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

[corporeity]

[ Finished with his share of the seeds, Gale wipes his hands on a cloth and ducks his head to hide his smile. He doubts anyone has ever thought him particularly mysterious, but he enjoys the accusation all the same. Attention diverted, despite the scratch of pen against paper, assuring him that Astarion is committed to the activity — and to him, in a way.

A brief, shy glance as they trade roles. He wonders if he should ask whether he’s allowed to read it, only to find his eyes drawn to his name on the page before he can do so. My dear Gale. Heart clenched, fingers curling in the vee of his shirt where the orb marks him. Back to the start, then, unable to keep himself from touching the paper, reverent, barely brushing the words to avoid smudging the ink. He hadn’t thought of such things in terms of death and renewal. A new life together, vivid in his mind. Possibilities that were unavailable to a dying man or a living Chosen. He dabs at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.

And he writes.

It takes a little longer than Astarion’s planting, pen hovering as he refines his thoughts. Unable to correct himself as he does when he talks, always favouring progress over perfection. Once finished, he reads it back, flustering himself, but he extends the letter to Astarion upon meeting his gaze, smile lopsided and tender. ]

I write now not as Gale of Waterdeep, but as Gale Dekarios, a man lucky to be in the company of one Astarion Ancunín. In this time of renewal, it seems appropriate to reinvent — or uninvent — myself. I have much to be grateful for, as I am, yet I must hope for a little more, for myself and for my sweetheart.

I hope and, indeed, have faith that we will find happiness together. I know that I have never felt such contentment, as I do with him by my side.

And so I ask only that our companionship may continue, despite whatever else may come. And that we may make our home together in time, battle-worn boots discarded at long last.

[thirsted]

[ Of all the reactions that Astarion braces himself for, to bring a tear to Gale's eye isn't among them. Suddenly, he's not sure why — why he expects that any less than laughter or derision. Maybe it's too vulnerable, too tender, too close to the heart for him to be able to disregard it. He wants to apologize, like he's done something wrong, but Gale begins writing in the next moment. It's all the leeway Astarion needs to compose himself, looking up again only once he's finished planting. He fidgets as he waits, pinching the soil around the little hole they've dug as if to neaten it despite the fact that it's destined to be filled in within moments.

The message is more difficult to recover from.

At the very least, he's moved largely past the idea that he's duped Gale, somehow, but he's still not used to receiving such earnest affection. It feels, each time, like the moment he'd realized he could walk in the sun again, bright and warm and overwhelming, like breath in his lungs.

Softly, without thinking: ] Oh, Gale.

[ Even once the words leave his mouth, he doesn't seem to register them, lost in thought, reading the note again before he finally seems to return to earth, falling gently out of breathless orbit. ]

Here, [ he says, handing the parchment back, ] you bury it. I couldn't bear to part with it, if it were up to me.

[corporeity]

[ He thinks he’d give anything for Astarion to continue saying his name like that — oh, Gale — only to realise no sacrifice or offering is required. Astarion will continue to sigh sweetly for as long as Gale dotes on him, and Gale would gladly do so for the whole of his life. An exchange of time and affection perfectly balanced, like the note in his hand. ]

I thought the same.

[ Gale folds the letter with care, minimising the creases in the paper, and presses it into the earth. Unable to keep from lingering, in the end, with so many words that say I love you printed on the page. Reluctantly, he sits up on his creaky knees to do the work of burying it amongst the seeds. In that moment, he thinks not of the grounds before them but of his mother’s beloved garden in Waterdeep. Of Astarion there, among the frostroses, haloed by the soft glow of the spring sun. ]

But then I remembered I’ve the man who wrote it.

[ A sideways glance, crooked smile tilting higher. Do you understand? With you, I want for nothing. ]

[ simply, ] And he inspires poetry in me with every look. I need only write it down.

[ And he will. I like to hear you say it the only encouragement he required to recognise his affirmations were worthwhile. Whatever Astarion likes, he should have. And Gale should be so lucky to give it to him. ]

[thirsted]

He's lucky.

