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]

[ 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. ]