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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[regulate]

[ A shuddered breath. Labored panting. A warbling moan. His wings twitch at all the sounds as Aventurine's words slither around his mind. What does it say of him that he conjures up Aventurine's face in the midst of such suspect circumstances? Probably something he would like to keep latched and buried in the back of mind, yet it threatens too ooze out of him the longer the voices swell around him in various states of ecstasy.

Before he can stop himself, he's pulling off one of the gloves in his hand and reaching out, covering the distance between them until his fingers touch the flesh of Aventurine's cheek.

Warm.

Very much alive and real.

His own heart is starting to come unleashed, pounding between his lungs as he pulls back just as quickly as he advanced. ]

...Forgive me, I had to know with complete certainty.

[ Or maybe that's just a pathetic, faltering excuse. ]

We should speak elsewhere. I doubt you wish to be subjected to this any of this more than I do at the moment nor do I plan to interrupt any of them at the moment.

[sorte]

[ Of all the things Aventurine expects Sunday to manage, simply touching him like that isn't one of them. Surprise flickers across his face, and it's only when Sunday speaks that Aventurine realizes it's like he's momentarily forgotten how to breathe. He partly hears him, but it takes a lot more effort to really hear what's being said as his own heart pounds in his ears and his blood flows hot in his face as much as the rest of him now, as if he's only suddenly become able to be so self-aware. So focused on the momentary consequences of seeing someone else dragged into this pit of shame, Aventurine has ignored whatever effects it could be dousing him in. So while Sunday's words take a moment to register fully, the Avgin nods as he swallows down whatever desire he has to fail at demonstrating self-control. ]

Right... elsewhere. [ Elsewhere makes sense, and elsewhere would be back where they came from. That's what makes sense. Without thinking about it, Aventurine grabs Sunday by the hand and turns to drag him towards the exit to the room and out into the hall. The hall isn't upstairs, but surely it's a start?

...Except getting to the hall is a lot more difficult than imagined— although he's sure he walks at a steady pace, he feels terribly sluggish the more he focuses on leaving. Every doubt or hesitation to depart this area that creeps into his mind gives small bursts of relief only for it to continue in full force when he returns focus to the main task. By the time Aventurine does pull them both out into the hallway, his head is pounding with a nasty dizzy spell as well as the haunting sound of worship still around them. In the hall or in the rooms themselves makes little difference. A short laugh escapes him as he holds his head and leans against the wall shoulder first while his other hand still grips Sunday's like a lifeline. It feels like the pressure under that forsaken moon only worse, that need to let loose and to feel as much as be felt. It's animalistic and carnal, there's no other way to describe it. Going upstairs to have a conversation is suddenly such a far away and uninteresting choice that he must move subconsciously because he only vaguely realizes that they end up in another room. This one is far more private (for now,) the noise of others no longer overwhelmingly swirling in his mind— but that only makes room for other suggestive thoughts to intrude, and for his own nature to start sinking its teeth in.

What's the harm, afterall? It's just a dream. There's nothing and no one to judge, and the pull is irresistible. Maybe it's some small idea of revenge like corrupting this person in this manner will do absolutely everything and nothing at all both to make it entirely worthwhile as much as leave no excuses as to why it shouldn't be done.

Which is perhaps why the best Sunday gets for talking elsewhere is this as he's pulled and then pushed into a luxurious chair as Aventurine drapes over him. ]

Here is fine. [ He whispers as he crawls into the other's lap. ]

[regulate]

[ Escaping to another room brings him no refuge. The noises don't quiet as much as he wishes, and there is an unknown scent curling beneath his nose –something tart and sweet at once like nectar. He tastes it on the tip of his tongue when he breathes, almost looses his trace on it when he's pushed into a chair, until it submerges him the moment Aventurine sits on his lap.

There's something very wrong about the whole scenario, panic welling up inside, thoughts racing, palms sweating, his heart just a few decibels from breaking the sound barrier. He wants to leave quickly before he succumbs to whatever is simmering low in his gut and rapidly blooming outwards, something as potent as raw need. ]

Here is not fine. There are other places to sit.

[ He shoves Aventurine off, lips pulled back, a flash of growing fangs and the sound of a soft warning growl, no different than a wolf's, as he stands up and stalks the area. He has to get out. He has to get out. Something is happening to him, and all the holy prayers he had memorized to both Xipe and Ena aren't helping him.

