JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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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.

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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:

• 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.
• 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.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• 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.

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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.

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.
• 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.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• 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.
• 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.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• 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.

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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

• 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.
• 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.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• 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.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• 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.

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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:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• 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.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• 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).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• 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.

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OOC 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!

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[panzana]

[Nicola doesn't pull away when his wrist is caught. The omega's fingers guide his hand down the line of a warm throat, and he lets it linger. His smile curves faint, sharp, as though amused at being led in what was meant to be his game.

He tilts his head slightly, studying the man across from him. The boldness in the invitation stirs something in him—something that feels like a challenge, but not quite. This isn't the kind of thing he normally does with another man, but the dream doesn't seem to care what's normal, and neither, it seems, does his company.]

So sure of yourself. [His voice is soft, carrying the hint of a laugh.] You must have had plenty of practice.

[Still, he does as asked, lowering himself with unhurried ease to sit across from the waiting omega. His hand stays where it is, thumb brushing a slow arc across warm skin. The grin that follows is lazy, practiced, but with a sharper edge behind it.]

Then let's see if your devotion tastes as good as you make it sound.

[sorte]

[ nothing about this is all that abnormal to Aventurine, unfortunately, even without the influence and the presence of a dream. If it is to the alpha he's decided he would very much like to be his, well ... there's nothing to complain about if it isn't affecting Aventurine getting what he wants. His eyelashes lower as his smile remains while watching the other man take a seat. Aventurine is stuck in the role of an omega ultimately, but that does nothing to deter his need for control on some level. Even if he ultimately has it taken, he'll push with it until he's told to surrender it.

Without hesitation, he moves to get up, his intent clear to close the distance between them. Not a word escapes him as he slides himself into the alpha's lap, one hand moving to slip around the back of his neck while the other trails down along his chest. Aventurine's lips brush dangerously close against the other's own, the tip of his tongue running out along the part between them briefly before whispering: ]

...I do have plenty of practice.

[ His words are simple, sealing them off as he presses their mouths together. In truth, he wanted to first ask for a name, but he's not in as much control of this dynamic as he wishes. The alpha doesn't give him a name, and he's already been told twice now to demonstrate: so demonstrate he shall. ]

[panzana]

[As the omega's lips meet his, a steady hand comes up to cup his jaw while the other rests with easy confidence on his hip. Nicola leans into the kiss and returns it without hesitation, the curve of his mouth betraying amusement as much as heat. When he finally draws back, he doesn't let go. Instead, his thumb strokes slowly along the line of Aventurine's jaw while his other hand tightens at his hip, tugging him just a little closer onto his lap as though testing how far he'll let himself be drawn in.]

If you want to keep my attention, you'll have to do better than nameless kisses.

[His smile turns sly, words laced with playfulness that borders on a challenge.]

So tell me, won't you? What should I call you while you try so hard to impress me?

[sorte]

[ Aventurine likes this man's voice, he thinks, as the alpha speaks, likes the way he touches so deceptively sweet. With being pulled closer, he adjusts himself only to better straddle the other's lap, gloved fingers going to start undoing the buttons of Nicola's jacket one by one, appreciating the stark color contrast between their clothing in the light which makes it easier to separate. ]

Are names so attractive to you? I'm afraid mine is very uninspiring to the ears.

[ he slides his hands under the jacket now to push off the other man's shoulders and going for the bowtie to start undoing the shirt. There isn't very much silence between them at all before Aventurine yields to the request without further coaching, unable to go against the role he's been given. The alpha has the final say, but Aventurine is quickly driven by a need to fill both the physical and emotional emptiness. The only way he's going to slow down is if Nicola makes him. ]

Aventurine. And since someone like myself is so desperate for your attention, shouldn't you be rewarding me, or are you so convinced you can find better? I guess you can't see my face, so that's unfair to ask of you... but... [ Aventurine leans in to press against Nicola's chest so he that he can lean and whisper hotly against the man's ear ] ...I'm still a very jealous and competitive person, you know. [ his fingers curl, nails threatening to bite through the barrier of his gloves. ] So I would be oh so careful with how you answer.

You'll tell me yours, too, now, won't you?

[panzana]

[The omega's hands make quick work of buttons and cloth, the urgency clear in every movement. Nicola adjusts his grip when needed to allow his jacket and shirt to slide off his shoulders and nonchalantly tosses them to the side. With those removed, the omega is treated to a full view of what they were concealing. A very well-toned chest and arms, which are perhaps a little thicker than expected. Some faded scars can barely be seen scattered across his pale skin if one looks really closely, but what is easy to spot is a dark scar, long and thick, stretching diagonally from the top of his left shoulder, overlapping his heart, down to the middle of his stomach. It's where Yang's blade fatally sliced through his body, yet Nicola is not a cold, lifeless corpse as he should be. He's alive, warm, bright eyes shining from the holes in his mask taking in the sight of the irresistible omega longing for his attention so badly.

One hand rests against the other man's hip while the other traces idly along the small of his back as though he has all the time in the world. The whisper at his ear earns a low laugh, warm and amused despite the weight of the warning. Nicola tilts his head slightly, giving just enough space to speak, though his grip at the omega's hip tightens as if to remind him of the balance between them.]

