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draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
saltburnmods) wrote in draino2025-03-01 08:00 am
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𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐘 ▣ MARCH TDM
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.
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.
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.
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
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
She's special.
[ A broader thought, distilled down into two words. ]
Not in the fucking gifted kid way. She's— you know.
[ Everyone knows. It's why they respect her, why they flock to her, why they all want a piece of her for their own. But the stillness of the moment passes in the next beat, as Homelander fixes the pad of his forefinger against the middle of Alia's forehead, touch light. ]
I didn't mean you'd build the thing yourself, anyway. Ask Jonty really nicely, or, I don't know, Wally. Someone with an engineering degree.
[ His finger taps once, twice, still careful. His mouth twists as he looks at her, staring into her head, into her skull. No different from anyone else's, to the naked eye, and yet. ]
—You miss it? Being that quiet?
no subject
[that suffices, just as she's alina or he's paul might. their essence, their magnetism captured in the name, insufficient in it's simplicity, but closer to describing what's contained than anything else could be. she understands homelander's attachment, the cord tying him to alicent now, always, since the games, perhaps. she reads it in the quickening of his pulse, the tang of his sweat, the flicker in his eyes when she opens hers once more and meets his gaze.
they're quiet for a moment, homelander's mouth twisting, alia's quiet, before he asks the question. alia's pale shoulders raise, fall, rising above, then sinking beneath the water.] It was a change. [neutral, disinterested -- the truth is one she will not allow herself to ponder for long. what does it matter if she misses the simplicity of her mind being her own? she cannot return to that. she is as she is.
turning suddenly, alia presses her bare back to homelander's shins, tips her head upside-down onto his lap to regard him that way instead.] Would you miss being ordinary? If you could become it?
no subject
His features are quick to shift at her question — as though there'd been no strange equilibrium between them just moments before — practically answering it before the words, ] Jesus, no, [ leave his mouth. ]
Why would I ever want to be ordinary?
[ And maybe it's a little hypocritical, given the fact that he'd just asked her essentially the same thing while expecting a different response, but— they're not the same person, nor of the same mind. She wouldn't look at him the way she does if they were.
Still frowning, he looks down at Alia, moving more damp strands of her hair to shift it into a middle part. ]
Is that the way it works? You stop hearing the voices, you can't use the Voice anymore?
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You could never be ordinary. It would suit you like a sandworm in flight. [there’s fondness in it, delicate-fingered hands resting on his thigh as alia drapes herself sylphlike in homelander’s lap, some sort of siren emerging from the depths.] Were you from my world, you would be among my brother’s Fedaykin, his holy warriors. There are none deadlier, you know.
[the question makes her hum softly, pursing her lips.] Not quite so; I learned the Voice as a sister of the Bene Gesserit. My body would be able to perform it, though not so powerfully as with the skills of the Reverend Mothers within me. It would not be as effective, were it just myself in my head. My prescience too, would vanish.
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(Would he have been less lonely, with a sister? Would Vought have turned them against each other?)
There's only one point upon which his thoughts catch — I'm no holy warrior, I am a god — but the conversation moves on quickly enough. ]
Lucky duck.
[ He doesn't understand all of what she's saying, but context furnishes the spaces left empty by his still-rudimentary knowledge of the world she and Paul hail from, and the baseline's clear enough. As he sees it, she'd lose a little, but not everything. ]
How far can you see? How clearly?
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On Arrakis? Immediate actions, mostly – I feel the intent of them in the currents of air, the scent of sweat and skin. A man would think to move and I would already have him skewered. [the words tumble out like a sing-song, alia’s eyes closed, one hand settling on homelander’s bared thigh, thumb stroking back, forth, back, forth over the ripple of muscle.] Here? It comes and goes.
