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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hello :"3c

[pointedlook]

[ Curiosity lights up his eyes as he watches Ranni glide into the room, the smokey gauze of her dress seeming to flow like water with her motions. Even as she circles him in a manner akin to a predator—and isn't that a thrill—he simply watches, dark eyes alert but interested.

She finally stops behind him, something he acknowledges with a slight turn of his head. At the light pressure of her hands at his waist and shoulder blades, his breath hitches in anticipation.

Her question, though, leaves him smiling, just a bit. ]

I could hardly turn you down, Ranni. [ Maybe there is a bit of unnatural lust simmering in the air and in their blood. But, his regard for the odd witch-doll woman is not magically induced; he likes her, plain and simple. As if to punctuate the point, he gently tugs one of the hands from where it curls over the angle of his hip and brings it up, brushing a kiss to the backs of her jointed fingers. ]

[deathstealer]

Ah, but perhaps I am not the most pleasant of partners.
Perhaps I am cold of touch, and rotten of mind,
and mine tongue will cut more easily than it will please.

[ --to indulge in a bit of double entendre. Ranni's tone is teasing, as sharp as the chill she radiates. In truth, being among these writhing bodies and the heat in the air has been terribly invigorating-- to see that some look upon her with attraction is quite the compliment, considering her broken body.

Arthur gives her knuckles a knightly kiss, and Ranni's lips press to the back of his neck, curling her fingers against his. Then, she turns him, fingers tucked under his chin, at his hip, his ribcage. The style of dress he wears is unfamiliar, but it suits him, its sharp edges and monochrome coloring. He looks very unlike the academic and curious mind that had been in her library, instead, a creature more suited for charming minds and shaking hands.

She takes his face in one hand, cradling his cheek, studying him with one keen blue eye. Yes, she rather thinks she does want to get to know him in this way: to undo him. To study him. ]

To engage in this manner is to give in to the whims
of the fickle and obsessive god that bares its teeth here.
And yet, I find I am of the mind to throw caution to the wind.
Let us indulge.

[ And with that, she drags Arthur in for a kiss, all teeth and edge. ]

[pointedlook]

[ Ranni's return kiss is a cold brand at the back of his neck, as though someone's placed the remnants of a melting ice cube against his skin. Reflexively, a shiver runs through him, but he doesn't pull away, warmed by the tease of her words and by the eagerness of her touch. All four points of pressure remind him that she's otherworldly, beyond the dream of this place. It doesn't stop the darkened look of interest as a chilled palm settles against his cheek, her undamaged eye clearly making a study of his face.

Curiously, he cups his hand over hers and slowly skims his fingers down the whorls of metal that make up her wrist and forearm, sensing the underlying magic that gives her motion. ]

That depends on your reasons, doesn't it? [ Sleep makes whispered demands of worship, has set up this space to watch if they indulged how she wanted. But, he isn't thinking of her as he follows Ranni's pull, breath stuttering at the sharp nip of her teeth. No, he doesn't worship at Sleep's altar, only thinks that Ranni tastes like the tea she serves when he visits, that beyond the cool scent of winter and iron, she has the familiar smell of paper and tannins.

Sliding his free hand to her waist, he traces the mesh of her dress, settling his palm at the small of her back and pressing them closer together. ]

[deathstealer]

[ As she is pulled closer, Ranni makes a satisfied noise into their kiss. Truly, she would not be so forward and presumptuous should she have gotten even one whiff of discontent from Arthur; but to have his willing enthusiasm is satisfying indeed. ]

Ah, but I am a simple creature,
of very straightforward reasons.
I see a wrong;
I seek to right it.
I see a person I would like to bed;
I pursue them ruthlessly.

[ Her amused smile slants against his lips as she seeks another kiss, and as she does so, her fingertips seek his shirt, deftly slipping buttons through buttonholes. One could speak about the centuries that she has spent not pursuing people, about how this is hardly the norm for her -- but Ranni does everything with a great confidence, and this no exception.

She glances to the side, where vines creep on the walls like writhing appendages, and with a thought, one of them creeps around Arthur's ankle. She's tempted to rip his shirt off, but she does love savouring the unwrapping of gifts. ]

Thy clothes are handsome,
but t'would be more fitting
for them to decorate the floor.