[ Though he catches that little glance, he's quick to look away, color rising in his face as he looks down into the dirt, at Gale's steady (capable, strong) hands fill in the pocket lined with seeds and their declaration of care for each other. It alleviates but doesn't dissolve the pang in his chest as he watches the slip of paper disappear, understanding it to be something infinitely precious.

More softly, ] I'm lucky.

[ As the hole fills in, Astarion's pale hands join Gale's, scooping and patting down soil, forgoing his earlier primness for the sake of being a part of this ritual — or, perhaps more to the point, for the sake of helping Gale. As a price for sharing their lives, what's a little dirt?

When the ground is finally flat again, his hand finds Gale's, pausing there above the newly planted seeds (near-black specks of topsoil under his nails, covering the pads of his fingers like so much dust). ]

I made a wreath, [ he says, in a way that rings in his ears as nothing but painfully abrupt. ] The ones they're sending out into the lake. I made one — and I want you to find it.

[corporeity]

[ What a wonder, to see more and more of this Astarion, armour lifted overhead and set aside. Reaching for sentimentality despite prior punishment for any tender act. Every bit of affection that remains is a testament to his character, and Gale has never felt more grateful to anyone for simply existing. ]

You —

[ His gaze startles up, brows hiked, as his beloved stammers, wine-dark eyes open and vulnerable. A renewed flush splashes up his cheeks, deepened by the mere thought of Astarion crafting the wreath with his careful, elegant hands — thief’s hands, tailor’s hands — for Gale to find. He might have fallen to nerves, treating this as a test of his mettle like so much of what Mystra asked of him, if not for the halting, sentimental nature of the request. A holy mandate still.

Gale flips their hands, fingers threaded. ]

I’ll find it.

[ With a deft twist of his other hand, he casts a prestidigitation cantrip to rid the dirt from their fingertips. Essential, when touching something so precious, knuckles brushing under Astarion’s chin, tilting it up to kiss the uncertainty from his mouth. ]

Shall I bring it back to you? [ Repeated assurance, murmured as their noses brush. ] Or will you accompany me on my journey?

[thirsted]

[ He doesn't understand it, how easily Gale can draw laughter from him — not by using meanness, which used to be the only means by which he could be plied — but by the simple virtue of his earnestness. He laughs when the dirt disappears from his fingers, when Gale tips his chin up and kisses him. He thinks, for a moment, that he'd be content to while away the rest of the day here in the garden, basking in the warmth of the sun and of Gale's affection, all the more remarkable for how it seems to come innately to him. It's only Gale's dedication (and the gentle weight of the object he's had in his pocket since dressing himself this morning) that keeps him from giving in to the impulse, instead turning his head to smile into Gale's cheek. ]

I'll come with you.

[ And so he does, keeping their hands linked as he gets to his feet, leading them to the lake. Around them, other guests wander, couples indulging in the newly pleasant weather and the activities at hand — Astarion barely registers any of them, focused instead on the so-slight pressure of Gale's shoulder against his own. In his mind's eye, he pictures the wreath (sage leaves blooming into sprigs of lavender and white cherry blossoms, wound through with a delicate gold ribbon), his typical sharpness manifesting only in the brief thought that this might be a foolish exercise, expecting Gale to solve a mystery with nearly no clues at all.

(So he looks over once, just once, squinting just so, before glancing away again. If anyone could, Gale could, if for no other reason than that he indulges him in the first place.)

It's telling that he doesn't fuss, only going so far as to slip off his shoes before stepping into the water. ]

Watch your step, [ he says, a thoughtless aside. ] The shore isn't quite as well-tended as the rest of the lawn.

[corporeity]

[ It’s near impossible to cling to nerves and insecurity with Astarion at his side, hands clasped and shoulders bumping. His confident declaration (I’ll find it) born of both cockiness and faith, the peculiar mix of which is so very Gale.