[a mild, wrinkle-nosed look of displeasure, then she stills, eyes still closed, before lifting her free hand out, pointing at rippling lake water. an instant later a fish, gleaming gold, glittering like spice-laden sands, flicks above the water in that exact spot, catching a drowsing insect in it’s maw.] It’s easier in here. The lake. [her eyes open slow, lift up to his face, gazing like seeing him for the first time, a quiet wonder in the wide-set stare of them.] All the living things swimming and squirming and singing wake me up, I think.
[softer, a voice like the soft lap of water against them, stirred by the wind and the sun and all those living things:] Can you feel them too? If you try very hard?
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Sort of, [ he says, even before he directs his gaze back toward the water. ] But not the way you do.
[ Feel isn't the right word for it. He can see each little skeleton, hear each shift in the current, each living thing stripped down to its most component parts. But it's an x-ray, not a true sense of understanding. That's always eluded him, not least because he's always been held at such a remove. What understanding does a human share with an ant? What understanding does a god share with a human? Is wanting to understand enough? (And does he even want to?)
Another question hovers at the periphery of his thoughts: is Alia asking because she hopes he'll say yes? ]
But— yeah. I could tell you how many fish there are in the lake, which one's got a bum fin, who's on the hunt. Couldn't tell you what they're thinking, though.
cw: animal gore ig???
she exhales, stills her hand and rests her chin upon it once more.] Fish do not think many great thoughts. Urges to eat, to breed, to escape predators. Simple animal urges. Not so complex as a man.
[her wide eyes are fixed upwards, unblinking, set wide in her pale face, framed by her straggling hair. alia watches homelander with those otherworldly eyes, and she sees – well. she sees his existence, his power, his might, sees it placed in a world he cannot unmake or escape, no matter how great his strength. she sees him trapped, frustrated, a mouse in the cage of her palms. a roaring beast in a gilded prison. mouse or lion or both or neither.
when she inhales, some spell breaks, as if her held breath had kept the world in stasis as well. alia exhales, shuddery, stands abruptly, between the gap of homelander’s spread knees, naked and gleaming wet in the moonlight.] What are you thinking, Homelander? [soft, soft as her hair rippling over her bare breasts, as the downy golden curls between her legs, soft as the hollow of her belly and the curve of her waist. soft as how she rests her hands on his thighs and stares and stares and stares at him.] I find – I cannot read you at all.
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Really?
[ And maybe he sounds a little disappointed, maybe the word leaves his mouth before he has the time to think it through. His nostrils flare in something like surprise, though the unease that sits clearly on his features doesn't prompt any further action, his ice-blue eyes fixed on hers. He knows what she could do, that the Voice could compel him to do anything even if it's equally true that he could tear her apart in an instant. They're a sort of yin and yang, in that way — possessed of terrible powers but suited for tearing each other apart without having to even blink an eye. ]
I guess I'm thinking about you.
[ Which is the truth, though he couldn't pursue the thought that much further. He could reach out — could kiss her, at this distance or lack thereof — but instead, his jaw sets, the line of it sharp and handsome yet still a million miles removed from resolute. ]
What about you?
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but homelander, like paul, is so full of other things to sense, power immeasurable, unfathomable, so much beyond what his sharp jawline and bright eyes telegraph. alia could devote herself to the study of her brother’s reactions, his expressions, his inflections and intonation, and still never fully understand what he’s thinking – the weight of destiny he carries, the immense power drowns out all else, like swimming in a tidal wave and trying to catch minnows inside it. homelander is the same – he could be thinking anything, feeling anything, standing there facing her nude body and meeting her eyes.
it frightens her. it fascinates her. alia lifts her hand, traces the edge of her thumb along homelander’s jawline, once, from ear to chin, as if leaving some sort of mark there.] I’m thinking about you too. [there’s almost a shyness to it, to how her hand lingers, like she’s about to cradle his face, about to kiss him, about to –
but it passes. alia breathes in suddenly, like she’s emerging from underwater, and leans to grasp the shampoo bottle from where it sits beside homelander on the rock.] Thank you. [she sinks back down into the water, pours out the sweet-scented liquid, then lets the bottle float as she begins to soap up her hair, gaze averted, back in her own little world.]