His eyes will always find their way back to Aventurine –to the places where clothes are pulled aside haphazardly. To the sight of skin and that sweet nectar smell that's cloying its way through his lungs. ]

...My apologies again...I need air.

[sorte]

[ It's impressive, to say the least. Aventurine lands on the floor in an unceremonious heap of limbs, and it's enough to briefly pull him out of his lust-clouded haze, enough to least notice the aggression from Sunday and know that, too, is abnormal no matter how ruthless the other actually may be. So despite the challenge, despite the stubbornness (and need) welling in the pit of his belly, the chaotic unpredictability is somehow enough to get Aventurine to accept it as it is. He takes it in stride without yielding, slowly and stiffly adjusting his clothing in a way that betrays his agitation like a tail whipping on a feline might. His voice is even as he wills himself to pull back up to his feet as he exhales through his nostrils.

Regardless of how he's feeling personally, Aventurine hums in agreement as he suddenly pulls self-consciously at the collar on the side that his brand scrawls along his neck. ]

So you do. Can you lead the way, then?

[regulate]

[ His gaze flits across the room, looking for a way out, but all he sees is the sweat dripping down the walls and the groans filtering through the stone, crowding them in. There is no light, no escape, and Aventurine's scent walls him in until he starts to feel like he's growing intoxicated on it.

His legs are wracked with slight tremors as he stalks forwards, pulling at the jacket sweltering around him, stripping it off, his waistcoat following, fingers equally trembling as he undoes the first few top buttons of his shirt. It's still not enough to survive the overbearing humidity, and his eyes lock back onto Aventurine's, his own glowing a faint amber as he slinks closer.

The sweet tanginess of his skin wells up under his nose as he suddenly pushes it tight to Aventurine's neck, rubbing it against the brand etched there with an inexplicable cocktail of hunger and possession because that should have been of him. Aventurine should be wearing his mark. ]

I would rather stay here a bit longer if that is amenable to you, especially since you seem to have all the answers. Do you know who brought us here? Can you confirm this is another Dreamscape?

[ His words roll off into a murmur as he keeps nuzzling his nose against Aventurine's neck and gravitates even closer, ensnared by the warmth he's giving off as his head spins. ]

[sorte]

Of course. [ He breathes in through his mouth and exhales through his nose as if he can stop the scent from the other enveloping him as well as anything else. He remains still, silent as he waits for Sunday's answer. Glancing to the walls, his eyes watch as the dewlike dribbles decorate like a work of art. The sounds that have been mostly drowned out by the pounding of his own blood are heard once again, and they send tickled shudders through him despite himself. He barely registers Sunday stepping towards him again, but it's impossible to ignore the sight of him approaching piece by piece, even in the slightest sense. A dizziness hits him, a frenzied hunger so strong that it blurs his vision and causes his eyes to focus on details he doesn't mean to: visible slivers of slicked skin, the movement of fingers undoing buttons visually teasing a little more (just a little bit more,) and Aventurine starts to think the tightness curling in him might turn into agony if—

His eyes widen as he feels the undeniable sensation of flesh against his own, the heat of contact and the burn of acknowledgement that where he's being touched is where that cursed mark is (and he wants, he wants it to be seered off his flesh then and there, and oh he'll take another one that's etched on him by this person certainly— if he's allowed to do the same. A man of the cloth, a man of faith that is so deeply devoted to those he worships, he'll be his property if he's given the worship he demands and craves. Sleep can have Her worship only if Aventurine can have his own first. )

His breath exhales in a salacious sound that is meant to be a response, an affirmative that Sunday is correct in his assumptions. It yields an affirmative, yes, but all the while the underlying howl demanding far more weaves between him. He tilts his head to give him better access, not in surrender so much as in invitation: one monster willingly getting into the trap and luring a second in even as it succumbs to its own prey. Aventurine pants, body arching wantonly as he reaches for the buttons at the top of Sunday's shirt, determined to reveal more flesh, to touch more skin that has barely been seen by another before. ]

I do; and yes ... it's a Dreamscape. [ he tells the truth as much as he panders, but also not willing to give too much away that might give an excuse to separate them. In the back of his mind he knows he's being ridiculous, they've barely done anything. Nothing is happening beyond the pressing of bodies together. Nothing should happen.

