𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐘 ▣ MARCH TDM

[saltburnmods]

MARCH 2025 TDM: RENEWAL

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 (THE REMIX)

CONTENT WARNINGS: drugs.

For once, it's not the pounding hangover that stirs you awake. Oh, it's still there, like little shards of glass being shoved through your skull — but your dry, cottony mouth should be the least of your concerns. When you turn over, it's clear that the glitz and glamor of your room has been ... well, neglected, as of late. The sheets are musty, the furniture covered in layers of dust that sets your nose off, the nightstand decorated with a glass of stale water growing a new bacteria culture. If you're looking for room service to cure your headache, you'll have look elsewhere for painkillers — the maid has very generously left you a more traditional form of medicine. A neat little bag of white powder rests at your bedside, for those that need a little extra pep in their step. Don't say the help never did anything for you.

Unfortunately, that's where the perks of your accommodations begin and end. If you thought you had the room all to yourself, think again. Maybe it's a stranger snuggled up to you in bed that first clues you in. Or maybe it's the mattresses laid out on the floor, sleepover style. Complaining to the maid that enters won't get you very far. "We apologize for the inconvenience," she says, clearly a rehearsed script she's had practice delivering. "We're in the middle of repairs. Guests will have to share four to a room." Ask her again, and mumbles out a mousy apology, before scurrying away. Guess you'll have to rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to claim the bed.

Eventually, your curiosity or hunger (or anger) wins out. Entering the corridor, "repairs" suddenly seems like an understatement. A putrid scent sits in the air, maids scrubbing at bits of guts stuck into the carpet like chewing gum. No one looks up from the frantic cleaning as you stroll down the corridors where you might find yourself ending up in the twists and turns of rooms, lost in what they offer. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks that have been ripped from the wall and ancient artifacts knocked down from their rightful places, lead to the dining room in all of its cobwebbed disrepair.

There, Giles ushers guests onto the lawn. "Breakfast will be served outside today," he says, tight lines around his mouth. Traditional gingham blankets have been sprawled out on the lawn, protecting your legs from the thin layer of snowmelt still on the ground, as you're nudged together and urged to share amongst yourselves. Open up the wicker basket to a strange assortment scrounged together last minute by the kitchens: champagne before noon, lobster salad sandwiches, fruit cakes, artisanal cheeses, apples that look questionably rotten, and old Valentine's Day chocolates in plasticky heart boxes to polish it off. Do those taste spiked to you? It's a good thing it's still a crisp day to cool you off, once you start feeling a little warmer under the collar.

For those of you attempting your daring escapes, 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 cocaine is there, just like you remember. The strangers in your room 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. Walk to the estate lawns, and find everyone there eating away at their breakfast.

Welcome to Saltburnt, esteemed guests. Enjoy your treats while they last.

CUPID'S ARROW STRUCK ME

CONTENT WARNINGS: possible sex, violence, a/b/o themes (pheromones, mating, heat/rut), breeding, body transformation/body horror, aphrodisiacs.

They say all is fair in love and war, but making war instead of love is a tiresome sport. While the help mops blood from the floorboards, the Balfours have kindly arranged for a (very belated!) Lupercalia celebration. What better way to distract yourself from your pesky mortality, if not with the life-giving act of sex? Just ask the Ancient Romans.

For those guests who like to watch (we see you, voyeurs), the lawn's knolls offer a perfect viewing. There, you can participate in a hunt of a more innocent sort. Sprinkled throughout the lawn, hidden in flower pots and tree alcoves, are brightly colored plastic eggs. Pop them open, and you'll find hidden trinkets inside. Those lucky enough might win a new pair of Tiffany's diamonds; some, to your annoyance, explode in your face with glitter and confetti. Others contain chalky conversation hearts, stamped with their own sayings. Some lean more innocent, but there's no mistaking the X-Rated hearts in the bunch.

Whether yours are PG or NC-17, they share one thing in common: you're compelled by the spirit of whatever heart you munch on, whether it be embodying its mood or acting out its instructions with a partner.