Before they venture into the shallows, Gale rolls his trousers, as one might don armour before battle. Shoes left beside Astarion’s, a picture of domesticity that makes his breath stutter in his throat. Quick to catch up, nearly sliding on a patch of unmoored silt despite Astarion’s warning — and laughing, as he steadies himself.

He casts about the lake’s edge, already refocused on his given task. Fingers twitch toward a wreath of wisteria, carried on a ripple, but Gale ultimately allows it to float past. He doesn’t look to Astarion for confirmation of his decision until well after it’s gone, a surreptitious peak. How in the heavens will he know? Will he know? He could cheat, mind you, a locator spell loaded in his wrist, but that seems a hollow victory.

Instead, Gale treads water to peer at three wreaths in a cluster, dazzled by the brilliant reds threaded around them, roses and carnations and lilies. A colour he once associated with Astarion, at the start of their journey together, that now seems indicative of a poorly sketched portrait. He thinks again of Astarion making the wreath, with his fine, steady hands. Imagining what he might be drawn to. Something elegant, like the man before him, haloed by sunlight. ]

None of these.

[ Half to himself, trying for self-assurance. He nudges them out, so they’ll find their person elsewhere. ]

[thirsted]

[ The further Gale wades into the water, the more intensely Astarion finds he draws his attention. There are endless other tangents — the pursuit of the instinct to photograph their shoes side by side, the impulse to look through the various wreaths that now populate the surface of the lake — and yet his focus never wavers. It's not out of anxiety (far from it, he feels oddly at ease, ready to accept any outcome) but his arms still fold over his chest, his hands cupping his own elbows.

Perhaps it's to combat the pull he feels — the urge to follow Gale into the water just for the sake of staying close despite the fact that he's only just begun to get used to swimming again — or perhaps it's a point of focus to help keep his expression relatively still. No flinches, no nods, nothing that would give away the game despite the electric currents that flicker through his nerves.

He thinks, suddenly, that he ought to have brought a towel, maybe even a change of clothes. (Acts of service, more and more both second nature and clear declarations of affection.) So much for best-laid plans. At the very least, he spots little such preparation around them, with some even wading into the water alone.

And besides, the worry evaporates completely as soon as he spots the wreath he'd woven that morning, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at the thrill of recognition. The ends of the ribbon he'd tied through it trail in the water, sending gold shimmers up through to the surface as the delicate construction comes to a slow stop near Gale's ankle, blinking for his attention. ]

[corporeity]

[ A final near miss, with a wreath of pale peonies, better suited to Astarion’s marbled complexion. His hand twitches, arm outstretched, but he merely dips his fingers into the water alongside it. Not quite right, something missing from the arrangement.

It’s at that moment of contemplation, of almost puzzling out a solution, that Astarion’s wreath nudges his ankle. Gale peers down, bewilderment tipping into surprise at a wreath having found him. Only as he reaches for it does he begin to comprehend the treasure in hand, sunlight sparkling on the water. Awe stretches his features. The missing piece from the wreath of white now evident: Lavender, of course, because Astarion didn’t make it for himself alone but for Gale, too. Oh.

He lifts the wreath from the water with both hands, mindful of its finer elements. His pointer finger traces a shimmering ribbon to its end, curling the damp fabric around his knuckle. Not unlike the invisible strings that guide him back Astarion, always. A tether that keeps him grounded on this plane, when he might otherwise float away.

His eyes sting as he realises what it means. Proof that Gale is not only chosen but beloved. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s found the one, in every sense of the word. He turns to meet Astarion’s gaze across the water, soft (touched) where he thought he’d be triumphant. As Gale makes his way back, his pace quickens, eager to present Astarion with their prize. The once neat fold of his trouser legs has become uneven, damp from his foray into the shallows, but it hardly bothers him — nothing could, really. ]

Thought I might have to swim out for it. [ murmured with a tip of his head within kissing distance, wreath held in one hand between them while the other cups Astarion’s elbow, brushing where his cool fingertips have come to rest. ] Which I would’ve done, in case you’ve any doubt.

