threatening to reduce it to pulp. and still, she asks, suddenly as small as any mice that knows better than to squeak: ) You love me still?

[dictator]

( it's amazing how quickly you can grow touch starved after an overindulgence of the stuff. paul's breath catches in his throat at the feeling of alina's mouth hovering over his fingertips, somewhat abashed to think he was touching her with cold hands. but his fingertips heat up, which he knows only because the connective tissue to the fleshy parts of his hand heat up, the domino effect of alina's breath. gingerly, his fingers stretch out, and brush the cupid's bow of her lip.

he doesn't say, he'd like to be swindled by her. he doesn't say, he'd give her anything if the payment was having her near him. instead, genuine shock crosses over his face when she asks you love me still?, a question he hadn't known needed answering — has alina been worried about that this whole time? is that why she's apart from him? an oversight from paul, an unforgivably vast one. bad enough, he doesn't think about anything charming to say first, he just swivels his hands to reach for hers, clutched sweetly, thumbs against her palms. he brings them to his chest. )

I — I do, deeply, yes. I love you. ( his eyebrows twitch, suddenly impassioned with the hideous possibility that he might have reason to ask the same question back to her. his hands squeeze hers, a little desperately. ) And — you still love me?

[peasant]

( on instinct, her fingertips curl inward, futilely trying to claw into the pulpy meat of his heart — to test how the truth of it beats in her palm, pomegranate-bloody. an attempt to divine him, like tea leaves floating in the blood of his water, the heartstrings plucked at like petals on a daisy. he loves me, he loves me not. he'll always love me, or i'm doomed to be his master, his monster. a full circle destiny, she thinks, to becoming a shadow of the black morozova. of ilya morozova, drowned in the river in chains.

the dip between alina's eyebrows deepens, at a baffled loss. she sounds it, too, when she stammers out: )

Always, Paul. I gave you life. ( evidence she loves him. evidence he should hate her for the abominative thing it had created, more homunculus than boy. but what greater love is there? she stares down at her hands, violently clung to the drapery of his shirt. ) I gave you my life.

( some small seed of it planted in the soil of his being, at least. she has an overabundance of it, anyway, staring down those barren fields of her immortality, an eternity that promises to wilt every hope she's ever nurtured inside of herself. she sways a little where she's sat, almost seesawing — the indecision of tugging herself closer to him, or peeling herself away. )

But what if — what if I'm not giving you a choice? ( it's too horrible to conceive, let alone give birth to the fear by speaking it aloud. she recoils into herself for a moment, flinching back, struck by the hand of her thoughts. ) How do you know I'm not ... commanding you to love me? How can you be so sure?

[dictator]

( relief is so tangible in him, paul wouldn't be surprised to look down and find himself standing in a blooming puddle of wildflowers, reacting to the sudden burst of lightness he feels. alina still loves him. she doesn't see him, or what she did for him, as a mistake. he nods, agreeing — it is alina's life in his veins, his inability to hold it the issue with his fingertips. selfishly, because it's a cruel thing to admit when he knows it cost her greatly, he's glad for it. every breath feels like alina's. the blood in his veins is as sun-blessed as a flower, eating up her warmth. )

You saved me.

( he's glad she was the one to do it, more than the house. he trusts her more than he'll ever trust the dark things at play here, and given everything, the repercussions are easy to live with. or, they would be easy to live with, if alina would let him have her.

rubbing her clawing hands on his shirt until they smooth out, paul flattens them against his chest, hands pressed up against hers, as if forcing them into his heart. to feel the genetic makeup of it, the rhythm of it, the seamless way it matches up to alina's. it's an uncomfortable thing to talk about — paul doesn't exactly relish the loss of autonomy, but he relishes talking openly about it to alina even less. his eyes lock onto her collar, nodding to himself. )

I can feel it when you compel me to do something. It's ... well, it's not when you ask me something. It's when you tell me. ( his eyes lift up to meet hers. ) You've never ordered me to love you, and I don't feel as though I should. I feel more that ... if I ever stopped loving you, I'd have to be dead. That's the only way it makes sense.

( hands dropping to her wrists, he slides her hands up until they're against his cheeks, so he can bow into them, nuzzling her palms. )

I can't say I don't love you more for what you did for me. ( he kisses each of her palms, the tips of her fingers. ) I wish you could see the inside of my heart. You'd know it beat for you long before you saved my life.