For those guests who are a little more daring (helped along by the chocolates that might have you feeling bolder than normal), Jonty has agreed to lend his expertise to leading a hunt — of sorts. With his expert knowledge on nature, HALSIN has been appointed to lead the charge alongside him, calmly watching over those who take an interest in signing up. By the edge of the forest, volunteers are divided into various groups and given all they need to transform. Masked hunters browse through an assortment of flogs, bindings, collars, leashes, and riding crops for the pleasure (or pain) of their captured prey. As for guests who draw the short end of the stick? You're the prized catch of the day. You best run, rabbit, and hope the wolves don't catch your scent.

PREY is, at least, given the mercy of a head start — we're not complete animals, here. Stripped naked and vulnerable, with only a mask to protect you, the only goal on your mind is to outlast the hunters. It's all in good fun, at first. Women and men alike are dragged laughing and kicking by their ankles, a reward for their captor to do with as they please. Eventually, the thrill in your stomach turns to dread, and the dread turns into a cramping ache that leaves you gasping on the forest floor, unbearable pain wrenching through your insides. For a horrifying moment, you're certain your bones are going to split apart from your flesh. You burn and burn and burn with no relief, caught between your desire to run and your need to fill the emptiness within you.

HUNTERS aren't immune, either. There's something animal within you, clawing for escape. Instincts overtake all sense and logic, leaving behind the natural, predatory drive to claim. Participants gradually lose themselves in their roles, reduced to nothing more than a mess of base instincts. Your fellow hunters, perhaps once friends, are nothing more than competition to you now; you snap, violent and territorial, at any who cross your path. Your senses grow stronger, scenting the sweetness of your prey on the wind, single-mindedly chasing their trail.

Think that's the worst of it? Think again. You might become so absorbed in your role that your body follows suit, transforming before your very eyes. Furry ears sprout, tails emerge, fangs descend, claws sharpen, mating glands throb in your throat beg for attention, your anatomy grows new changes to accommodate your fun, compatible mates smell especially enticing — all determined by the mask you don, now trapped in your new form.

Happy hunting, dearests. Don't let your prey be the one who got away. You never know who might get to them first.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw (exhibitionism, ritual sex, orgy), dubious consent via magical compulsion.

After a debauched weekend, the Balfours eventually get sick of cleaning cum and blood off of their expensive Tuscan curtains courtesy of their guests' constant animal urges, and search for a solution. It starts with a magic pull in the pit of your stomach one night, guiding you further into the woods, back to where it all began. The further you step into the darkened forest, the more that feeling unspools, until you find yourself at the base of an altar. Branches and flowers decorate its sides, but it's the whorling sigils that draw your eye. To even the most educated eye, they're indiscernible, like nothing you've ever seen — yet they seem to soothe you, as if you know this is where you were meant to be.

Gentle hands from servants shed your clothing. The night air is a balm on your overheated skin as countless hands paint the same symbols ritualistically over your stomach, your chest, your neck, imbuing you with a sudden overwhelming burst of ... something. Something ancient and powerful, a vessel for magic growing root in your belly. Regardless of gender, they name you LORD or MAIDEN as they step aside to form a holy circle, watching you with reverent stares.

As a Lord, you don't know how you know, but you're aware you must choose your Maiden from the crowd. Maybe it's your mate, if you've taken one; maybe it's a stranger, inexplicably calling to you. But the magic leads you to them, unable to deny the call, as you bed them on the altar for all to see. Others around you do the same, pairing off or joining couples with wandering hands, smudging lines of paint in their ecstasy. Upon completing the rite with your chosen (or several chosens), magic releases itself into the land like a ripple, urging on the fertile beginnings of springtime. Trees sprout full leaves. Rose bushes come into full bloom. Those who suffered transformations come back to themselves, losing all of their animal features, and regaining their minds.

