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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
Prologue: New Characters
You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
ᛗ
Sink Down Like Precious Stones
( content warnings: drowning, body horror )
Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.
• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.
ᛗ
You Taste Like New Flesh
( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )
The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm.
Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.
"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.
Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.
Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.
Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.
Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.
Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.
Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.
• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.
• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.
ᛗ
There's Something In The Way You Lay
( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )
Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten.
At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are.
You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.
NOTES
NOTES
• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.TOKEN EFFECTS
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.
• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.
ᛗ
I am not worthy
( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )
Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot.
First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence.
Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall.
They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.
"I am not worthy."
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.TOKEN EFFECTS
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).
• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.
ᛗOOC NOTES
➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
no subject
Beyond that, though, is her familiar scent. It hangs in the air between them, heavy like the curtain of moisture sticking to their skin, full and ripe as fruit heated by the summer sun. Having been around her enough, it's a smell he's become so accustomed to that he almost doesn't notice it. Rather, he notes the absence.
This time, however, is different. Underneath is that earthen loam, nearly suffocating if it weren't so alluring. That same burn from moments ago sears through him with a sharpness and he makes something like a querying sound, automatically reaching for her hand again. Physical touch seems to compound the sensation, a hot flush rising to color his cheeks and the tips of his ears. ]
Hey, can we—I think I need to sit down. [ Every second out here and not pressed hip to hip with her feels dizzying, almost excruciating. ]
no subject
Initially, anyway.] Of course. Here, I've got you—
[She releases the tangle of their fingers and nudges her shoulder underneath his arm instead, her palm dragging along his back as she takes a loose grip around his waist. That's when she really feels it, when her hand settles at the dip of his side and she feels a protective satisfaction at how well it fits there, distracting heat licking up the side of her body that's now pressed to his.
Sense and perception are in agreement this time, even if the thought doesn't yet form on a conscious level. This is a familiar sort of strangeness. That distant gasp a moment ago cinches it.
That agreement, that almost-thought, is set aside for Arthur's request, which she has the basic decency to simply take at face value as she leads them to the nearest door—one of many in this hallway, it seems. It's not locked when she tries the handle, though it really should be for what she finds behind it as she insistently pushes it open: four—no, five?—bodies in various states of undress; some robed, all masked, and all overwrought and writhing in a tangle of such pleasure that preoccupation becomes blindness to the presence of other people at the threshold.
After sense is vindicated in the quiet beat that perception arrives at realization, Kalmiya can only give a soft understatement of comprehension:] Ah.
no subject
As the heat spreads, though, she offers to be a bolster, a slim arm looping around his middle. All at once, his attention narrows, the burn under his skin sinking low in his gut and flaring outwards. More than anything, he suddenly wants her to pull him closer. To press him down and leave marks on neck that will take days to fade.
Frankly, even understanding what this is, now, is disorienting. Kalmiya pushes one of the doors open, revealing—an orgy, there's no getting around it. The presence of their masks and robes is odd enough that he makes a vague noise of annoyance.
Concentrating, he thinks of a closed loop, a version of the Penrose stairs, tucked between the walls. To Kalmiya's immediate right, a door shimmers into existence, stained a dark cherry and the handle an antique brass. ]
Here. [ With that, he'll push the newly formed door open, bringing her into the room with him. Unlike the darkened and oppressive hall they came from, this is, perhaps, more fitting of Kalmiya's presence. With her scent stamped in so intensely, it had been difficult to concentrate on anything else. Or to design anything other than what they step into: late afternoon sun slanting in the windows, crystal light catchers creating a spray of rainbows all across the floor and sparking gently on the walls. Flora climbs up from the baseboards, both greenery and florals alike, creating a hanging canopy above the bed. Motes of light, like fireflies, float in the air. The whole room seems to be painted in a soft pink-purple glow, provided by the crystals which peek between sprays of wisteria.