(Oh, but he's hungry. So very very hungry for this person. He wants Sunday like he's never wanted before, like he's sure he could never want again.) The thought of giving in to get that which he wants faster is only tempered by his need tom control and consume. ]

[regulate]

[ Heartbeats sound like a stampede under his skin, echoing outwards as his blood rushes through him like a flood ready to drown him from within. His fingers turn more claw-like, nails tearing through the one glove he has left on as he dig them into the small of Aventurine's back, as though he might simply disappear if Sunday doesn't anchor him hard enough to the ground.

They scramble beneath fabric, slip across flesh, dig harder still, rendering Sunday a slave to a similar hunger than feels downright carnal. The scent spreading all the way down to the pit of his gut beckons him still, though he's sure there's no space left between their bodies. He's nudged himself against the meat of Aventurine's thigh, straddling it as he presses his own between his in return, tangled together like a pair of twisted cables or DNA strands. ]

Who brought us here? What is their intent?

[ The interrogation matters less than the way the heat of Aventurine's muscles burn through him, mouth filling fast with an abundance of saliva as fangs pinch into his own tongue. That he even asks anything at all is a measure of the strength of his unconscious mind, still trying to unravel mystery after mystery even when his desire threatens to obfuscate all.

Those same fangs lightly draw over the side of Aventurine's throat, etching a promise he wants to fulfill even as he screams at himself not to. There is something all too sacrilegious in claiming a one-time foe this way when he should be keeping his distance. The last time they crossed one another like this, Aventurine tried to undermine Penacony's rule and his authority by sneaking in another cornerstone right under Sunday's nose, yet here he is, a starved beast, rutting himself against Aventurine's leg to relieve some of the growing pressure. ]

[sorte]

[ And Aventurine thinks similarly: that even for all his preparing, all his scheming and his making backup plan after backup plan for every possible prediction and twist in the scenarios he intended to weave— he'd still been caught under interrogation that left him escaping giving full undeniable answers to everything merely by the skin of his teeth—no doubt the blessing of his goddess managing to outdo Ena's and Xipe's influences by the only thing it can be called—luck. Engaging in something like this with someone who put a number of hours on his life like those before put a price on the worth of his existence... he shouldn't want to, but beyond the unstoppable need there is the conviction in his mind Sunday will take the results far harder than he will. Sunday will suffer more from their actions than Aventurine will, and that's enough to pull at the alpha desires for control as much as Aventurine's own heavy-handed behavior to push for the risky and for the forbidden.

(His heart pounds in his chest, his ears, his throat as those teeth carve along his skin and the mantra in his mind is take, take, and take some more. A sound escapes his throat that's between discomfort and delight at the feeling of rutting, of his own hardness pressed so nicely against that thigh, of being able to rub himself for that frictioned prickle of pleasure between his legs. ) ]

Sleep. [ that's easy to answer, even in his spiral. As for the second part... his answer conflicts with the intent of this place and what's expected of them. It's not wrong so much as incomplete. ] She wants Worship, like any god does. [ his fingers reach out to let his index slide across the bone of one of Sunday's wings in a slow and sensual manner. ]

[regulate]

[ Nothing melts all his defenses worse than having his wings caressed –worshiped– or his halo toyed with, two closely guarded weaknesses that he normally doesn't let anyone exploit. That makes him wonder why he is not lashing out now. Why he's turning to liquid against Aventurine's body, an overwhelming amount of heat pooling between his legs as he jerks harder into Aventurine's hips.

Moremoremore...he needs more ]

Not all gods want worship. Some receive it without asking, simply because their goals and ideals align with those who follow them.

[ He can't imagine some of their aeons, who are more vacuous of ego, care whether or not they are worshiped or beloved. They simply exist to maintain a cosmic concept that will help mortals continue to survive longer.

Even if he doesn't say it aloud, his own gaze incessantly cries out for worship from Aventurine's fingers as his wings spread, feathers on full display. ]

Does she mean to keep us trapped here?