To fully embrace the season's change, you're invited to the lakeside festivities that follow. Several fires flicker warmly, dancers in various states of undress beckoning you to join them as they twirl themselves around. Some call for you to leap over the flames, showing you how it's done with a bit of drunken grace. All guests are urged to "purify" themselves in the spirit of rebirth, starting with your fears and hang-ups and rancid vibes. Choose a sentimental item to sacrifice, and release yourself from the bad memories attached, by feeding it to the flames. Or pen those letters you can't bring yourself to send, pouring out those emotions you've kept inside, and watch the pages burn away the baggage they contain.

Be careful with them, however — those letters are delivered to rooms the very next day, airing out your dirty laundry to their intended (or unintended, oops) recipient. You might even find they've been left in very public view, carelessly strewn onto the dining table or hung up in the corridors, for anyone to read. Those text drafts you also never meant to see the light of day? Fired off to the person you thought better of sending them to. Did you mean for those to stay private? Too bad, so sad. Part of purification is making amends with yourself and your loved ones, so get to it if you want to clean your dirty soul.

More of a "wash that guy right out of your hair" kind of person? Come join the communal bathing in the lake, where you're encouraged to give your neighbor a helpful hand. Is it just the moonlight, or do they look much more irresistibly beautiful? Whatever the case, pouring a palmful of water over each other seems to wash away old pains, whether physical or mental. Scars begin to fade as complexions become brighter. Your anxieties melt away until you can't remember ever having them. Festering grudges disappear. You are well and truly free for the night, unburdened by what came before. Nothing can hold you back.

If you're not looking to get your toes wet, you can participate in love fortune-telling at the seed planting and flower-making station. Individuals are paired off and led to a patch of garden where they can plant new life for the upcoming season, encouraged to write down their intentions and hopes for the upcoming spring, and share them by burying them alongside their seed. In another area, supplies have been left out to twine together your own flowering wreaths, which are then sent to float in the lake. Whoever picks up your wreath is rumored to be your soulmate, and if you didn't believe in them before — you do now. As if struck by Cupid's arrow, you fall head over heels for them, no matter how you felt about them before.

As you sip on tea and munch on sweet dumplings, be sure to make your final stop the Wishing Tree. Ribbons hang from its branches in delicate pastel colors, each of them bearing someone's desire. Blank scraps wait nearby, encouraging you to write and share your own. Who knows? It might just come true.

DIRECTORY

taken
activity check
setting

reserves
rewards
rules

applications
hiatus & drop
faq

Comments

alia atreides | dune | current character/player

[preborns]

i. cupid’s arrow

[The hunt is announced, and Alia signs up, welcoming the exercise, welcoming the burn of her muscles and lungs from running, welcoming the crisp air and gently greening forest, a boon at last after so many, many dark months. Perhaps she shall find her solace there, out in the thawing earth, amongst the birds and beetles, as she had in the summertime – especially now, in these days, after the bitter nightmares and the silence and the disappearance of a mother Alia still will not allow herself to mourn. She picks her mask – the round-eared, sharp-toothed face of a mink or weasel, the sort of lean, clever creature that would thrive in the dunes of her homeworld, slinking lightfooted enough that not even Shai-Hulud would feel her hunting.

Or, being hunted, apparently – to Alia’s amusement, she’s stripped naked, her long hair a shining gold braid down her spine, her body sunkissed even after the long winter, and she’s told that she will receive a head start, to make things fair. The other prey leap forward immediately upon receiving the signal, but Alia lingers at the edge of the forest, turns back to give the hunters a long, searching look over her shoulder, spice-bright eyes fixed on each one in turn.

Beneath the mask, she smiles with all her teeth before slipping into the green shadows of the woods, silent as a desert wind, sleek as water, melting into the shifting, verdant dapples of sunlight like she had never been there. It isn’t until a hunter comes close (close enough to smell, close enough to taste) that Alia pokes her head out from behind a tree, still smiling.]

