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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
Prologue: New Characters
You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
ᛗ
Sink Down Like Precious Stones
( content warnings: drowning, body horror )
Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.
• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.
ᛗ
You Taste Like New Flesh
( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )
The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm.
Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.
"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.
Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.
Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.
Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.
Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.
Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.
Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.
• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.
• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.
ᛗ
There's Something In The Way You Lay
( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )
Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten.
At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are.
You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.
NOTES
NOTES
• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.TOKEN EFFECTS
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.
• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.
ᛗ
I am not worthy
( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )
Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot.
First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence.
Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall.
They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.
"I am not worthy."
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.TOKEN EFFECTS
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).
• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.
ᛗOOC NOTES
➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
my novel trend continues. sorry friend.
Clive watched the man closely. Dream or no dream, this was a foreign place that had already shown how dangerous it could be twice. He was not going to let himself be caught unaware because a handsome man with deliciously large hands and a voice that made him want to use demanding lips to devour his words was giving him attention.
He let his eyes close for a fraction longer than a standard blink when said voice rumbled through his chest, enjoying how it felt under his hand. He felt the urge to lean in, to press his face into that strong neck, to breathe in the scent of this man, to tilt his head back, let him take what he wanted – He let the words themselves pull him back into himself, though he did let his gaze wander to the other man’s lips.
It wasn’t the charm in that smile that made him want to stay, but the sheepishness. He wouldn’t be terribly surprised if it was put on. It wouldn’t be the first time someone played at being humbled to try and win him over, but it was endearing all the same.]
Had your fair share of conquests, have you?
[He tried so hard not to laugh. How corny. Charming.]
How can you still have all of these clothes on? It’s sweltering down here.
[As if to emphasize the point, Clive shook his hair out, trying to get it off of his damp skin. He wasn’t sweating, not yet, but it was a near thing. The idea of sweating simply because a room was hot was odd. It hadn’t been something he did in quite some time. Now, if he was sweating because of something different, because of this man, because of hungry mouths, teeth, hands, body… He felt his cock twitch in interest. Traitor.]
Do you not make it a habit to carry a knife with you in your magically gifted bodices?
[A playful smile more lit Clive’s eyes than stayed on his face. The urge to make sure this man was comfortable, that he wasn’t on edge or nervous, overpowered Clive as he reached up with his free hand to run surprisingly gentle fingers over a strong cheekbone. Something in him needed this man to stay.]
Don’t worry, it’s not for you. It’s merely a precaution. With a place as strange as this, being without a weapon felt unwise.
no subject
After all, there was something freeing escaping the near drowning and memory sharing to this where everything felt simpler from the scene to the expectations to the flirting to the fun of meeting someone new and there was literally no where to go but up in terms of building something. And if this turned to nothing? Well, it was still far more enjoyable then the compulsion to eat and drink.
He had the impression that 'nothing' was likely not in the cards for the pair of them unless this mystery man found someone more appealing. They had already begun the dance though, the push-pull, the exploration, the teasing and challenge. So little to lose from a little conversation and touch as far as he was concerned, and it was an escapism that he threw himself into without much hesitation.]
Back in the day perhaps, but I've been out of play for some time. You'll have to forgive my being rusty. [Honesty was in and of itself a flirting tactic, one he had used multiple times in his youth.] How about you? Is the list of your conquests long or sordid?
[He hummed at the question, and he shrugged his shoulders. He was too warm, but he wasn't interested in removing his own clothes. His hair was clinging to the back of his neck and darkened with moisture and his white shirt was similarly clinging at his shoulders and back, but otherwise, he was weathering the heat well enough.]
Is this where I'm supposed to say you're the hottest thing in this room? Because I can... ? [He tilted his head, eyeing the younger man to prompt for a name. It didn't even have to be a real name, but something to set them further on this tempting journey together. His hand splayed fingers to set it to the small of the younger man's back, trying to work fingers up the back of said bodice.] I haven't been blessed with a magically gifted bodice, so no.
[He leaned in so that their faces were a few inches apart, his eyes flicked from the electric blue ones down to the scar that he had noted on the left side of the younger man's cheek. It pulled and twisted with expressions, and he found it appealing. Impulsively, he dropped his head a few inches so he could briefly set his lips to the middle of the younger man's jawline over where the scar slipped from cheek down the slope of neck.]
A good plan. You never know when you might have to fend off some strangeness, especially with the way the night has been proceeding so far.
no subject
It had been quite some time since Clive used something like sex to feed any kind of urge, so his desire to be here, to watch these false people, to let himself be pulled in by this stranger, was a bit of a surprise. He might look back on it later and frown, try and figure out why it had been so appealing, but for now, he would take it at face value. He needed a break from overthinking this place, this strange dreamscape.]
If I’m being honest? I find the rustiness far more charming. [He was used to people being smooth, easily falling into patterns of trying to get him to want them. It was easy to ignore, boring, predictable, tiring. Clive shrugs a shoulder.] Sordid, probably. But I’ve been ‘out of play’ for a bit, myself. [He’d had no reason to chase away the demons, to find ways to make his body feel something. And with Jill he simply hadn’t had the time.
She might get a kick out of this weird dream. It would be a nice change of pace to her hearing him wake up to the nightmares.
A huff of a laugh manages its way out this time.]