[pointedlook]

[ Well, it's certainly gratifying that they're both straightforward creatures then, isn't it? Assent both given and received, they're off, the amused curve of her mouth making his own humor bubble up; just the faint crease of a dimple on his cheek.

Ranni's fingers are deft, light as they thread the buttons of his shirt out of their holes. His own touch ghosts along the fine mesh of her dress and up her exposed back, feeling for the slight indent of her spine through the whorls of cold metal. He's brought out of his concentration when something coils around his ankle, letting out a quiet gasp at the suddenness. ]

Can hardly say no to that. [ Arthur huffs a laugh, picking up where Ranni had left off. The jacket is easily shrugged from his shoulders to the floor, the knot of his bow tie undone and silk ends hanging from where they're tucked under his stiff collar. Cuff links go in his trouser pocket, gaped dress shirt joining the coat on the ground.

Left in plain shirtsleeves and his pants, he reaches for one of her hands, tilting it to kissing her cool porcelain fingertips and working his way up, lips brushing across her palm and to the broken seam where her wrist turns to metal. ] Better?

[ He murmurs, where her pulse point would be, a bit of cheekiness in his tone. ]

cw: getting nsfw up in here

[deathstealer]

[ As Arthur disrobes, Ranni watches him the way a field general surveys newly conquered land: with supreme satisfaction. Not that she has yet conquered him, but that will come soon enough.

His kiss to her wrist is almost knightly, and she turns her hand in his grip to caress his cheek, her gaze softening imperceptibly. ]

It is a start, of sorts,
but there is much more ground to be covered.

[ Two of her free hands reach up to her own dress, unlinking and unclipping the chains that make up the upper half of it. They covered very little; even a casual glance would have been able to see the tarnished metal underneath, the large swathe of her body where the porcelain has eroded away, leaving a mere swell in the upper chest where shaped breasts might once have been.

She tugs Arthur up and against her, to tuck her face into the curve of his throat, lips pressed underneath his jawline. There, she explores with mouth and breath like a winter's chill, hands finding their way to his trousers. ]

Art thou a tease, Arthur?
Thine undressing is at a glacial pace.

[pointedlook]

[ Her palm may be cold against his cheek, but her regard is warm enough to make up for it. Arthur continues to lightly trace the swirling metal that makes up her arms, watching with interest as she unhooks the top of her dress, gravity easily taking care of dropping the garment away from her body. Even though the fine mesh had hidden very little, it still provokes an aroused interest to have an unobstructed view of the patterned iron that made up her torso. There's the faintest hint at a swell on her chest; perhaps the foundation where more shapely porcelain may have been.

It doesn't matter all that much, not as she noses under his chin, cool lips following the line of his jaw. The contrasting temperature between them sends a shiver through him, prompting a giddy bubble that sees him laughing a bit at Ranni's words. ]

I may have been accused of it, from time to time. [ But alright, he's got a better picture. Gently, he extracts himself from her hold, kneeling to untie his shoes and pull them off. As he's there, he curls a hand around one of Ranni's slim thighs, trailing a kiss up along the inside. His other hand works his trousers open, shoving them and his underwear down off his hips. Mentally, he shoos the vine around his ankle away, so he can fully divest himself of his garments. Having kissed up her thigh, though, he brushes another at the crux of where it meets her hips, just to put a point on being a tease.

But, knowing her earlier impatience, he stands, places his hands under the bare swell of her ass and lifts, gently depositing her onto the bed nearby. Planting a knee between her legs, he leans down to kiss her neck. ]

This more what you had in mind?

[deathstealer]

[ It is rare for Ranni to be truly caught off guard, and yet-- she makes a small noise of surprise as she is lifted, eye widening as Arthur carries her to a nearby bed. She cannot be easy to carry, as she definitely weighs more than a biological being at her height, but he does it nonetheless.

She is impressed.

She is deposited on the mattress, and she allows it for a scant moment before she grips Arthur's arms and rolls them. With Arthur's back against the mattress, Ranni can perch on his thighs, and survey him with a conqueror's eye. Now that he is finally naked, his flesh is bared to her gaze, and he is delightful to look upon -- built more like a scholar than a warrior, or perhaps more like an acher than a swordsman. He is lean and sleek, all angles, with very few scars that she can observe.