[ Mouth tugging high on one side. He would’ve dove to the bottom of the lake. The sea. Wherever Astarion led him. ]

It’s beautiful. [ adoring, ] You’re so beautiful.

[thirsted]

[ To be a vampire is to experience an eternal hunger, to be cursed to feel the pang of emptiness for years that stretch into decades into centuries. Yet, as Astarion watches Gale pluck the wreath from the surface of the lake, the droplets of water along the leaves and petals catching the warm light of the sun, he feels full, as though his heart might burst. He's not sure when his feet begin to carry him forward — worried, for a fraction of a second, that Gale might slip again — coming to meet him in the early shallows as though pulled by the same tether.

Even the rise and fall of Gale's words are like magic. Had he really been so unmoved by that current, when they'd first met — when now his expression opens and blooms on the ring of each consonant and vowel? ]

I never doubted you.

[ Quiet, even a little rough around the edges. His own spell broken, the heavy peaks and valleys of his usual speech smoothed out and made painfully earnest. No artifice, not when it's not necessary, not when he knows Gale could see through it as easily as a pane of glass.

It's that thought that causes Astarion's brow to crumple at Gale's invocation of beauty. Beauty, a curse under Cazador's reign, yet raised into something near-holy in Gale's hands, not least because Astarion understands the scope of it, accounting not just for his outward appearance but for every silly, ugly part of himself that he's revealed over the course of the past several months. All of it patiently endured, tolerated, accepted.

His eyes have begun to shine by the time he averts his gaze, looking down as he fishes into his pocket with a trembling hand, a kiss foregone out of buzzing nerves. ]

A prize, for the intrepid wizard.

[ And, after a pause — a slight jump of his eyebrows — he reveals what he's been carrying: nestled in the center of his palm is a silver pocket watch, the same one Gale had given to Astarion as his favor during the faire, ticking where it had been silent before. ]

—A token of my love for you.

[corporeity]

[ Astarion’s voice rings all the lovelier for its lack of practiced notes. Uneven in a way Gale finds terribly attractive, a song that differs every time it’s performed. Each tell of honest affection better than the last, the way his candlelit eyes stretch wide, the tremble in his hand that Gale steadies on instinct, cupping it from below. ]

You —

[ Kept it, already astonishing on its own, when Gale hadn’t done anything worthy of Astarion’s affection back then. Fixed it, when it tick, tick, ticks on, rescued from a lonely death in disrepair, not unlike Gale himself. Gale leans forward, not to kiss him — though he considers it, hazel eyes flicking to Astarion’s parted, pink lips — but to press their foreheads together. His lashes dust his cheek as he steels himself, eyes gleaming when they cast upward to meet their match. ]

I love you, too. [ Wonder and appreciation in every syllable. His thumb strays over the watch’s face, incontrovertible evidence of Astarion’s devotion. He can’t help the tear that slips from the corner of his eye. And with the utmost surety — ] As I’ve never loved another.

[ For all Astarion preens, Gale knows he falls victim to comparatives, and it costs him nothing to speak the truth of his place in Gale’s heart, exalted above all others. His goddess, forgotten. His inadequacies, deemed irrelevant. Having felt so imperfect, so unsuitable, for so long, he hadn’t dared contemplate the alternative. Now, it overwhelms. ]

[thirsted]

[ Astarion's touch is no less steady as he reaches up to wipe that tear away, half intent to comfort and half as though he could keep that tear for himself, stow it away as one might a jewel, more precious than any diamond. Proof that he's loved. For once, he's lost for words, his usual wit paling in the face of such overwhelming sentiment. What could he possibly say that would be worthy of such a moment? He can't fracture this, can't do anything but try to capture each and every detail in his memory. His eyes glitter in the second before he shifts forward, pulling Gale into a tight embrace.

Only Gale, after a lifetime of emptiness and distance. (I waited two hundred years for you.) Unworthiness and imperfection, seen through another lens. Yet, seen by each other, there's only perfection. There's nothing he'd change about Gale, in mind or in body. ]

I love you.