[ How novel a concept –trapping the hapless into an eternal dream and. Wonder who could think to do such a thing, not that his mind is fixated on the irony of the situation. Instead, his fangs are starting to sink into the brand on Aventurine's neck, encouraged by an overpowering need to replace them with his own. He belongs to Sunday now. ]

[sorte]

And what about you? What do you want?

[ the feathers must be soft, so soft that he regrets not first taking his gloves off, but he is overwhelmingly pleased with Sunday's reaction. if only he could see those eyes right now, but the other being at his neck spares Sunday from giving Aventurine such level of satisfaction.

So focused is he on Sunday and wanting to string him along— even if in truth he is absolutely and sincerely just as much affected, this want uncontrollable— he almost misses the next question. ]

She—ah!

[ his eyes widen, pupils dilating as those fangs sink into his skin over the brand. Normally, it would already get a reaction out him, but it being over the brand area (where he's self conscious when someone lingers on it for too long rather than the far more attractive parts of him) skyrockets an overwhelming surge of feelings and emotions: shock, heat, anger, frustration, pain, pleasure, pure arousal. involuntarily, he shudders, wanting to completely silence the debased moan that claws its way out of his mouth but failing to do so.

with Aventurine's pulse hammering like it's about to burst, his eyelids lower halfway as he attempts to control his breathing, the overwhelming headiness flowing through his veins like a drug. it'll be hard to top this in display of whom's the dominating force in this encounter, but Aventurine is always up for a high stakes challenge, especially when the reward is as sweet as having this man as his, on his knees begging—

(he wants to see adoration in those eyes, demand to be something Sunday can no longer live without, bind Sunday to the stoneheart's whims and what pleases him and only him. he wants to pull other apart piece by piece and build him anew made only for himself. )

— with a tilt to his head inward, his lips press along Sunday's ear, moving against the dips and controls as he breathes hot and wet against the skin. his tone is absolutely filthy in nature despite his words bring nothing related to debauchery. ]

Mm... something like that.

[ his tongue presses insistently against Sunday's ear, slow and sensual as his touch becomes more prominent on the ear wing, firmly more consistent strokes rather than careful pets. his other hand digs into his scalp as he scratches at it in possessive affection. ]

We belong to Her, in Her eyes.

[ but who cares about that really when the truth is Sunday is his?

He takes advantage of how their bodies are so tangled and flushed, rubbing himself on Sunday's thigh between his own to mark him, the added pleasure only heightened with the other's movement against him. no one's going to be able to get near the other without smelling Aventurine all over him. ]

... Unfortunately, for Her, she'll have to get in line if She wants to possess you.

[ Aventurine is first, and it's his right to have what he wants, especially when Sleep gets her Worship out of this sort of thing. ]

[regulate]

[ Blood slides across his tongue, tasting sweeter than the nectar-flavored dessert in the other room and infinitely more divine. Sunday's never been partial to the taste before, but every part of Aventurine invites him to take and take without reprieve. If he can rip those symbols out and replace them with just the scars from his teeth, he would. He's tempted to at the moment, but Aventurine's tongue worming its way across his ear derails that thought quickly.

It's not as punctuated and intense as touching his wings, but it still floods his senses with a dizzying amount of euphoria. Is this what it's like to finally be desired rather than merely respected? To be devoured? If so, he never wants it to end, desperate to glut himself on the ephemeral nature of this coupling even as every instinct bids him to keep claiming and conquering, as though Aventurine could only ever be his forever.

A soft growl erupts from him as he suddenly claws through Aventurine's hair, directing his gaze to his own, their lips brushing across each other roughly. ]

You belong to me first. I wrote it out with my teeth just now and signed the contract with my tongue.

[ His hands shift downwards, boldly scratching their way down the curve of Aventurine's ass, pushing into the meat of it to hold him as he slots their mouths together. Unlike the tentativeness from earlier, his mouth seeks to ravage now, all teeth and bruised lips inhaling every breath Aventurine releases. At the same time, his hips jerk forwards, messy and frantic, chasing his own high with Aventurine's body, wondering if Aventurine will fight back.

