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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Comments

[pointedlook]

[ Her exasperated affection is so soft, so welcome, that he can't help but laugh softly, the sound caught in the fan of their breath. He steals another kiss as she touches his lace-covered chest, pulling away to elicit a quiet, pleased sigh with the motions.

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. ]

[longwillows]

I'd like you in anything. [Automatic, easy. Not even overly flirtatious, though her lustful rasp nudges it in that direction. It's true, though; her own proclivities aside, she can't imagine Arthur looking bad in anything he chooses to wear.

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.]

[pointedlook]

Yeah?

[ 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. ]

[longwillows]

[An affirmative hum in answer, a quick mhm, as her skin warms in echo of his. It's not like it was ever a secret that she finds Arthur attractive. How he chooses to decorate himself is just a bonus.

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.]

[pointedlook]

[ Kalmiya drags her lips away from his ear, brushing along the line of his jaw instead. He tilts his head to give her some more room; the hungry words she murmurs felt more than heard. They kindle the heat he's felt since coming down here; like pouring gasoline onto an ongoing blaze. That feeling slides right down his spine, as effective as a lover's hands.

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. ]

[longwillows]

[Understanding seeps into her bones as that needy whine warms them, the sense that the red wax which spills over their shared pocket of air is sealing in another gesture of trust. Nothing as earth-shaking as the freefall of grief she had taken with him, but precious nonetheless, something she'll keep tucked away only for her own ears and recollections. And it will certainly stay sharp in those recollections; a full-body tremor rattles through Kalmiya at the plea in his voice, a quiver halfway between thrill and restraint that impresses the sound irrevocably into her memory.

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.]

[pointedlook]

[ Warm breath fans across his collarbone, trembling at the edges with a sense of need, the same primal kind of thirst hanging heavy in the air around them. A feedback loop has truly begun–something he's grown used to, in the time he's spent with Kalmiya. What she feels and allows through, he gets unfiltered and lets it wash over him, drops his own barriers to gasp and sigh and let her see the riot of emotional color she's responsible for. Each turn builds momentum, feeding the lick of pleasure coalescing under their skin.

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. ]

[longwillows]

[It's a stroke of good fortune that she instinctively seeks the stability of the door behind Arthur when she catches a fresh wave of the heady scent of slick and feels another shake in her knees. That's what she's hanging onto rather than his pretty stockings when he ducks away from her, her palm flat against the dark cherry wood where it braces her swaying body, suddenly bereft of Arthur's embrace.

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.

[pointedlook]

[ Like this, under the curve of Kalmiya's body, he feels caged in. A comfortable haze descends across his senses at the thought, any anxious tension fading from him entirely; despite the loom of her over him, he's safe, protected. The latter drifts across the tether and he lets himself be blanketed in it.

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. ]

[longwillows]

[This time, it isn't the drip of arousal that weakens her legs, but the depth of the trust Arthur places in her as he settles into the protection of the cage she makes with her body. Intrinsically she understands the value of this, the rarity of it—something she would never ask for and which overwhelms her when earnestly given. And she doesn't know what to do with it except let it pull her deeper into her own senses—and his, too, the weight and taste of herself echoing faintly on her tongue as she opens her mouth to gasp.

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.]

[pointedlook]

[ Above him, he notes the carving creak of wood grain giving way to the sharp edge of her claws—a clear sign she was getting just as lost in the sensation as he was. Which only builds, as he feels her fingers tangle in his hair, fist taking in a handful and keeping him in place. The muscles in her thigh strain with effort, her abdomen flexing minutely as she tried to stay in control of her motions.

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. ]

[longwillows]

[It's a choked gasp of a sound when he pulls her into his throat, stretched between the urgent hitch of her own breathlessness and the echo she gets of his as the backs of her eyes sting. The second time he eases her in, the dissonant sound of Celestial profanity cuts the air, dragging a helpless edge along its side; nearly pleading, if not for the growl that renders it more a demand than a request.

He urges with both his mind and body, permission impressed upon the tether with a need that flares and twines with what already rushes in her blood. Her head swims and her heart throbs looking down at him on his knees, nose pressed to her abdomen, maroon lace accentuating his lithe figure, pink light captured prettily in the gleam of his sweat. That vicious, protective thing lashes at her ribs again, a surge of hot admiration with a precious claim on this sight, this space and trust that Arthur has given her. The pulse of heat in her lungs is felt in her cock too, a twitch stop Arthur's tongue; given what she's been given, there's nothing to do with it but what he insists upon.

Opening the circle of her fingers to cradle his skull rather than keep clinging to his hair, she shudders as she draws her hips back slowly from his face, savoring the tight pull of his closed lips. Even with permission, even with her blood singing to lay her claim with tooth and claw, the first few thrusts are slow, half of her nerves and all of her fondness attuned to the sensory information she receives from the opposite end of their tether for any sign of unwanted discomfort.

In the absence of it, she finds her pace, breath ragged as she begins to fuck his mouth with the grateful disbelief of a hard-won chase. Firm, deliberate, but not too fast to luxuriate in. Not so fast that he can't adjust. It's as he adjusts that it changes gradually; more insistent, more forceful, the tilt of her hips working into the leverage of the hand she keeps on his head. As long as he likes it, as long as she can feel desire harmonize in the push and pull of their connection, she'll give him more. And it's seeming like he can take a lot.]

[pointedlook]

[ She seems to cling harder, the first two times he takes her into his throat, releasing a gasp and then a curse, both filling the humid air between them. Both soak into his nerves, make him feel in control as well as used, a sticky-hot drip of lust pooling in his belly.