[ A whisper, first, the words finally in the order he'd intended, given over to the hair's breadth of space between them, the lovely blue-green-gold of his gaze. ]

I love you.

[ Once, twice — he loses track, the words stifled only once their lips meet, too overtaken by affection to think of shyness. All he can feel is want, distilled by reciprocation into something new. ]

[corporeity]

[ With the watch safe in his pocket and the wreath hooked on his wrist, Gale winds his arms around Astarion as soon as he tips forward, one broad hand sweeping up his spine. There’s nothing else to do — for the one who wipes his tears and mends his broken pieces, as if they were simple snags, deftly knitted back together with capable hands. Gale noses into his hair and breathes deep, bergamot and rosemary and velvety shampoo. Familiar after weeks spent in his bed, his arms. Beloved long before that.

To hear it aloud still dazzles, Gale’s ever splintered mind narrowed to a singular point, hanging on every syllable. It makes his breath catch and heart judder. Only Astarion’s mouth on his returns the air to his lungs, made whole and hale by his touch. Gale thinks he echoes it again, in a rush between kisses, before he loses himself in the intimacy.

And, finally, after an indeterminable amount of time — because he could stay here forever, suspended and content in this moment. ]

Wow.

[ Dazed, eyes flitting from Astarion’s own to his mouth (meant for kissing, for saying I love you). ]

What an unforgettable day you’ve planned for me. [ In lieu of whatever have I done to deserve you? He’s learning that isn’t the point, for Astarion. ] My love.

[thirsted]

[ There, again, that most lovely of all syllables — wow. Awe from a man who'd been raised up near godhood, a man who, among all others Astarion knows, could arguably have the least reason to be dumbstruck or wowed by anything ever again. It makes him laugh, helpless and happy, joy edging out any worry that this might be a dream or might not last. ]

"My love," [ he repeats, lashes fluttering. ] You make it sound so—

[ There's no right word, nothing that properly encompasses the depth of feeling threatening to burst out of Astarion's chest. Flagging, he leans forward again, resting his head against Gale's shoulder as he attempts to corral his thoughts, the scent of lavender as present on Gale's clothes as on the wreath he's holding. Sweet and comforting, a kind of scent easy to call home. ]

I wanted it to be ... right.

[ To be able to choose, to have some agency over the moment, in contrast to how much of the past several months, here and in Faerûn, has been completely out of their hands. The tadpole, their abduction, even the respective masters they'd served, all of it incidental.

To wit: ] I did want to tell you earlier.

[corporeity]

[ Gale hopes he makes it sound so — easy, instinctive, well worn. He brings his free hand to Astarion’s nape, gentling through his curls. His other arm remains banded across Astarion’s back, intent on keeping him in the clutch of his arms for as long as he’ll stay. ]

You did?

[ Chin knocking lightly against the crown of Astarion’s head, voice tight, once again wowed and moved by the simple idea that it might not have taken Astarion long at all to fall for him. That there was no herculean effort to overlook his flaws or discard his other options.

He looses a helpless little laugh, at the idea of it. Love as a fact, simple and known. Not a prize to be won or a reward to be meted out to the dutiful. It’s tempting to ask When? How many times? To review each interaction for evidence of love, unconfessed — but that’s pointless, when Astarion gives him such things every day. Even in ensuring this moment was theirs alone, he showed his hand. ]

I’m afraid I feel awfully lightheaded just to think of you thinking it. [ A pause, as he realises how silly that sounds. ] Gosh, you thieve every higher thought from my mind. A rogue in true.

[ Ahem. ]

That is to say — [ He guides Astarion’s head up and back, so he can see the attractive rouge in his cheeks and cradle his sharp jaw. ] You did make it right. You made it perfect.