A part of him hopes he will a little. He wants to be bitten back just as hard because that has always been what lies at the core of their relationship to one another. A challenge that Sunday loves to unravel even when it is a frustrating and maddening exercise. ]

[sorte]

[ Ugh, what's unfolding is so intoxicating that if he were in his right mind he would cringe over how taken he is with the other. This is the Sunday he wants, the one underneath all the prim and proper layers, the one that's been chained to the shadows while the one of perfection and doctrine is the only one anyone ever sees.

There's something absolutely druglike about the way he's being bitten (like he's feeding more than biting,) and in his head Aventurine does briefly struggle wondering where these animalistic traits are coming from as he isn't experiencing the same. The fact that it's on his brand and that Sunday so openly says those word has him shudder violently and involuntarily as their their lips make contact. ( He briefly wonders if Sunday is an Offering, then, before he's lost in static-hazed lust (impatience and absolute refusal to do anything like submit taking over even as his tongue goes to fight against Sunday's own in terms of who is technically in whose mouth.) Despite the hold at his ass, he struggles to forcefully move his hips, not to get away but to create more friction, wanting to feel more of that all the while knowing he needs more than what he's getting.

Although Aventurine can't retaliate in the same way with his mouth preoccupied, he will feel the raking of teeth along his neck, hard and sensual, before they bite down side of center from the from the from of his neck. The teeth are wisps like ghostly apparitions, and they long to cover every inch of the other man as their own. Aventurine will claw his own hands down Sunday's chest simultaneously as more ghostly limbs and organs manifest, delicate to not interrupt by bringing attention to themselves. Afterall, they're a result of Aventurine himself, and every sensation feels like a shivered echo from Aventurine's. Two severed hands run smoky fingertips along both wings now as the other fingers wrap around carefully to stroke and tease.

The next addition he'll feel is a tongue gliding against the rim of his halo. It feels like Aventurine's tongue and heat even as Sunday clearly has Aventurine's actual mouth preoccupied. Should Sunday falter to the pleasure, he'll move to take advantage and flip their positions so he can press forward and pin him up against the nearest wall with a gutteral sound of approval as his actual hands now slide down to go for Sunday's waistband. ]

I'm afraid the holy maiden doesn't get to do the defiling the first time. But if you sing really nicely for me, I might let you have a go right after.

[regulate]

[ What is this strange power? He knows it's not manifested from Aventurine's cornerstone nor any connection to Qlipoth. His thoughts continue to race as the wisps seemingly move beneath his clothes and underneath flesh, touching him places that no human fingers could reach and wresting a broken moan from him. It's delightfully blissful as it is unsettling, but the teeth on his neck and the wispy caresses against his wings are what really unravel him, making him lose himself deeper to this spell they're both under.

There will be time for rationalizations and regrets later. Right now, he's a slave to impulse, his control fracturing at the tongue sliding across his halo as it flickers wildly above him. ]

Aventurine.

[ The word is choked out as he crashes against the wall, feeling it scrape harshly against his back, and his eyes are solely fixated on Aventurine's gaze, hypnotized by the ferocity there and feeling it too in his veins.

With a sharp growl, his hands suddenly attack Aventurine's pants, wrestling to get them open and not even bothering to undress his him further, mostly shoving fabric out of his way. All he cares about is getting even with a grip on Aventurine's cock and stroking him feverishly as he pushes his own into Aventurine's hand. His worldview narrows down to desperately chasing his pleasure with Aventurine even if it should lead them both to ruin. He wants nothing more than to finish what they started in his office back in Penacony. ]

Who says you will get that far? I know you are already crumbling even if you continue to snark at me as you always do. [ His fingers clench inwards, giving him a squeeze for emphasis. ] This is why you needed the Doctor's help and a foolish gambit to overcome my defenses. You would have never gotten as far as you did otherwise.

[sorte]

...Mm.

[ Sunday, you son of a bitch.

Aventurine's eyelashes tremble as his eyes close halfway at feeling Sunday's hand grabbing his dick. He's listens as the other plays mind games with him, his hand stroking the man with thick pumps that are almost tugs in places. Sunday does get a moan out of him that he fails to keep stifled at the squeeze, though.

( He mentions Ratio. How dare he mention Ratio in any sense right now. )

He's not going to falter to those words. He won't. Especially not— ]

...And what makes you think if I crumble that I'm not going to defile you even further in that state? You're my favorite kind of target.