Aventurine... [He repeats the name that was given under his breath, savoring the sound, letting it linger between them for a moment before he continues.] The gemstone of good luck and prosperity. The name originates from a phrase in my native tongue, "a ventura," which means "by chance." I'd hardly call that uninspiring.

[Nicola has never believed in that crystal healing nonsense personally, but he learned about it to impress some business partners who were really into it. And yet, he can't deny that hearing this man give such a name is making him feel some type of way right now. His mouth brushes close to Aventurine's jaw, teasingly near without closing the distance just yet.]

Jealous and competitive, are you? Then I should be flattered. It means I've already claimed more of your attention than the rest.

[He supposes Aventurine does deserve a little treat, though. Nicola closes the distance between his lips and the omega's jawline, planting a trail of soft kisses to Aventurine's lips, where he kisses more deeply. The hand at the omega's hip draws him in smoothly, indulging the closeness with a warmth that borders on affectionate. He lets Aventurine settle more comfortably against him, pulling his face away just far enough that he can speak again, giving the omega the information he's been longing for.]

As for my name... It's Nicola. I wonder what you'll make of it.

[sorte]

[ Such a beautiful man. The toned muscle is appreciated, the thickness of those arms that was so well hidden beneath the cloth. But even under the spells of their designated roles—or perhaps because of them, Aventurine can't help but pause, letting his fingers momentarily trace the fatal scar. Of course he doesn't know anything about this person, they didn't even meet in their right mind before this even briefly, but regardless he can feel a momentary need that he follows through on: he leans in to press his lips briefly to the scar at Nicola's shoulder, only drawn back when Nicola speaks of his name. (He doesn't miss that grip, and the omega heels silently and without fuss to it, seemingly satisfied with the alpha that he's in the control of. For a moment, the sly coyness that's been present seems to dissipate to leave a surprised omega that is truly hanging on every word dripping from his lips. )

His native language, is it?

How dare he make it sound almost special?

Aventurine's eyelashes lower almost shyly, a bit of heat flushing his cheeks. As he hears Nicola give him his name, it feels strange. Precious. The man is probably good at making it feel like something to be coveted, even though Aventurine knows very well it's a farce. This beautiful man is like a dream and entirely fake just like Aventurine himself is. Still, he wants to sink a little more into the alluring fantasy of someone like this wholely desiring you without a second thought in the world right now. He wants to briefly believe in the idea that you can fall for someone just by the way their voice makes your heart leap.

Aventurine tilts his head ever so slightly, his fingers running over exposed skin and muscle. ]

Nicola... Such a lovely name. I admit I don't know the meaning of many names where I could impress you, but... even knowing nothing about it other than how it sounds, I think I could fall asleep with it on my tongue.

[ he looks up to meet Nicola's gaze, again, currently reveling in the feeling of being close and in the other's arms. It's perfect. ]

...Would you mind, if I keep you to myself for a little while longer... Nicola? I would very much like to make it so that when you close your eyes, you can only remember me and long for this. [ A true eagerness to please now, more submissive but no less headstrong in getting what he wants even if Nicola seems to have gotten him to yield without much effort on his part beyond a little bit of charm. Perhaps Aventurine is just a sucker for a well spoken, patient, alpha male.

The kiss he's rewarded with tastes like a deep-seeded romance, rich and unlike anything he could ever hope to describe it compare, enough that it makes him dizzy. He wants to give this man that asks for so little everything. The Avgin kisses back, getting lost in the warmth of lips, teeth, tongues and everything else. He never wants to come up for air— ]

You are... terribly charming, like a knight in shining armor. If only...

[ if only he could have a prince charming of his own, wouldn't that be just perfect? there's no such thing for the last of the Avgins, but here in Nicola's arms with them both under the influences, Aventurine momentarily believes that maybe, someday, even he could have such a lovely prize.

( Thralls are witches, though, not princesses. )

Aventurine kisses Nicola again, deeply, and presses up against him further to be as close as possible.

( Witches are not rescued by knights. )

He can't help the soft moan that escapes his lips from his throat. It feels really good. Nothing is even really happening. It still feels too good, and he can't get enough. What a mess.

( They are burned at the stake. ) ]

[panzana]

[The brief press of lips against his scar draws the faintest flicker in Nicola's expression, quickly buried beneath the curve of his usual smile. He doesn't comment on it, whether out of habit, pride, or simple unwillingness to dwell on that mark of failure, but the touch lingers with a peculiar weight all the same. He lets Aventurine explore, the eager hands and the heat of his kiss drawing a low hum of approval from his chest.

His own name slips back to him from the omega's lips, spoken as though it were something precious, and he can't help the quiet laugh that follows. He tilts his head, brushing their foreheads together, his words gentler this time, threaded with warmth.]

You make my name sound sweeter than I ever thought it could be. I could get used to hearing it roll off your tongue.

[As for what his name means, Nicola chooses to keep it to himself. "Victory of the people." A meaning that he didn't live up to at all.