[ A testament to his thoughtfulness, his softness, that his master could not excise from him for all the pain in the world. ]

[thirsted]

[ When Gale's fingers find his chin, Astarion doesn't resist, his sunset eyes glittering as flicker up to meet his gaze. He's seen Gale flustered before, yet there's something in his chest that catches each time he sees him so moved, his sheer depth of feeling enough to startle him when he's spent so many years cultivating facile versions of obsession and attraction. Even in his most idle moments, his memories track back to Gale's gentle reassurance — that he'd be happy merely to be with him, that to forgo physical intimacy wouldn't affect how he thinks of him.

So he doesn't mind being moved like this, can't help the pleased press of his lips as he raises his head. It's a rare and lovely thing, to be admired this way. ]

As if you haven't cast a spell over me in turn.

[ One hand creeps upward, skittering lightly up Gale's cheek to rest near his crown, fingers threading through his chestnut hair. And they're close, so close, that he doesn't try to resist the pull back into orbit, kissing Gale again despite the way breathlessness — such as it is — still suffuses his nerves.

Spoken into the sliver of warm space between them: ] And you hardly make it difficult.

[ Even in utter darkness, one would be able to hear the smile that shapes his mouth. ]

Each thought, a gift, freely given.

[corporeity]

[ A spell. The phrasing alone wins a sly smile. Anyone else might think it a line, but Gale knows it isn’t. No lilting artifice or crooning falsehood in Astarion’s tone. It’s as warming as the touch to his skin. A simple truth of their relationship, then, each compelled by the other. He leans into the soothing pull of fingers in his hair, eyes sliding shut as he’s kissed with ease, with desire, with love —

A soft sound when they part, both appreciative and wanting. ]

Only for you.

[ Affirmation of his singularity, in all matters of the heart and mind. A slight shake of his head, then, noses brushing, and he can’t resist the urge to kiss the quirk of Astarion’s mouth. Tipping his jaw for that slightly better angle, thumb arcing over his cheek, when Astarion deserves the best. When they might have invented kissing for Astarion, in fact, because Gale wants to do it every day, all the time, until his human lungs demand air. ]

—Why don’t we hang this wreath on our door?

[ Marking the room that’s theirs as much as they have each other, with the opals hanging from his ear and shimmering in the vee of Astarion’s collar. Different from the claim of a heavenly token or scars from a devilish master. A symbol of belonging. ]

For all to see. My love for you — [ another kiss, delirious with affection. ] And yours for me.

[thirsted]

[ It's the nature of the passage of time, one might say, to bring the future ever closer, but their thoughts attune as to what that means, a distant image of Waterdeep becoming ever clearer in the mind's eye, all the more real for how warm domesticity feels here, in a house ever on the cusp of another danger. That's not to say that a future in Faerûn would be completely carefree, but it'd be more manageable, he thinks — easier to bear with than the whims of a seemingly all-powerful and ill-tempered god.

Something like escape awaits them, eventually – Gale had caught up to him, in time — someday, somehow. Then again, if they were forever confined here ... it'd hardly be the worst fate, so long as they remained together. He thinks of the wreath, moved to the door of a well-appointed house. The earring, glinting in the light of a torch rather than an electric lamp. Things that exist here that he's not sure they'd be able to take with them. Just things, in the end — hardly as important as the bonds they've forged. (Gale would mourn the loss of Nick, of Armand, all those he's grown close to. Astarion would, too.)

And, again — none of it important, truly, so long as Gale remains near.

How strange. Once, he'd thought the imperative thing, having gained his freedom, would be some measure of material comfort. Control. Power. He'd thought it even here, the idea brought to the forefront of his mind by his dalliance with ReSculpt.

The apple of his throat bobs as he looks at Gale, nostrils flaring in a sudden heave of sentiment. He knows, in that moment: he'd give it all up, even revenge, for him. ]

You'll have to put a ward on it, [ he says, letting his gaze fall, trying to hide the tremulousness that threatens to break through his breast. ] I don't mind if it dries, but—

[ In case someone tries to take it, to touch it. ]

[corporeity]

[ So much flickers behind Astarion’s firelit eyes. It’s temping to nudge his mind with the tadpole and explore all that preoccupies him — but Astarion will tell him in time, when he’s ready. His curiosity hasn’t dampened, exactly, but it’s preemptively sated by the knowledge that Astarion unspools before him at his own pace, each length of thread more interesting and precious than the last. That he wants to unravel all his knots and tangles with Gale, even if it proves difficult.