[ He's at least a little better at this than Sunday from experience in holding off, although he is closer than he'd like to admit. ]

Is this not what you want? My hands all over you, making you feel a bliss you've never felt, giving you an out so you can say you weren't in your right mind wanting me? [ He'll run his tongue along Sunday's collar bone. ]

That a devil forced you to your knees for pleasure you had no way to fight back.

[ his hand comes up to brush under Sunday's chin, lifting his head slightly so he can see that lovely face of his contorted in ectascy. ]

Or do you want me on my knees so you can pretend it's for forgiveness while I suck you off? [ Sunday really doesn't have long to decide what he's going to do or not do if he can do anything at all because Aventurine is hell bent on at least making Sunday spill first if nothing else. ]

[regulate]

[ Sunday knows that Aventurine is right about a lot of things –that there has always been a part of him that wanted to be pried apart like this after so many years of being untouched. The Bronze Melodia was a representative of the highest on high Xipe, and to lie with others, even in a dream, would have been a stain upon the title. He was too holy to be touched while craving it with a need that feels borderline maddening, especially as he comes into terms with it right now. There's no escaping his own desire, feeling walled in by it and at the mercy of Aventurine's touch.

Had they met under better circumstances, would they have still ended up in bed together? Could they have dated? Or would they have found one another to be wholly incompatible? It's not like this moment gives him much of a sense of clarity, too hunger-addled to entertain anything deeper than attraction. Maybe he will sweep this under the rug afterwards or maybe he will defy Aventurine's expectations and confront whatever this is head on. Even he can't tell which way he'll land, but his body is already surrendering too deeply, too wantonly, to the idea. ]

Don't. Don't move.

[ Because then he can grip the back of Aventurine's neck and tug him close to lock their mouths together, muffling his own budding moans between them. His hand also guides both their cocks together, relishing the way they brush against one another, the surge of heat from flesh against flesh, so close he can almost imagine all those thick veins pulsing against his.

There's a part of him who wants this to last a bit longer, to stay in this moment where he feels wholly unbound by himself and every expectation that used to fetter him. Where he could enjoy the slide of Aventurine's tongue against his and the taste of himself on his teeth and gums, imagine this is a dream he created where neither of them could ever wake from. Don't let him confront reality again too soon. ]

[sorte]

[ Aventurine's eyes widen when he's dragged in, it unexpected of all the possibilities that could be entertained. He can't think straight, though, not with Sunday's lips on his, not with Sunday's moans sung against his mouth, not with Sunday's hand and cock felt against his own. He expected more vitriol and less ectascy from the other, but he can't deny it's oh so tempting to sink in and truly enjoy it beyond telling himself he's only enjoying it because he's somehow getting Sunday back for the humiliation he caused him back on Penacony.

(it doesn't matter if it went almost exactly as planned, better than he could have expected, there were things he didn't expect to have to deal with—including his own feelings in response to what he wanted—and those were enough to burn him raw.)

Even a thrall wants to be desired and coveted beyond their ability to manipulate into succumbing to pleasure. There's something tantalizing about being wanted and wanting to be owned by the Bronze Melodia of the Harmony, the most untouchable of THEIR devoted.

His lips move against the other's without fully realizing it, wanting to experience more of what he's being offered in particular. Through broken sounds and gasps on lips as they struggle to keep breathing while not pulling away fully to regain their breath, Aventurine whispers breath heavy against Sunday's mouth, voice shakey and needy. ]

Keep... keep it up and it won't be enough—I want myself inside of you or you inside me, I don't care which way, but I want it.

[regulate]

I want it too. I want you.

[ The words are instant, and he surprises himself by how much emotion he puts behind them -how reedy and urgent his voice sounds. But there's another truth that goes unspoken: he's never done either before. Doesn't want to admit it out loud to the last person he would ever want to be this vulnerable in front of, lest it be used to mock him later. All he can do is mask his inexperience with false assurance and aim to end this quickly before he starts to falter.

His wrist moves quicker, his palm heated as he grasps and pastes both their dicks together, letting them dribble pre-cum against one another to make the glide easier. He can hear his own breaths stutter as he stumbles closer to the precipice of no return, mouthing his way against Aventurine's jaw and sinking his teeth back into his neck and above that wretched brand that should say Sunday's name instead.