[peasant]

( a sharp intake of breath ricochets up her throat, a warning shot that rings clear. butterfly-skittish, alina's fingertips perch on the soft bloom of his lips with fluttery trembles, a messy mix of want and fear. faintly, she wonders if he can sense the double-time drum of her pulse, the way she swears she senses his heartbeat — a bright but faraway echo between her ribcage, like a distant star.

protective, her shaky hands flatten against antlered bone, pressing the collar down until it hides the ugly slit line kissed across her vulnerable throat. it hurts, more than it rightfully should, not to touch him; alina's breath turns thready for it, a magnet resisting its very nature. it hurts worse to have him graze the sensitive, silvery ropes of scar tissue that mar her wrists, to watch his stare caress her collar — hyperaware of all the ways she's been changed, marked. all the ways she's responsible for paul suffering the same fate.

not there, she wants to plead — don't touch me there, but she can only feel the words crowd against her teeth, hesitating. it's hard for her to fully recognize, still, what could turn the soft ribbons of a request into the binding leash of a command. her lips part around a useless, uncertain pause, instead. )

That's not true. ( a smile wobbles, weak, into her voice. ) I still loved your ghost. And you loved me.

( even dead. back when she was worthier of it. it's a funny thing, now, to remember how she hadn't felt deserving of a single drop — before zoya had good reason to call her corrupt. her chest jumps with the hiccuping force of another inhale, blowing it out in a gust. then, quiet, )

That makes us — um. Friends. ( a pointed drop of her gaze to the tableau, reluctantly hopeful. ) Wasn't that one of our choices?

( more pointed, too frightened to expect more. it feels — important for him to ask for it, for him to be the one to make that choice for them. alina's safe guarantee a single word from her hasn't bent him to her will. )

[dictator]

You're right, of course. ( his hands tighten on hers. ) Not even death could stop how I love you.

( he's glad she knows it, too. there was a time, maybe even a few minutes ago, when alina wouldn't be able to even shyly announce you loved me, to the cicadas and the acorns currently eavesdropping on this conversation. there was a time when even paul was afraid to say it, not because he didn't feel it, but because he's never sure how alina will find him. lacking or insulting, if his affections are the simple dreams of a lonely boy finding a lonely girl to mix souls with.

there's none of that fear now, though. in the wake of his neediness, he find reassurance — finds, he's never felt more sure of himself or alina, in this dusty little chapel, the sunlight creeping in, showing off dust particles in the air like little glimmers of glitter along the foliage, like alina's freckles that sparkle and shine if you stare at them for long enough. they'd disappeared for awhile, after her usage of merzost. they're back now, and he loves them as much as he loves her, smiling at her indulgently to the sound of friends in her mouth, as if friends frequently stand together like this, make the promises they have, feel the way they do.

it's not wrong, though. alina is his best friend. )

It is. It's not the one I choose, though. ( bluntly, ) I think we should be wed. Here. Not in one of your saintly churches, not in one of my caverns of worship — not to any god or maker or divine being. Here, where we decide what it means to us, to have the trees and flowers and creatures of the forest to witness our love. Just-Alina and Just-Paul, and Just-Alia, if I can call her here.

( on caladan, there used to be these tiny, green flowers that sprung up from the sea — no one was ever sure if they were algae or not, but as a child paul used to tie them together in little knotted chains and crown his mother the goddess of beauty and sea, his father the warrior of the waves. now, he finds little white petaled daisies to pluck from the ground, tying them together with the old, childish muscle memory of when he was a meticulous little boy, not willing to bruise a single leaf.

he gets down on one knee, placing the daisy linked crown in her hand. )

Will you marry me, Alina?

cw: self-injury, blood 😔 but like in a romantic way

[peasant]

( just alina. for a moment, the wistful yearning in her stare shimmers so brightly that she has to shutter it from view, ducking her head to accept her bridal crown. she'll never be that girl again, but it feels fitting that paul should invoke her ghost in the little lost ruins of their chapel. where nature doesn't mourn what's dead and in disrepair — but learns to reclaim it, grow from the debris of what's been left behind. the way paul has, in his changing body. the way her insides have felt empty for days, but now feel overgrown, so fertile with feeling that it vines through her ribcage, makes her feel like there's no space left in her body for anything but her desperate want to live.

maybe she had never had to be just alina at all. maybe she had just had to be his. his normal. his version of a future that can fit just alina, and the enormity of what she is. an oddity, but maybe not too odd for him, after all. she smiles, and it's all dewy-eyed with untapped relief, flushed the rosy-pink of a girl trying to hold back from watering wildflowers with her tears. from one wet blink to the next, alina makes the executive that it still feels wrong — paul on his knees while she dangles on an altar, a deity above him — and sinks from her pedestal to her knees, a little too hastily.

she doesn't flinch when her bony knees meet the hard bite of stone. even as it threatens a bruise, it's better to exist on solid ground with him — not as a master or a maker, but as an equal. a little miserably: )

I don't have anything to give you. Not a ring, or a crown, or a family name. If we have children, I can't give them any legacy. I can't give our family my mother's culture, because I've never known it. I can barely give you mine, because my country never wanted to share it with me.