The kisses deepen, Aventurine pressing closer, and Nicola indulges the closeness with steady patience. His smile softens faintly as he murmurs against the next kiss, indulgence wrapped in affection.]

If keeping me to yourself is what you want... then maybe I wouldn't mind being yours for a while.

[A knight in shining armor... Such a title doesn't suit Nicola at all, but if that's what Aventurine wants him to be, then he supposes he can wear it for now.

Slowly, he leans forward until Aventurine's back is on the ground beneath them. Then, he smoothly scoops the omega up into a princess carry, like the princess he wishes to be. His gaze flicks to his clothes on the floor, then toward a group of omegas who have been watching them for some time. Empty Vessels, not worthy of his attention, but somebody's going to have to pick up his clothes. His eyes settle on one at random, regarding them half-heartedly.]

Carry those clothes for me, and take care to maintain your distance.

[The lucky omega nods slowly, gathering up Nicola's jacket, shirt, and bowtie before wordlessly trailing behind him as he carries Aventurine out of the room. Nicola doesn't say it aloud, but part of him almost laughs at the sight—him, of all people, walking like this with another man cradled in his arms. Not something he ever imagined, and yet... it feels less foolish than it should. Aventurine's weight against him feels steady, grounding, in a way he refuses to examine too closely. Better to keep smiling and play the role expected of him.

Once he comes across an empty bedroom, Nicola steps inside and gently lays his princess on the bed, leaning in as he does so to kiss those irresistible lips once again. It honestly doesn't get old. In fact, this kiss feels a bit more feverish than the others. He only pulls away when he senses the other omega standing in the doorway, watching. Does he really have to spell everything out for this fool? Nicola smiles at them, but it doesn't reach his eyes. A hint of venom seeps into his tone as he addresses the lesser omega one last time.]

Thank you. Toss those on the floor and take your leave now.

[They deposit the clothes onto the floor and bow at Nicola before exiting the room with lifeless movements. He walks over to the door, closing and locking it, before returning to the side of the bed and sliding in next to Aventurine. Laying on his side and nestling close to the other, a gentle hand rests on his cheek, thumb slowly stroking the soft skin underneath it as Nicola admires him with a satisfied smile.]

There. Now we're the only ones who can gaze upon each other.

nsfw in the already nsfw

[sorte]

[ Ha .. Haha. Is this man serious? Aventurine has nothing but his own "fortune," for him to even think of having someone to himself for a little while is unfathomable. It sounds so good, though, he can't bring himself to laugh at the absurdity. Surely this alpha is going to not cater to him in the end, surely he will gather a few more omegas because he can, and he can do so at once with ease. Aventurine is in a role hopelessly devoted to one alpha (one alpha at a time, anyway.) So despite his utter fixation on Nicola, Aventurine's gaze flickers with jealousy towards the other omega even as he instintively curls in a little closer to Nicola's chest while in his arms. No one can ever say Aventurine doesn't know how to pull off the stereotypical jealous woman troupe, even when he's the one in the arms of the object of affections. Despite that, though, there's little further fuel for him to be worked up on. For as soon as they're in the room, Nicola is focusing all his attention and heat on Aventurine in their kiss. So much that the avgin would have forgotten about the other omega at the door if Nicola hasn't pulled back to dismiss them.

Although the vessel was empty, to have the knowledge of having the alpha all to himself for the time being now swells in his chest. His cheeks are flushed, but they deepen in color when Nicola once again comes to focus on him. Aventurine looks up at him, eyes that usually fail to catch any light almost sparkling before looks away coyly, hands running down Nicola's chest. The other certainly has done enough to receive the Worship he so wanted to have demonstrated to him: and now Aventurine wants to give him what he's been so patiently waiting for.

His hands land on the waist of the other man's trousers as he goes to coax him into his back, working to undo the belt and continue further. It was nice to get to briefly act like an innocent maiden lost in the passion of the other, but now Aventurine wants to demonstrate as promised. He pulls at the pants and undergarments together to drag slowly down off Nicola's hips, waiting for him to lift himself enough so that he can remove the pants with ease. Nicola will need his outfit later, potentially, unless this is his last stop for the night, so it's best to make sure first the alpha's clothing won't be potentially spoiled by their activities..

Only once he's taken all the necessary steps to get Nicola fully naked beneath him does Aventurine let his gaze sweep the man appreciatively. He'll go to lower himself forward, then, kissing briefly at one of the inner jut of the pelvic bones as his hand wraps around the man's cock while the other brushes to have along the ballsacs below. It's thrilling, the surge of power he feels simply from beginning to engage, it already a high that promises to keep on giving so long as he shows his devotion through Worship. To Sleep or to Nicola doesn't matter, in this moment, it's the same thing.

Glancing up the length of Nicola shyly (but not innocently,) his lips trailing down until they brush against the length's tip, proceeding to lick with the flat of his tongue over the slit: slowly, sensually, savoring, seeking sinful sights, sinful sounds. What will Nicola offer him if he worships him well enough to show just how devoted he truly is?

The taste that fills his tongue is inflated by a sudden craving he can't control anymore. he opens to sink the head of the man's cock into his mouth with an approved moan from his throat. Sucking a cock has never tasted so good than it does right now. ]