But he wants Aventurine to want it too rather than feel imprisoned by Sunday's desire. It's no good to him if he takes away Aventurine's agency a second time, having evolved past the need to lock everyone and everything under his command. It would also be far more satisfying if Aventurine gave himself up as willingly to this as Sunday is.

Both lips and teeth keep worrying into his skin, sipping at the blood starting to leak out as he shudders harder, a whimper building in the back of his own throat. ]

This is enough though...enough for now. Having you like this.

[ Will there be a next time? He can't discount the possibility even if his mind is telling him that it will feel ten times more visceral and intense outside of dreams. ]

[sorte]

[ That can't be a declaration Aventurine has heard right. The response is so raw and desperate that he almost lets himself believe it's somehow real. for all that it catches him off guard, the admission doesn't cease his desperation or his desire, him gasping with a whimpered whine at the feeling of Sunday's teeth back in his flesh, at the feeling of blood being taken once more.

(It's far more intimate than it should be, someone feeding on his blood, what is it that makes it so... intoxicating?)

At the same time it causes a dizzy spell to come over him, a feeling of euphoria that he's pretty sure he shouldn't be able to get from simply being bitten, but it doesn't feel that much different from the heightened pleasures of sex. it added along to the stroking of their cocks in tandem, has Aventurine utterly weak. ]

...You... too...

[ he mutters through broken and shuddered breaths, and it shouldn't be so. he should have so much more control than someone inexperienced like the halovian, but those damn teeth of his, and Sunday taking his blood on top of everything else seems to impact him far more than it should. He'll tell himself later that it was stress, that it was from from not having much in terms of options prior to arriving in the dream ( and yet needing them,) that a dream is a dream afterall, so it doesn't possibly mean he was so swept away by the intense desire and pleasure he felt with Sunday or anything so frustrating while in the moment. it doesn't possibly represent anything hidden or repressed. it can't.

His fingers dig into Sunday's hair, keeping him close and pressed against his neck as Aventurine gives him complete access, his other hand still caressing one of those wings as the ghostly appendages continue to pleasure Sunday elsewhere. The sudden tense rise and grip on his pleasure has him shudder as Sunday's hands, his lips, his teeth, his tongue, his very existence drags Aventurine to the edge no matter how much he might try to resist its call. It's all too good though, too much, and the filthy indecent and downright sinful sounds he makes for the other have him panting heavily as he tries to speak. ]

Sunday, please—

[ Please what? Mercy? No mercy? ( More. )

His orgasm rips through him, and if he wasn't so ensnared by every single sensation being bombarded on them right now, he might be actually in disbelief how hard he spills for this person, it hard and heavy enough that it shoots a sharp static buzz through his mind that disrupts his any possible chance of thoughts. .

(Ugh... now what?) Even as he feels himself lose first, he can't find himself to care about the superficial aspect of it. (Now what... now what when this is no longer the 'for now' where this has been deemed 'enough' between them?)

He only lets himself slump when he's sure Sunday has gotten off, too, the ghostly appendages fading away as if they never existed as Aventurine shivers and presses against Sunday weakly, as best he can with all his limbs limp. ]

[regulate]

[ His eyes take in the sight of Aventurine shuddering while looking so enthralling, the way his cock twitches in his grip as he releases, and Sunday can't do anything else but follow him over the edge. It was over the moment he said Sunday's name and came so close to begging for the same euphoria that's sweeping over the two of them now.

After being locked with tension for so long, his muscles all seemingly come unwound at once as Sunday comes so hard he thinks he might black out. Fluid dribbles thickly down his palm and fingers as he does, and Sunday still finds the wherewithal to keep jerking the two of them together, milking every last drop from the two of them until there's nothing left but the aftershocks of their mutual orgasm.

His body sags after, going slack against Aventurine while he stares at his soiled fingers with curiosity, unable to stop himself from lifting one to his lips to lick it clean. Does it taste like himself or Aventurine more? Does it even matter? It's bitter and foamy but not foul. Maybe being in a dream makes it more tolerable.

He can't stop himself from suckling another finger while his other arm remains loosely wound around Aventurine's waist, mostly anchoring himself with his grip because his head feels light and his body feels like it could float away at any moment. He's not sure how to categorize this warm aftermath where he's too tired to think and over-analyze the situation, but he knows how easily he could grow addicted to it if he allowed himself.