( maybe not so much like equals after all. what has he given her? the right to his family's name, if she should want it. the right to their heritage, the right to inherit his father's ring. it weighs heavily on her finger as she leans into a crawl, hands cautiously posed near each side of his knees. what can she give him? her eyes trail to where she knows his crysknife will be, snug and sacred against his hip. )

But I can give you this. ( it's a smooth motion — plucking and unsheathing it, wasting no time in the ceremony of slicing open her unmarred palm, flinching from the wet-warm of her blood. through a quiet murmur, ) My water. My life. I'd spend every drop and every day on you.

( a heavy pause, then. the cut slowly drip, drip, drips to feed the soil, red on white daisy petals. alina's eyes flutter questingly over his face, from temple to cheek to chin, back to his eyes. )

Could that be enough? To not only be your wife, but ... your family, too?

[dictator]

( there's a degree of blasphemy to alina's motion — the severing of blood from one's body is a waste, the foolish motion of outworlders with water to spare. but that makes it holy, too, and paul understands. the same way he had no choice about the blood spilled from his severed spine, there is choice in alina's motion, in the scar across her unmarred hand, in feeding shai-hulud her blood. sacrifice and payment, and the unyielding intensity of emotional. paul understands, and is humbled by it — not just the severity, but the generosity. alina is a woman unafraid to bleed for someone she loves, and she loves paul.

instinctively, his hands cup the sides of her thighs, captivated by the welling red of her blood, watching it spill out of her — his water flushed bride, his monsoon wife. he's dreamt this. a hand in the sand, a slash through it, an overindulgence, some excess of wet, the chanting of dunes whispering old, forgotten secrets to him. he wasn't afraid then, and he isn't afraid now, snake slithering his head from side to side for a second, before cupping under her wounded hand, catching her spilling blood in his. when he tears his gaze from the gouge, it's to look at alina, eyes wet with emotion. )

"Enough" is an unfair thing to ask me. ( his free hand moves up, into the wound — lightly, teasing the torn sides like a lover, soaking up her blood. he lifts his two fingers for her to observe, the red stark against his pale skin. ) Because this is everything. This means everything to me.

( he lifts her hand to rest palm side up against his shoulder, though he doesn't mind if there's a mess. dipping his finger back in her blood ink, he sucks in a breath, nodding, looking at her. captivated. in love. )

Alina ... I'd be honored to call you family. It's the only thing I want — to be part of you, in that way. You can be wife and sister and daughter to me. You can be the life that flows through my veins. You already are.

( the same way alina once consecrated her name on him in his blood, her poises his fingers at her wrists, pauses, and then writes. it starts with an a, not a p, and after looking to her for some reassurance, he finishes the oath in blood, a ritualistic declaration, forevermore claiming alina — atreides. )

[peasant]

( true to her blood-bound promise, there isn't a drop left in her body that isn't spent on paul. in an instant, she's flushed with what remains of her water, soaked warmly to her cheeks, with the pink ripeness of steaming baths. alina dips her head, reverently stroking her fingers along the name he's claimed her under, knowing he's seen her little girl daydreams for what they are. a much bigger hand cradling her own. braided hair and bruised knees kissed better. soft blankets and lullabies and his thumb suckled in her mouth, wrapped up in her safe, protected cocoon. but, more than that:

shared blood in their veins, born of the same cosmic particles of light and stardust. maybe she'll never be what alia is to him — it was predetermined, at her birth, that paul would love alia, the same way mal was predestined to love alina. there's no sense competing with the designs of fate, but — she thinks she could be happy, like this. being his choice. being the daughter he didn't make, the sister he didn't expect, even if alia had been there to claim those titles first.

anything, if it means he can't bleed her out of him, any more than he could take alia out of him.

pearly teeth nibble at her lip, embarrassed by how not opaque she's been, but not so embarrassed that she can't tease: ) Paul Atreides sees all.

( she inches forward, in line with the baby steps of her power, tugging on the thread that binds him to it, like a shy child pulling at her mother's skirts. crimson smears into his cheek as she cups his jaw, gentle and steady, using it as a bridle. not for control, really, just — a need for paul's stillness, like a wild animal spooked by sudden movements. curious, but only comfortable exploring if she can take it on her own time. she hovers, eyes darting between his, searching for an answer to an unspoken question — before she tilts her head to feather to his cheek, peppering foot trails of kisses toward his mouth.

it's brief, a quick brush. and then another, and another, stealing sipping kisses from his mouth. each lingers longer than the last, but never quite long enough for him to snare her to him and keep her there in her nervy flightiness, all hummingbird fidgety. )

Tell me, ( she whispers, a quiet puff of desert heat against his lips, more plea than demand. ) When you dream, what does that future look like for us?