Door clicking shut behind them, he leans against it, a light sheen of sweat settling on his skin. ]
Fuck, that's better.
no subject
She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head as if that might serve to clear it, but all it does is make her vision swim when she opens them again, blood coursing too fast beneath her golden skin and fuchsia fur. She clumsily allows Arthur to lead them, not taking note of the sudden appearance of the new door nor exactly how it got there. She collapses back against the door as he does, her entire being burning darkly with how much she wants to roll her body over to press him snugly between herself and the door.
Something escapes under her breath that sounds utterly alien from her lips but carries clearly through the Murmur as profanity, followed by a deep and trembling breath as she lifts her head to finally regard the pocket of privacy Arthur has found.
Or, more accurately, made.
Being shut off from the encroachment of outside stimuli abates the dizzy feeling somewhat. New disorientation comes in the unique breathlessness of having the wind knocked out of your chest while she takes in this space both cozy and resplendent; fragrant with greenery, dreamy in luminescent pinks and purples, somehow lit by fucking sunlight in this prison of the moon's endless rising. The riotous thud of her heart in her chest resonates in the pulse felt lower in her body, a messy collision at the intersection of sentimentality and lust that leaves a mess of raw nerves and need exposed to the damp air.
The words don't feel like they come from her own mouth. A different person, a more sensible person than Kalmiya, is the one who asks:] Are you okay?
[Except she's so distracted that the soft words float more in the direction of the wisteria blooms than Arthur, and the squeeze of her throat has given each syllable a rough, hungry edge. Those feelings can't belong to anyone but Kalmiya in this moment.]
no subject
Yeah? Well, no, I, uh—[ Oh, very smooth. Can he really be blamed, as he catches the swell of tender feelings over their tether? Kalmiya's touched by how the room looks, something he hadn't truly been thinking of when he was rapidly building the shape of it. She'd just been all he could think of, with the way her scent clung to every particle of air. Even now, he breathes in, getting the heady mix of sweet jasmine and sun-ripe guava.
Swallowing and overheated, he hastily starts undoing the knot on his bow tie, sliding the silk out from under the stiff collar and dropping it to the floor. ]—I really need you to touch me, right now. Please?
no subject
Any part of her that had intended to ask do you want to go back upstairs is summarily silenced. He's given a pretty clear answer, anyway.
Wit and giddiness are absent as she takes in a deep, shuddering breath and tastes the musk of the leaking fluid at the back of her throat, so attuned as she is to the signs of his desire in both sense and Tether. If Arthur's pleas hadn't already been enough to send the wildfire in her chest roaring out of control, this would be the absolute end of her good sense and reasonable doubt.
Hungry eyes gleaming with reflective color in the streaming sunbeams and floating firefly motes, she rolls herself off the door, arm sliding off of Arthur's waist so that she can yank herself to his front by the lapels of his tuxedo and bring him down for a searing kiss. Teeth and tongue are as wild as the burn in her heat-sticky skin as she insists herself against him until the resistance of the door against his body is clear and one of her legs is asserted firmly between his, slotting them together like the tight fit of freshly-cut puzzle pieces.]
no subject
Strong fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket, roughly dragging him to her level for a fierce kiss, the slide of her inhuman tongue and nip of too-sharp teeth stokes what's under his skin, drawing a low groan from his throat. Inherent permission given, he drags his hands down her sides, enjoying the tacky sensation of sweat. As she situates a strong leg between his own, he drops his weight to be more firmly on his heels and against the door. Like this, he's able to rock his hips against the soft swell of her thigh, breath stuttering enough to break their kiss. Greedy for more of the desire pooling in his gut, for more of her, he sets his palms wide on her ass, kneading the curve of it as he rolls the clothed strain of his cock against the juncture of her hip and thigh. ]
Christ, [ He mutters, pleasure zinging along his spine, perspiration beginning to collect in the hollow of his throat. It's too stuffy in his clothes but he doesn't want to stop. ]
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It's unclear whether the small gasp that follows is as a result of that sight or of the firm squeeze of his hands. Regardless, the breath precedes a dark, eager giggle. His jacket is released to make room for her to tuck her face in at one side of his neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses up to the lobe of his ear. At the same time along the opposite side, her index finger lets the convex curve of its claw slide with smooth precision over his skin. No tip, no edge—only suggestion.]