Come on, you’ll have to do better than that if you want to catch me. [Chiding, teasing, lingering just long enough for her scent, like sweat and sand and spice, like salt on the howling desert wind, to entangle the hunter, before she’s off, running light-footed and fleet as a gazelle, as a spirit, as Muad’Dib fleeing for his life before the desert hawks.]

ii. a rose by any other name

[When the hunt has ended, Alia retreats to the lakeside, lean, golden body streaked with sweat and grime, long hair coming free of her braid. She settles in the soft, thawing mud by the water’s edge and, after a quiet pause, slips her bare feet into the cool water, letting out a soft exhale and closing her eyes. Her expression doesn’t change, solemn and unreadable as ever, but there’s a gentleness to how she reaches up and begins undoing her long braid, working the blonde strands free to cascade down her back, nearly to her waist.

To any who know Alia well, her slight smile is indicative of her inner calm, her peacefulness at being back by the lakeside – forbidden by ice and snow for so, so many months, haunted by cruel ghosts (Jace beneath the water’s surface, Alicent thirsting and snarling and clawing at the ice until her fingers bled) and frost spirits. None of those are present now, in the first blush of spring, in the soft sounds of the forest and lakeside creatures slowly coming back to life.

It’s one of these creatures that Alia finds, rising to wade in the shin-deep water, ignoring the flowers and scented oils for a moment, in favor of crouching naked amongst the reeds and rushes and reaching into the silty, black mud. Her delicate hands scoop up a handful, cradled tenderly, lovingly, and after a moment two tiny dark eyes poke out of the blob of mud, peering upwards with amphibian solemnity.

Alia smiles at last, warm and fond and bright as a thousand suns.] Good morning. Welcome back, little friend. [Catching eyes on her, she turns slightly, peering through her curtain of hair at someone on the bank. Her nose scrunches, teeth still bared in her uncanny grin.] They were sleeping, all winter long, deep in the mud. I’ve missed them.

iii. wildcard

[ooc: none of these grab you? feel free to wildcard your character running into alia at the fire or in the woods – or hit me up at ceedawkes with any other ideas! blanket permission for f/m, f/f, f/any for any smutty prompts~]

ii

[viver]

[ I've missed them. So this sunshine's presence precedes the season's beginning, reunited with critters borrowed by the winter like they were a gift from nature itself. Maybe that's the case — Zephir could declare it reality, be the egotistical god who bends the rules in his mind and attributes it to some alternative manifestation of himself that stepped aside when he opened his eyes and saw how the sunlight hit Saltburn's grounds for the very first time. ]

I'm glad you're here. To welcome them back.

[ If someone must do it, let them be joyful. Zephir steps closer, standing at the edge of the water, clothes nowhere to be found. ]

My Death also welcomed me back. I'm afraid I gave him less reasons to smile, though.

[preborns]

[Alia hums thoughtfully, the sun on her hair lighting it vivid gold, shimmering as she tilts her head at the stranger. She likes the feel of him, warm at the edges of her mind, though she doesn’t press deeper, doesn’t attempt to get a feel of him, fill her greedy hands with the shape of his thoughts. There’s enough to fill her hands, the mud alight with softly chirping, tiny frogs, waking from their slumber, rousing to the sun like the guests are.]

I would not have missed it. I promised them I’d return when the world was warm again. [Soft, conspiratorially:] Though I feared it may never be again. I had never seen a winter before.

[The comment gets another hum, Alia sloshing through the water towards the edge of the lake.] Were you away during the winter as well? Sleeping in the mud with my little friends? I hope they moved aside and made room for you, if so. That’s good manners.

[viver]

Ah, [ He almost exclaims. Her very first winter — and this is the experience she was given. The dead seeking to eat the living before the living starved to death. ] Let's hope your second winter will be a little less grim, then, shall we.

[ Spoken with levity, he crouches down to wait until Alia and her friends are close enough for him to look at. Eyes kept on them at first, he eventually watches her with the same amount of attention as he continues. ]

Only for a few days. My body never made it to these waters, but my name did. I'm sure they kept it safe. They must be used to those by now, don't you think?