Ranni puts a hand in the middle of his chest, feeling his heartbeat. ]

This is what I had in mind;
I hope you do not mind if I indulge.

[ She leans down to kiss him once more, but it is brief; she moves downward to his collarbone, the smooth line of a pectoral, and then to the lines of his ribs. Two hands clasp with his own, fingers entwined, pinning his hands to the mattress. Her lips skim over Arthur's sternum, then his belly, and then swerves sideways to his hip, her cheek brushing against the base of his cock but going no further.

There's a sly gleam of a smile in her eye. ]

Shall I let thee feel my mouth?

[pointedlook]

[ Ranni rolls them both, much faster than he anticipated she could move, and as his back hits the mattress, he lets out a startled laugh. Amusement still clings to his mouth as she leans back, her perch upon his thighs so mundane but the look on her face veering towards imperious. Or perhaps, more accurately, hungry, the weight of which sparks in his blood.

She plants a cold hand on his sternum, the sudden temperature change drawing out a gasp. ]

By all means. [ He has no intention of stopping her, especially not as she steals another kiss, something he tilts into. With her hair serving as a dark curtain, each subsequent press of her cool lips feels oddly private. The trail she follows is a counterpoint to the aroused flush rising to the surface; it feels better than he ever would have thought. She twines their fingers together and pins his hands to the mattress, something he idly flexes against to test—as suspected, she won't be easily budged.

As she works lower, the half hard curve of his erection fills out, swelling with definite interest as she brushes her mouth across the sharp angle of his hip. A chill radiates off her cheek, something that should have him flinching away; instead, he can't help the reflexive jerk of his hips, dark gaze intent on the unnatural shine of her eye. ]

If you want me to beg for it, you'll have to keep pushing buttons. Unless you're feeling generous?

[deathstealer]

[ Ranni gives Arthur a long, considering look. She certainly could work to make him beg, and she has no doubt she'd achieve it -- though he does seem the stubborn sort, so it might take a while -- but in this place, in this atmosphere, she feels guided toward more immediate action. ]

Count thy lucky stars, Arthur--
I will not make thee beg this day.

[ However tempting such an idea is.

She rakes her teeth over the jut of his hip, enjoying the shape of it. Sex, as far as she is concerned, must be a full body experience, not merely limited to two or three erogenous zones. The line of his thigh is an intriguing thing, flat muscle taught under soft skin, a sleek line that any master sculptor would be envious to behold. Eventually, she works her way to the middle, lips brushing against the base of his cock before dragging upward, mouth parting to let the tip of him slip between her lips. There, she sucks languidly, leisurely, tongue circling sensitive flesh, a tease before she goes any further.

Ranni pulls off, slim fingers circling around the base of Arthur's cock, and says thoughtfully, mouth and breath still whispering against where he's most sensitive: ]

I am told that such intimate couplings
can result in a tether between minds.
Dost thou consent to such a thing?
There is no shame if the answer is nay.

[pointedlook]

Merciful of you.

[ Because he knows she's thorough enough to make the attempt, should the desire strike. Not that he would really complain; he enjoys a slow burn.

What she gives in the moment, though, feels good; the contrast of his heated skin and her cold touch creates a tension he finds he likes. And while she wasn't out to make him beg, it seemed she was still going to take enough time to truly enjoy this. She doesn't immediately return her attention to his cock, instead nipping at his hipbone, skimming along the inside of his thigh and causing the muscles there to jump reflexively. By the time the featherlight touch of her lips comes between his legs, he can't stop the wanting shift of his hips. And when she finally sinks him into her mouth, he lets out a shaky moan, keeping himself from shoving deeper.

It doesn't last long, as she pulls away, fingers encircling the base of his cock, cool breath ghosting across his skin. ]

I'm alright if it's with you. [ Which is possibly too trusting, at this juncture, but he's gone into this knowing that fact. Without the full use of his hands, he gives the ones holding him down a reassuring squeeze. ] Not just saying that, either.