You don't mind them, [she murmurs against the shell of his ear with a knowing timbre of mischief, a flick of her wrist pulling her hand from his neck to show off the claws with a flex and curl of her fingers,] right?
[Them being the claws, but also being the teeth, which catch on the soft lobe of the ear and then tug.]
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The quiet inhale she gives is gratifying and on its heels, he gets a thrilling sense, the timbre of her laugh colored with sensual promise. Chin tipping up to give her space, he leans his head back against the door, a full bodied shiver racing through him as she lightly traces a claw along the line of his neck. Glancing at the loose curl of fingers, his eyebrows go up in surprise first and then settle as he huffs a laugh. ]
No, [ He says around a smile, catching her hand in his so he can drag his lips up her wrist to press into her palm. ] not at all.
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Forehead pressed to his temple, her voice is syrupy sweet at the same time that it doubles and echoes beneath itself in a tone more beastly.] Good.
Tell me if it's too much.
[They're too close for her to get at the buttons of the waistcoat. But there's enough room to slide her free hand into the space left under their chins. With extended claws and the feral strength of an Offering, it's an absolutely trivial task to hook her fingers into the split between the buttons at his collar and tear it open with one swift yank and the distinct snapping of thread.
Her ears flick at the soft clicks of the buttons hitting the floor, instinctively noting the far-off spots that they've landed, but it's no distraction from the newly-exposed stripe of skin that she dives in to lick the sweat from.]
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There's very little time between what she says and the bare hint of a claw he feels hooking into the placket of his shirt. In the space of a heartbeat, those sharp nails slice through the threads holding the small, gold buttons on, their tiny knotted rope shapes pinging onto the floor. Letting out a groan where he's kissing her fingertips, he feels both cooled by the gape of his shirt and too hot, still possessed of all his layers.
With reluctance, he releases his hold on her as she licks up the line of his sternum, hastily divesting himself of his jacket. Untucking the ruined shirt, that follows to the ground with a flutter of expensive cotton. Both items now discarded, his top is much more bared but still not wholly naked, chest and the barest peek of his waist covered in a maroon lace. Hands no longer occupied, he slides them up her forearms and to her shoulders, palms flattening against her back where he can feel the indentation of her wings. ]
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There's a faint sound of protest when he lets go of her to rid himself of a few more garments. She's bared her teeth for a warning bite when a line of maroon over his shoulder catches the corner of her eye. Blood? is her first instinct, though it's confusion rather than concern when she tips her head to get a better look, since she doesn't smell anything coppery.
When they find a strap instead of some kind of cut, her eyes widen, her surprise sparking a moment of clarity. With astonishment she lifts her head from the crook of his neck and leans back just enough that she can get a full look at the delicate lacy thing settled taut across his lean chest. There's a duality in the zing of excitement that strikes her as well—sharp and soft, striking her gut with predatory need at the same time that it lights a characteristic bright exuberance in her chest.
The laugh that escapes her is both awed and faintly disbelieving, the growl beneath her voice subsiding after a few words. Of their own accord, her hands venture to his pectorals, careful not to snag her claws in the lace as she touches the delicate embroidered petals of the design.] Fuck, Arthur. Were you wearing this the whole time?
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The disbelieving laugh she gives sparks a similar one of his own, the sound overtaken by a low hum as she palms his chest. Arching into the touch, he traces his fingertips over the splay of her shoulder blades, feeling the oddly precise lines layered over top of them. ]
Maybe. [ He says, sly, a cheeky grin quirking the corner of his mouth up. ] I figured I'd meet your energy, is all.