[preborns]

Do you think we’ll be here that long? [There’s no real trepidation or fear in Alia’s voice – merely a sort of gentle curiosity. Time is fairly meaningless to her, in truth, and she fears the concept of an extended visit to Saltburnt very little.

The frogs gently teem, bright dark eyes, somehow never straying too far towards the edges of Alia’s gently cupped palms. She smiles down at her handful, then lowers it carefully back to the waters edge, then beneath, sending tiny frogs scattering.] They must, yes. Perhaps they guard the names until they are reclaimed. It’s quite kind of them, don’t you think?

[A gentle swish of her hands to clean away the last of the mud and Alia raises her eyes at last, lets them take in the shape of the stranger.] You look well, for once-dead. Was it unpleasant?

[viver]

I'd have to ask my Death.

[ If that's the case, with the hypothetical little guardians of the lake's stones. Zephir indulges and observes her throughout, walks as she turns to clean her hands and draws her attention back to him. It's very welcome. ]

Thank you, love. [ Spoken like he could turn any comment into a compliment. ] Very unpleasant. Excruciating, really. My killer had been turned into one of those undead creatures and couldn't help himself when he found me. I was eaten alive, [ A sigh, ] Until I no longer was.

[ Zephir pauses and narrows his eyes, realizing something. ]

I suppose you could say he did help himself, actually. So to speak.

[preborns]

Mmmm, he must needs be the expert, yes. [alia says it sweetly, sedately, as she wades out of the water slowly, plucking a bit of pond weed out of her trailing, tangled hair. she’s calmly unconcerned with her nudity, dripping lake water as she climbs up onto the bank and perches on the muddy expanse of it, looking upwards at him thoughtfully.]

Was it very unpleasant? To die? I do not recall my other-memory’s deaths, only the events leading up to them. [a bit faraway, a glassy look in those strange, unblinking eyes, before she refocuses and smiles sweetly.] Will you enact revenge, do you think?

[viver]

Revenge? [ His smile widens, fondly dismissive. Only one thing could make him consider the idea, and even then… ]

No, not at all. He should be proud of himself, really. For what he accomplished by killing me. I just wish my other half had been there to see it.

[ A slight tilt of his head, curious. ]

Will you tell me about this other-memory?

rose

[nightsung]

[ Shadowheart is wary of the water, and hovers naked near its edge as she carefully undoes her own braid, setting her hair ornaments atop her pile of clothing in the grass. It's difficult to gauge the lake's depth from shore, and she doesn't wish to sink or be ridiculed for not being able to swim.

Thankfully, there's a distraction in the reeds. She hears the croaking of the frogs, but hasn't yet spotted any, and she watches with quiet interest as Alia cups a handful of mud. ]

Oh! [ With soft surprise, as the mud blinks and the frog's shape becomes clear through its camouflage. ] How sweet. Are there many of them?

[preborns]

[Alia looks up from her tenderly cradled handful, her teeth still bared, like she’s only just learned to smile, like a child, reckless and free with her warmth. The dark-haired woman speaks gently, considers her tiny friend with care, and Alia lifts her dripping hands up and out, letting Shadowheart see the squirm of the frog as it settles deeper in the mud.]

A great many, yes. They sing at nighttime, in the summer, thousands and thousands. [Her voice is lilting, dreamy, watching the creature blink again, letting out a near-inaudible peep.] You’ve never heard such lovely songs.

[She tilts her head, the veil of gold hair sweeping over one shoulder, over her bare chest.] Would you like to hold one? You must be very sweet and gentle, though.

[nightsung]

[ Alia conjures an image with her words, evocative in a way that skirts close to the edge of memory: fireflies winking against a backdrop of hazy twilight, night-blooming flowers and frog-song. It takes Shadowheart by surprise, and that flickers across her features before she can school them, her heel near-slipping in the mud as she takes a small step back.

But it's more of a sense-memory than a linear moment in time. The edges of it curl away like smoke, until there's nothing left but the woman and frog in front of her, real as anything despite this entire place having the quality of a strange waking dream.