Clive. And you? [He thought about using a false name, but his time with those outside of his moniker as an outlaw was over and he wasn’t particularly keen to bring them back. If the stranger chose one, he wouldn’t begrudge him. Clive’s lips twitched up in amusement at those exploring fingers, but the idea of having those hands on his bare skin kicked up his heart rate and his slow-rising interest. He slid his hand into the stranger’s hair, tracing a finger down over the edge of his ear.] I’d like to know what to call out as you take me apart. If you can.
[This time, Clive wasn’t able to fight his body’s response. He tilted his head to the side slightly, giving this man more access to delicate and exposed skin, a litany running through his head. ’Yes, more, take me bite me fill me claim me’. Clive’s breath shuddered through slightly parted lips. He got the feeling he was going to lose this game and soon. He couldn’t help the slightly breathy edge to his voice when he next spoke.]
‘Strange’ is a good word for the night. Though this? [His breath caught in his chest as his hand continued to roam, running down the side of the other man’s neck to pull the collar of his shirt and expose just a peek of collarbones he wanted to get his mouth on.] Far more enjoyable.
no subject
In normal circumstances, he wouldn't be particularly interested in random sex with a stranger; he had left that phase behind when he was much younger. He enjoyed the emotional connection to enhance the experience, but the urgings of this place, the scents and sights and curiosity didn't allow for too much thought on the matter. He had captured who had caught his interest and now they were flirting and teasing.]
Good because someone rusty happened to find you in the sea of people. [It was probably for the best for both of them that they where not up to peak experience. Hopefully it would enhance this dance that they were enjoying as they dipped their toes back into the pool.
He smiled as the name fell from the other man's lips, watching them mold around the word. This man looked like a Clive, whatever that might mean.] Vander. [He was old enough that false names seemed pointless; they were in this together and neither of them were teenagers anymore. Those sort of antics were for people with something to hide or teens fumbling about; they were neither.] Oh, you want me to pull you apart, do you? That sounds like a fun challenge.
[His own body was stirring with interest as he dropped his face so he could rub his bearded chin against the other man's exposed neck and especially over the spot where the urge to set his teeth was highest. Then he was tipping his face to kiss and drag the tip of his tongue over hot skin downwards to that very tempting spot before dragging his upper incisors over it.
His hands slipped up between them until he could start to unhook the bodice as his head tipped to the side as his light sweater collar was pulled. He rumbled a sound of pleasure at the feel of lips to his too-hot skin, eyes fluttering even as his hands worked faster to free his chosen omega from the cage of that bodice and catching the knife before it could fall.]
Better than the meal upstairs. One could really lose themselves in this setting...
no subject
Lucky for me, rusty doesn’t usually imply inexperience. [Clive looked at the man holding him, pupils blown wide with want.] I hope that is the case with you.
[With how his body was yearning, Clive wasn’t entirely sure it would matter much, but still, it would be nice to have someone who knew what they were doing. He was just past old enough to want to be teaching people how to explore another person’s body.]
Vander. [Clive felt the shape of it as he spoke. Yes, that felt lovely in his mouth. A perfect name to tangle with pleasure.] With a man like you? Who wouldn’t?
[How Vander’s beard tickled against his skin wasn’t even the best part of the contact. He could practically feel it, the man before him scenting him, staking claim. Clive’s cock twitched in earnest, so he tilted his pelvis forward to press it against Vander’s, humming in satisfaction at the feeling of Vander’s rising interest.
Vander’s tongue against a startingly sensitive spot on his neck pulled a gasp from him. That was new and it felt good. He wanted more. No, he needed more. Clive ran his hand from Vander’s chest down to the hem of the other man’s sweater and gave it a little tug, he was going to pull away for a moment, start getting Vander undressed much like the older man was doing for him, when those teeth dragged over the sensitive spot.
He couldn’t help the way his hips rolled for friction, a moan of pure need pulling out of him.]
There. [The hand that had been so fastidiously making space for his lips on Vander’s collarbone moved upwards, fingers sliding into his hair, and holding the other man near that place. He rolled his hips again, relishing in the friction, as yet another thing he had never experienced before happened: he felt something slick start to slowly drip out of him. That was liable to make a mess if he didn’t get his clothes off quickly.]
Feast on me.
[For the moment, Clive abandoned his meager effort to divest Vander of his sweater and worked at his own clothing with the one hand that wasn’t currently occupied with holding Vander as close as he could to that spot he wanted the other to latch onto so badly.]
Claim me as yours.
no subject
[The scent was driving him to hyperfocus on this man in his grip, which was odd as his sense of smell had been rather ruined over the years and maybe with the assistance of a few too many broken noses. Yet, the other man's particular scent invaded his nose, infiltrated his brain and drive his rising arousal. It did not help either of their situation when Clive pressed their groins together, and one hand dropped to seize the younger man's ass cheek and then using that grip to force their hips bumping together harder.
He leaned his chest back though so that Clive could work on his sweater, and the distraction did have him using his free hand to pull up the younger man's button-down shirt taunt from one side to strain the remaining buttons until he could just force them to pop right off. Janna, he wanted this man. There was something so addicting about him and feeling buttons hit his belly just sent him.
He growled a moan at the luxurious timber of Clive's voice, deep and airy with a nice accent he couldn't place. He dropped his mouth to where the scent was the strongest, scraping his teeth over the skin.]
Is that what you want? Claimed by a relative stranger? [He was not deterred by their first-name basis of knowing one another, and he set his teeth harder against the skin, crushing tissue hard enough to bruise. He held firm and ground their groins even harder, though his mind turned to the fact they both wore trousers and that was now a big problem.]
Pants first. [He demanded softly around the scent gland between his teeth.]