[ She was the one who'd shown up with the crystal-laden bikini top and matching bottoms overtop her trousers.
Leaning down, he presses his smile to hers, slowly drawing her into a deeper kiss. Between breaths: ] You should see the rest.
[ In case she'd forgotten who she was dealing with. ]
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[Hers is gala-appropriate attire! High fashion! Or whatever. She's not the fashion expert of her idiot polycule.
Her wide exploration of his chest narrows for a moment to the band of the bra. Gingerly she hooks a finger into it at the center, where the rich red of a little garnet catches the room's dreamy lights. She dips back into that sultry register as she gives the band a little tug, just enough to lift it away from Arthur's skin.] So, this is just for me?
[She will have to get a good look at the rest, if that's the case, tempting as it is to snap the band beneath her claw.]
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There is, of course, an interested hum when she carefully curls a finger under the band of the bra, lifting it away from his damp skin. ] Thought you might like it, especially after your interest in the heels.
[ Really, he'd gone out on a limb with this one. While there'd been signs that Kalmiya would likely appreciate the ensemble, it wasn't something that had come up before. Their conversation earlier, though, which resulted in him telling her about the dancing courses, had nailed the theory down some more.
But, even if she hadn't gone for it, he would've enjoyed himself. ]
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She lets the brassiere settle back against his sternum to run the backs of her knuckles over the stitched flowers, entranced by the strange way her fur catches as it moves across the lace. Her appreciation slides more prurient as she continues, her own smile impish when she leans in for another kiss, unable to resist when they linger so close.] Good guess, though.
I'll try not to tear it, if you want to wear it while I fuck you.
[Given the way the rasp leans into a growl as that offer goes on, though, she's not making any promises.]
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[ Eyebrows go up slightly, less surprised and more amused; her easy flirtation warming him, the edge in her voice sinking into his skin.
Another shiver runs through him as her knuckles gently trace across the stitching on his top, the soft fur tickling beyond the near transparent lace. He goes into the kiss with eagerness, hands sweeping across the markings on her back. When the kiss breaks, her low words draw a groan out of him, hips hitching against the crook of her thigh. ]
Fuck, I don't even really care if you do. [ Even if it weren't a dream, clothes are replaceable. ] Gonna make me wait?
[ The burn in his blood has been simmering since they stepped down here and her growl contains so much promise, prodding the impatience. ]
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Her fingers twitch against his chest, the smooth curves of her claws finding the lace this time, but the only thing it heralds for the moment is a dark chuckle. The faint scratch left at his collarbone catches her gaze as the brush of her lips leads her down to his jaw, the oil slick color in her irises swirling with an amused hunger.] I could. Doesn't seem like it would be hard to have you begging for it.
[He'd been there before they even began; that urgent Please? still tickles her ears, sends curls of heat up her spine. (Had he dreamed up the lingerie by that point? Not knowing leaves her with a giddy little rush in her chest.)
The venturing brush of her knuckles leaves the delicate weave of the bra's cup to trail down his stomach. There's a brief pause at the waistband of what seems pretty clearly to be a garter belt, a quiet pulse of needful intrigue at her core as she rubs her thumb along its elastic. And then it's down to the button of his trousers, which meets a similar fate to those of the shirt when she wiggles her claws into the folds of fabric.
With a quiet laugh along the skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, she eases her thigh up against him while she works on his fly.] But I don't want to wait.
[Her own impatience burns brightly enough. Adding the heat of Arthur's as well turns immediate gratification from whim into need.]
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He isn't the kind of person to beg. Even when he'd endured the torture exercises under the influence of the PASIV, he'd kept his silence.