Shadowheart lets go of a soft exhale, face sliding back into a more guarded mask. ]

I suppose. [ She steps toward the reeds, her gaze on the little frog in Alia's hands. ] They remind me of someone I know.

[ Lae'zel, whom she wouldn't call a friend, exactly, though there's an edge of fondness to her voice. She wouldn't like the comparison. ]

[preborns]

[Alia's eyes are bright and quick as hungry songbirds skimming over fields of fruit trees, plucking ripe berries and gulping them down beneath the sizzling sun. She sees that glimpse of something, a chord strummed, a half-remembered tune. It leaves like a wisp of spice in the wind, and Alia feels it's loss echoed in her chest as it glows momentary, brief over the stranger's lovely face.

Stepping closer, one hand cupped, holding the tiny bright-eyed amphibian, Alia brings her palm level with the other woman's.] Hold your hand steady, like a little bowl, see? A place for them to sit. [One finger of her free hand nudges the little frog, prompting it to hop forward, from one hand to another.]

You knew someone fond of mud? Or singing, perhaps?

[nightsung]

Neither.

[ Though the image of Lae'zel singing is amusing, in its own way. Shadowheart cups both hands together, her fingertips touching Alia's, until the frog hops into hers, its belly cool against her skin. It is sweet, and Shadowheart feels a tenderness toward it, smiling gently as she lifts her hands to get a closer look. ]

She bears a resemblance, with green skin and a grumpy face.

[preborns]

[that gets a soft, lilting laugh, a girl’s laugh, a child’s, quite at odds with the regal, measured way alia moves, leaning in and examining the tiny frog in shadowheart’s palms, then stroking it’s back with a fingertip.]

A froglike woman – a womanlike frog? [another grin, all teeth. the frog makes it’s lilting peepeepeep sound, it’s dark eyes glittering, it’s throat expanding like the world’s smallest balloon.] How lovely. Is she grumpy all the way through, or just on the outside?

[then, more gently:] Is she here with you?

homelander | hairwashing

[preborns]

[Eventually Alia wades deeper into the lake, feels the cold loam between her toes swirl up and around her ankles, her shins, feels the stirring of a thawing world. The sun is returning, and with it the lightness in Alia's heart. She will be able to wander and marvel at the world again, will have the freedom of the summer before. Maybe she'll finally be able to shake off the prison, it's chill, the root of it's grief.

She alights on a rock, starting to untangle her long curtain of hair, the curved line of her spine pointed towards the shore. The sun warms her shoulders, her bare chest, and she swivels slightly at the approach of a tall, broad figure, a shock of hair as bright gold as hers. Alia offers that toothy, uncanny grin of hers, touched with genuine warmth at the sight of Homelander as he pauses on the shore.]

Come and help me. [It's more command than request, but there's a sweetness in the way Alia turns towards him, droplets of water coursing over the pert swell of her chest, the curve of her waist.] Bring something that smells nice. [Alia flicks her leg through the water, splashing droplets everywhere as her toes point towards the various bottles of scented oils and lotions that are laid out in true bacchanalia fashion.]

[breeding]

[ She looks like a painting. A Venus on the rocks, the light turning her hair into spun gold, her skin into blushing porcelain. Homelander's not typically one to truly be moved by beauty, but— it's the way she smiles at him, the little tics that say he's wanted, welcomed, that hook easily into his psyche, bringing him forward even as a part of him, petulant, thinks she hardly needs help bathing herself. But that's beside the point. ]

What's "nice"? [ he asks, more to himself than anything else, as he crouches down to rifle through the bottles decorating the grass. Some of the bottle look fancy — like they've been pulled directly from Portia's bathroom cabinet (wherever that is — it suddenly occurs to Homelander that he has no idea where any of the Balfours actually sleep) — while others look more like typical Bed Bath & Beyond fare or the kind of shit you'd find on Etsy.