It’s enough now to hold his cheek as it trembles, to press fingertips at his temple, and tuck his moonspun curls behind his ear. Astarion is worth the wait. ]

I will.

[ Promised without hesitation as he leans up to brush his lips over Astarion’s forehead. Though he doubts that wards will overcome the manor’s magic, they’ll do the essential work of preserving the wreath against wandering or tidying hands. And, importantly, putting Astarion at ease. ]

You’re awfully protective, aren’t you. [ of him, of their space, their future together. Territorial, he’d joked to Armand, but the word is imperfect for a knight as dashing as Astarion. Gale hums, a little amused, a lot flattered. Cheeks pink and voice low — ] I like it.

[thirsted]

[ Astarion's head tips into that tender touch, a pleased smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as Gale agrees to a measure of protection. Still, it seems to surprise him to hear the word said aloud, brow beginning to furrow before his features unfurl into a laugh. He can only think of it as something natural — animals become possessive over meager scraps when starved, and he'd spent so long with nothing. To then reach into the sky and pull down a star is nothing short of a miracle, something to be treasured and guarded as closely as his own life.

He reaches up, fingers tracing over the blush that colors Gale's face, so light, spider-like, as though fearful he might smudge the perfect flush of color. ]

I'll have to find other ways of showing it.

[ On the one hand, he doesn't expect he'll have to look far, though on the other, the offenses against which he'd raised his metaphorical sword hadn't exactly been small. And wouldn't Gale have done the same for him? But the imperative thing is the way Gale's voice dips low, the note he's come to associate with a wanting they've only just begun to explore. ]

Anything to tease forth that lovely tone, hm?

[corporeity]

[ His brows tick higher, at once surprised and entranced by how Astarion matches his tenor, a vibrato that plucks at something in his chest, pulse skipping and skidding around his veins. There was a time, not so long ago, where Astarion would have demurred. But that was before he’d pressed his fingers into the hollow at the base of Gale’s throat. Before he’d allowed his hand to wander the top of Gale’s chest or tucked his head against the warm curve of his shoulder (in their bed, in their room — their home, one day). ]

Anything.

[ Hardly a question, more echo and answer, smile tugging high on one side. Eyes sparking with obvious interest. Imagining far lower stakes displays in their future (he would have — has done — the same, though Astarion has only witnessed his magical efforts, thus far). ]

My, I’m sure your efforts will be positively educational for us both.

[ Gale catches his hand, threading their fingers together and tugging him toward the shore. ]

Though perhaps such experiments are best conducted on dry land.

[thirsted]

[ The emphasis prompts a laugh, bright and a little startled. He's too surprised to offer much of a retort, though that's an answer in and of itself — the way his eyebrows climb, the way his nerves skip, excited (cheerful) rather than nervous. There's some joke to be made, he's sure, about a reversal in the roles of teacher and student, but he can't quite put his finger on it — or rather, it doesn't seem terribly important, a flourish where one isn't need it.

As their fingers intertwine, Astarion lets out a sigh, lips forming a little moue as the breath whistles out. His grasp on Gale's hand is firm, held aloft just slightly as a means of balance for them both. ]

Quite right, [ he agrees, chancing one look over as he does his best to pick his way through rocks and odd startled fish. ] I don't know that I'd necessarily pick the lake again — on the shore, perhaps, but wading ...

[ He pauses, gaze remaining on their feet until they're finally back upon the grass. Their shoes, still side by side, aren't too far off, and he hands Gale his pair before picking up his own, fingers hooked in the collars rather than attempting to put them on while his feet are still wet. ]

Well, it wasn't so terrible. [ Then, with another squeeze of Gale's hand, ] Let's go back inside, my love.