Here and now, though, with Kalmiya's mere presence weaving a web of heavy desire, with the knowledge he can trust her to take those pleas to her grave, he finds it easier to let the word slip off his tongue. To paint the air between them in the sheer red of want—hot and sticky as wax. As trails her fingers down his front, there's a prelude to the same needy utterance from earlier in the way he lets out a stuttering whine, the path her knuckles followed feeling overheated. The touch to the edge of the garter belt comes right before she slices the button thread of his trousers and the rapid motion makes him feel oversensitive, eager. Unwilling to distract her from her task, he keeps touching up along her arms, tracing the elegant curve of her shoulders, fingertips dragging lightly on the gentle dips of the wing markings on her back.
Once he feels the fabric of his pants loosen around his waist, it's simple to arch his hips enough to allow the garment to slide to the floor, a puddle atop his feet. The loss reveals the rest of the garter belt, its lower curve framing equally lacy and revealing panties—his stiff cock peeks over the waistband of it, mirroring the blush on his cheeks. Atop his thighs are the delicate garter straps, connected to matching stockings, the whole ensemble clearly coordinated. ]
Not sure if I can, either. [ Because even if he's enjoying the burn here as she unwraps him like a gift, he really needs to be closer, to be pressed skin to skin. ]
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She relaxes her leg enough to let the trousers fall unobstructed when she feels the slackening of fabric, and spares a sidelong glance down the finely-decorated plane of his torso to take a first look at the rest of the ensemble, as requested. A shuddering sigh leaves her, her breath nearly as humid with hunger as the muggy air.
Not sure if he can. The soft affection of the answering words is at odds with the monstrous rumble that underscores them, the subharmonics easily felt where his hands roam her back.] I think you would, though.
[A question that's not a question, never breaking the shell of confidence around the query within: if he'll beg for her, then he'll wait for her too, right?
It's too brief when the descending brush of her knuckle finds the exposed head of his cock and traces over the lace-covered length. Almost like an incidental motion as her hand instead ends up on the hook at the waist of the crystal bikini bottom, to then easily unlatch it with a claw. This way she can loosen the closure of her own pants unimpeded.
There's no way it wouldn't have been noticed in this outfit before, which means it's coming to be in the current moment, the easy reshaping of her malleable body into an utterly different set of parts. The width of her hand shadows the details of the transformation as she undoes her trousers. So it's a bit like a magic trick as she opens her fly and then reaches in to free a cock of modest size, the skin glimmering and flushed in a way that's still distinctively, obviously hers.
It's coaxed to full hardness with a few leisurely strokes and absolutely no comment as her free hand finds his thigh and toys with the lace at the top of the stocking, her mouth occupied with the impression her teeth are currently working to leave on his neck.]
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Under his hands, her voice vibrates through her ribcage and up his palms, her fond amusement sinking into his bones; a small smile curls the corner of his mouth. ] Mm, yeah.
[ While he knows she hadn't needed the verbal confirmation, he gives it anyway, words tinged with a dreamy kind of desire. That's divorced from this moment, something to consider later, and he isn't opposed to it. For now, his attention narrows on where she's touching him, the backs of her fingers just barely ghosting over the hard curve of his erection. Reflexively, his hips arch towards the contact, a shiver sliding across his skin at the sheer amount of want singing in his blood.
The familiar clink of a buckle catches his attention and he tips his chin down to see she's undone the harness on the outer portion of her pants, the item in a heap at her feet. Not only that but the fly on her trousers gapes open and instead of the wildly patterned underwear he's used to seeing on her, she has her hand curled around a cock. One that is unmistakably attached to her, as she easily strokes it to hardness.
Between seeing that, the sharp bite of her teeth, and the heat of her fingers tracing the lacy edge of a stocking, arousal blooms so fiercely he feels dizzy with it, hands holding onto her as he lets out a low groan. Just he'd sensed earlier, a slick kind of fluid drips down the inside of his thigh. ]
Oh fuck, Kalmiya, I need to–[ Arthur regretfully ducks away from the way she'd been marking his neck so he can sink to his knees between her and the door with an impressive amount of flexibility. Leaning forward, he drags an open mouthed kiss from just under her breasts down the line of her abdomen, stopping right where her hand's fisted around her dick. Without hesitation, he licks the head of it, glancing up at her as he takes the tip in his mouth. ]
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A confused sound morphs into a trembling moan as Arthur's lips first find her sternum and then draw a path down over her stomach, leaving a trail of heat that renders both her mind and her breath hazy. The slump of her shoulders brings her head to a bow as she leans more heavily on the door, affording her a view of Arthur shadowed by her own body, illuminated mostly by the motes of light that drift low to the floor.