He opts for one of the more bougie-looking options (hinoki-scented, says the label), opening it and giving the mouth of the bottle a sniff as he brings it over, toeing off his shoes (loafers, to complement the plain slacks and white button-down he's chosen over his usual uniform) before stepping — gingerly — into the water. ]

Didn't realize you had a bit of an exhibitionist streak.

[preborns]

[Alia watches, twisted at the waist, water streaming off her hair, dripping lazily off the curves of her shoulders, her breasts, her hips. The air is warmer than it’s been, but still chilly enough that goosebumps ripple over her arms, her belly, nipples pebbling, knees pressing together.

But the shivers warm into a smile, welcoming and eager and bemused as Homelander sorts through the bottles, brings over his choice, dressed for a stroll, not a swim. Alia tilts her head, bright fondness at the way he steps into the lake, wincing a bit, the cuffs of his slacks already dampening. She doesn’t move to meet him halfway, just waits with her head at an angle and her eyes keen and unblinking.]

I didn’t want to get my clothes wet. It’s nicer without them on. [The toothy grin is just short of uncanny, especially with the unblinking intentness of Alia’s stare, but it softens as she kicks a bit of water at him again.] I don’t mind if you take yours off either. You can even stay under the water so nobody sees, if you’re shy.

[breeding]

I'm not fucking shy.

[ Though saying it demands follow-through, the kind that makes him frown as he waves away the droplets she kicks in his direction. He stalls a few steps away, the line of his mouth twisting as he considers what to do next. Taking off his shirt is the most reasonable option, while taking off his pants is more logical considering that they're what's actually in the water, but will also look completely insane. ]

Should've worn swim trunks, [ is what he mumbles as he backtracks toward the lake shore. It's no different, he reasons, if he strips down to his briefs — which he does in the next moment. He's a little slimmer than his suit suggests (by necessity of having to fit into it) but still built the way a superhero is expected to be, muscles clearly defined and reading of a strength that he'd technically have even if he didn't look the way he does.

He leaves his clothes in a pile on the grass — the damp hem of his pants carefully separate from his shirt — before wading back through the water, bottle once again in hand, held out for her to inspect. ]

[preborns]

[alia’s only response is a not-at-all stifled giggle, resting back on her hands, shoulders back, bared chest soaking up the sun as homelander sloshes back to the shore and, after a moment, strips down. her faze is similarly unflinching, unblinking, peering out from between locks of hair that tumble around her face when he returns, holding the bottle, bare-chested and bare-legged.

she doesn’t look at the bottle for a moment, clearly occupied in looking at him instead. there’s a strange, quiet boldness in her too-bright eyes, in the way they linger – not overtly seductive, not lascivious, but not afraid either. she’s looking, and she wants him to know she’s looking, like there’s nothing that can hide from her, whether he’s wearing a hundred layers or nothing at all.

finally alia’s eyes meet homelander’s, giving away nothing, blinking slow and long-lashed in the warm, false spring sun. one foot nudges out, bumps very lightly against his shin beneath the water, then she pushes off her seat and wades forward to meet him halfway. standing, she’s shorter, slighter, and the uneven lake bed means she’s half-swimming, water lapping up the smooth, damp plane of her stomach, splashing at the pert, perky shape of her breasts as she comes to a stop in front of him.

another of those long, thoughtful looks, then alia plucks the bottle from homelander’s hand, turning it around and around for a moment, then uncapping it to sniff.] Mmmm…mhm. Nice. [a sudden grin, all her teeth, flashing in the sun.] Good choice.

[breeding]

[ He should be annoyed — and he is, a little, the current of it pricking at his skin like an itch — but the thing is that she's so fucking weird, weird in a way that differs from the crunchy hipsters or woo-woo hippies or wannabe edgelords he's come across before. The fact that her strangeness is genuine is what makes it difficult to deal with. Or maybe it's a kind of jealousy. He's arguably unabashedly himself, but he's plagued by an insecurity that she doesn't seem to feel at all.

So as she looks at him, he just looks back, his brow pinching as he attempts to divine anything from her expression. It's tempting to look away, but stubbornness wins out, at least until Alia speaks again.