Just as easily as he could grow addicted to the taste of Aventurine on his tongue.

All perilous thoughts to be entertaining when he should be finding a way out of this Dreamscape rather than burrowing deeper into its enchantments. He's just. so very tired at the moment. His flesh still wants to melt right through the floor, his neurons turned to burnt wicks as he tries to form a single thought at all. ]

Do you know how to leave? Do we stay trapped in here until this world's Dreammaster deems the dream over?

[ If she ever does...what if he's forced to spend eternity here as a punishment for his misdeeds, constantly reliving every moment of weakness both in Penacony and what had just transpired between them over these past few minutes? ]

[sorte]

You can't.

[ he says it quietly, his breath stuttered as Aventurine closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the muddy bliss. They can't leave without being allowed, at least that has been what the experience is so far. Spent and trying to catch his breath as his mind numbs over with a white-noised quiet, Aventurine allows himself to simply enjoy feeling close and relieved in this (temporary) sated feeling. Whether it's enough to keep him from needing and wanting more remains to be seen, but for right now he is able to finally speak freely beyond in regards to his own selfish desires of the flesh.]

But... it won't last so long, either. Anywhere from an evening to an entire night's worth. Soon, this dream will start to collapse, and you'll either wake up where you fell asleep or in another world She controls.

[ he talks without thinking, without care of what words he uses to get his point across. All that matters to him is being close and warm against the person he's pressed against now, and that is enough. That's more than enough (and it's enough, too, that Aventurine doesn't want to leave, doesn't want Sunday to leave, either— his fingers clutch at the fabric hanging at Sunday's shoulders a little tighter. ]

[regulate]

And until then?

[ What does he do? Sunday's too deeply consumed by the gentle buzzing of warmth against his skin and the tingling sensation careening down his spine to want to do anything but melt in his spot. If there is a pleasure greater than this, he hasn't found it yet, though he knows that's just the recent orgasm at work. The desire will fade even if he does not want it to completely. ]

I suppose...I should try and find others in the meantime.

[ Even if running into them in this state seems like a terrible idea. He's already made that mistake with Aventurine, and he's still not sure how he's supposed to handle it if they do come across one another outside of the dream. The last thing he wants is to sleep his way through his friend group simply for a momentary high that makes him forget all the grief and worry that eats away at him every hour.

...Yeah, it's probably better not to get too used to this and to peel himself away before it becomes too late. ]

I really should look for them in case they have found their way to trouble.

[sorte]

[ until then... Aventurine hasn't nearly thought so far as that. Keeping his eyes closed, he has no response, only opening them at hearing Sunday continue to speak.

well of course Sunday would want to do that. What was Aventurine expecting, really? For him to want to stay a while? For him to want to stay with him of all people, in particular?

Aventurine shifts and goes to finally pull back, a mumbled, "all right," the only hint that he's even really acknowledging that is being said. He'll force his fingers to uncurl from the fabric at Sunday's shoulders, refusing to look at the other and moving down to start putting the buttons back together one by one like focusing on the task will make everything else disappear. ( he really does hope that that's the case. )

At the very least there will be less to be distracted by with Sunday showing less skin. ]

[regulate]

[ His own hands are quick to tidy his clothes up, smoothing down wrinkles and making sure all his buttons are buttoned and his pants zipped up. He still double and triple-checks before he finally gains enough confidence that there is no evidence of their recent activities anywhere on his person.

He's not sure what more he had been expecting himself either since this is not really a common practice from him. Does he say 'thank you' or offer a compliment? He guesses they are probably well past the point of pleasantries, but he doesn't want to leave things worse between them than they were before they ended up getting each other off in a gothic castle hallway...

One of his hands eventually reaches out, gently turning Aventurine to face him for a moment so he can give him a very soft and chaste kiss on the mouth before releasing him. ]

I will see you again soon, I am certain. We cannot seem to escape one another.

[ For better or for worse, but he won't decry seeing a familiar face in all this mayhem, though he still can't tell if it would have been better if he had accosted a stranger instead.

He'll ruminate on that thought further as he starts to wander away to find Caelus and/or Dan Heng. ]