She's fixated by the way the pink light accents the structure of his face, lining his cheekbones and glinting on his exposed tongue in the moment that he extends it to lick the head of her newly-formed cock. The faintest sound of wood straining follows as the press of her fingers forces her claws into the grain of the door, a groan shaking out of her when his lips close around what he can get to without her hand in the way.
When she blinks the heat-haze of arousal from her eyes and meets his gaze, the corner of her open mouth quirks up with amusement, a flash in her gaze both surprised and revelatory. If this is what he wants—what he needs—far be it from her to deny him. So she lets her fingers slip away from the shaft, unsticking her claws from the door to adjust the way her weight is braced. She doesn't straighten up, though. She likes the vantage point she has on Arthur from here, likes the way she hovers protectively over him with the slight bow to her form and casts a shadow that keeps him low-lit in pinks and purples.
A breathless echo of his words a moment ago, a little tease even in distraction.] Thought you might like it.
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That same syrupy want smothers his awareness, keeps it so the only thing occupying his mind is Kalmiya. She moves her hand away, allowing him to sink further down her cock and all he can concentrate on is the weight of it on his tongue, the overripe smell of fruit and jasmine, the shock of heat that spikes in his gut as he takes more of her in his mouth. Slowly, he pulls away, sucking at the tip, one hand reaching down to unlace his shoes. The other skims up her thigh, giving it a squeeze before he loosely circles his fingers around the base of her erection. Smoothly, he slides her further in again, setting an easy bobbing rhythm.
Once he's no longer partially occupied by shoelaces, he transfers the weight on his knees, shuffling both oxfords and pants away so as not to be tangled up in them anymore. With a single-minded focus, he glances up at Kalmiya again, letting the hunger in her eyes drive him to take her cock deeper, eventually swallowing when he feels it hit the back of his throat. He moans around it, the sound muffled against her skin, more slippery fluid leaking down his thighs. ]
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The rush of blood in her too-large ears, the pound of her heart as it stumbles over another beat too big for her chest, the wet heat of Arthur's mouth wrapped tightly around her even as he maneuvers the rest of his formalwear off. It all spills into the roiling heat at her core, an undertow that drags her further and further from conscious thought into possessive instinct.
What was just a soft creak gives way to a woody scrape as Kalmiya's claws carve lines along the door, longer and tougher on the hand that braces her as the one with which she reaches for Arthur softens. The fur spreads thinner and the nails blunt as she cards her fingers into his hair and takes a fistful of it, shoulders shaking and high heels creaking against the floor as she devotes every muscle to not shoving her cock further down his throat when he swallows. The feral groan that escapes her is strained, ragged with the effort (which is second nature even in this state, because she won't hurt someone who trusts her, someone who's hers.)
Hips shaking, she meets Arthur's eyes with wild need, the humidity of the room gathered in trickles of sweat along the sides of her face. Resonating with the vibrations of his moan are impressions between thought and feeling, not conscious but clear in voice through their tether: Close, and More.]
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While he appreciates her conscientiousness, he aims to correct the record; both hands settle on her ass, fingers spread wide as he tugs her forward at the next tilt of her hips, airway closing off as he takes her entire length in, nose pressed to her skin. He eases off and then does it again, blinking away the instinctive tears. Doing this has always ridden the edge of discomfort and desire, enough that his pulse feels loud in his ears, sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat and divot of his spine.
In answer to the flare of lust over the tether, he transmits go on. ]
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