(It's unsettling, to be looked at like he's truly known. It's one thing to bare himself willingly, but another entirely to be looked through the way she manages it. He still remembers their first text conversation, remembers the thought that they might be kindred in some way. Could she read his mind, if she tried?) ]

You could have gotten it, yourself, [ he says, a little halting. ]

Why'd you want me?

[preborns]

[alia keeps looking upwards, head tilted slightly, eyes solemn and unblinking and strange, but soft, for all that. she can’t read his mind, but she can feel it, like she feels the consciousness of every living thing in the lake, aware of every blade of grass, every rustling reed along the shoreline, every soft breeze that makes goosebumps rise over her bare, wet arms. the sheer amount of sensory input is dizzying, overwhelming, but alia has felt it all her life, knows nothing different. she doesn’t know she’s strange.

finally, she smiles. no teeth, just a soft curl of her lips.]

Because I like you. [that’s all. alia turns, swim/wades back to the rock she’d been perched on, then settles down, up to her shoulders in water, the seal-sleek gleam of her golden hair floating on the surface like sunlight.]

You can sit on the rock. You’ll be able to wash easier.

[breeding]

[ The more the days stretch on, the easier it is for Homelander to begin to get used to this place. But every now and then, there's something to shake him out of it — now, for instance, the idea of washing up on a rock in a lake in front of a palatial estate, like he's in some weird version of Pride and Prejudice.

As for Alia's answer, it hits him like a volley he fails to match. It should be natural, obvious — he's always polled well, is meant to be liked, at least in his increasingly faraway former context — but it still feels strange to hear her say it out loud. (He knows he's strange, knows he's other. The knowledge of it burns him from the inside out.)

Still, he comes to sit next to her on the rock, easily lifting himself up, though he doesn't yet move to further wet his skin. ]

Do you even use the bath in your room?

[preborns]

[alia waits with her uncanny stillness, her patience that is beyond her flesh alone, though when homelander settles on the rock, she turns and flashes her own odd smile, eyes crinkling with pleased satisfaction.]

Often, through the winter. Save for last month, of course. [there's no grim gravitas in alia's voice, like there is with many others -- she had found a peace in february, cloistered away with paul and alina, staying warm and fed and safe. moreover, there had been peace in her mind, the teeming whisper of the sisterhood, of her ancestors finally silent.

cocking her head, birdlike, alia bares her teeth wider.] I simply prefer the lake. It is not so stingy with it's water as a bath.

[breeding]

[ She's a mess of contradictions to him, a space princess and abomination who behaves more often than not like a feral raccoon, yet still speaks as though pulled from a swords-and-sandals fantasy world. He doesn't get it, doesn't know how to reconcile it — but that, less so than the degree to which he doesn't understand the lack of urgency about her.

Based on what he knows about her, he ought to understand her better. He doesn't. ]

You could build yourself a jacuzzi, maybe an infinity pool.

[ The line of his mouth quirks at her smile, such as it is. ]

—How'd you get by, last month?

[preborns]

[that gets a soft huffy sound – a laugh, evident after a moment, sounding creaky and ill-used. alia smiles easily, all teeth, all fanged intent, but she doesn’t laugh nearly as much. she tips her head back, looks backwards, upside-down at homelander, letting her hair soak to the roots.]

Infinity pool. Those are the sort that seem to float, to have no edge, right? [another of those desert-wind laughs, and she floats back, until her back is against the rock, lifting her golden head, hair streaming over her shoulders, her chest.] You vastly overestimate my architectural ability, Homelander. [she says his name sing-song, each syllable rounded and enunciated (home-land-er), then turns to settle her hands lightly on his knee, chin resting on them.] Would you help?

…hmm. [the question makes her eyes dance away, blue and unreadable, looking out into empty space.] It was quiet. Very quiet. In my head. I’d never heard such a silence.

[a long pause, a blink, then she looks back up at homelander.] And you? You stayed close to Alicent, kept her safe, kept her warm. Well done, good and faithful knight.