Soon enough, she gets the picture and the tight hold she has on his hair relaxes, fingers fanning out to cup the back of his head. Very carefully, she slides her hips back, letting him take a breath to prepare for the next push inwards. The easy rhythm is met with a satisfied hum, his grip on her ass gentling, fingertips dragging over the curve of it instead.

Having adjusted so well to the gradual pace she'd been testing, he's more than capable of accepting the way she picks up the rock of her hips. As she works towards more urgency, he caresses the backs of her thighs, sliding up the swell of her backside and hips, one hand dipping between her legs to palm the hang of her balls. The interval of his throat being empty shortens and he blinks away tears, concentrating on swallowing around her cock when she fucks into his mouth.

It's good; more than good, really, because he feels her surge of possessiveness and moans, letting it wash over him completely. There's nearly no thought in the moment, just the slick sound of her thrusting between his lips, their panting breaths. Dropping his one hand way from her hip, he presses the heel of it against the messy, dripping curve of his dick, eyes fluttering shut with a low groan. ]

[longwillows]

[The syrupy flow of non-thought floods her awareness as well, blanketing the world in quiet but for Arthur's rich moans and the wet slide of his mouth around her dick, her ears turned down towards him in alertness to catch every little sound. Every vibration felt through the tight curl of his tongue sinks into her sensitive skin and resonates all the way up her spine, heating the shared sticky sweetness of need into something molten as it roils through her veins.

His wandering hands invite approving rumbles, halfway between purr and growl. Urgency hikes at the hand between her legs; hands, even, with the faint pressure that ripples from his body to hers in his self-soothing. The cradle of her fingers tenses, venturing further outside the realm of gentleness with each thrust as his practiced reception pushes her closer and closer to the feral peak of the desire the dream has ignited within her.

The noise, the touch, the vibrations; they all play a harmony on the strings of the tether alongside his acceptance—and not only acceptance, but the pleasure he derives from feeling claimed. It's so intoxicating in its novelty that she's powerless against the rising tide of her own instincts, her simmering unsatisfied fascination with power and control boiling until filthy gratification bubbles up to the edge. The angle of her grip changes, sliding to the top of his head with another subconscious adjustment of the shape of her wrist.

It permits him the freedom to pull away should he truly need to, but strongly suggests otherwise as Kalmiya loses herself to the sticky, searing mire of their push and pull, to Arthur's hands and mouth and satisfaction, to the wild understanding between predator and prey. Rhythm is lost in the mire too as a ragged groan spills from her throat and a few final thrusts into his waiting mouth bring her to messy climax, punctuated by the woody complaint of the door as her claws rake its surface. The fluid that spills from her twitching cock is truer to her natural form than the one she's taken, not as viscous as would be expected, but it drips and swallows just the same.]

[pointedlook]

[ His insistence has paid off as he feels her reacting to the cyclical feedback over their connection. Whatever physical reassurance he's given her to signal she could fuck his mouth has mixed with the emotional, the mental intoxication on his end. So, it's gratifying once she starts to relax the worry that had held her muscles taut, focusing her exertion into how she rolls her hips forward, sinking in fully.

The motion slowly picks up speed as the desperation to reach release digs in under her skin. He can feel the echo of it, a quick burning wildfire, the heat of which washes over him like he's caught in a backdraft. Her grip changes, tightens, keeping him hooked in close and he simply leans into it, continuing to tease the tensing hang of her balls. As she loses all rhythm, he takes her cock in as far as it can go, letting out a filthy moan from the heat, the pressure, how it oddly feels he's being claimed.

Encouraging her imminent release, he sets his hand on the back of her thigh, giving it a squeeze. Soon enough, the door creaks somewhere above him as her orgasm hits, a sticky-hot fluid spurting down his throat. With a lower groan, he swallows, easing away from her after a couple moments. Licking his lips, he tilts to press his cheek to her thigh, panting softly as he regains his breath. The hand he has curled around her other leg slowly drifts up, skimming a palm to her waist as he glances up, quirking a small smile at her. ]

Probably not what you had in mind, but... [ Arthur trails off, letting the moment assert itself. There's still a clench of arousal in his belly, unsatisfied by the single press of his hand; he just hadn't been able to resist. ]

[longwillows]

[He takes it so easily, moans so greedily, the current beneath every wave intensifies its crash into her as she rides out climax. At some point she'd squeezed her eyes closed, which she only realizes when the sight of him hits her like a ton of bricks; a vision in maroon, flushed and smiling up at her as he rests against her thigh and reaches for her waist, catching stray glimmers from the prisms that spray from the hanging crystals.

Whether it's the dreamlike picture he makes kneeling before her or the psychic impression of his unresolved desire, another jolt of need weakens her already-trembling legs, some stray thud of her heart making her lungs squeeze as she tries to catch her breath. Some of that pressure releases in a giddy, winded laugh.] I like surprises.

[And she still has every intention of doing what she did have in mind, though that thought doesn't make it to her mouth as the hand atop his head relaxes. She finds herself taken by the curving path her fingertips draw along the side of his face, soft fur and blunted claws catching the sweat from his temples on the way down.

She pushes off the door and finds the hand at her middle, mindful of her claws as she searches for a grip further down his arm at the same time her opposite hand finds one of the straps of his brassiere. She more tries to coax him up to his feet than haul him, but her grip comes with an insistent tug, her own hunger at the opposite end of the pull. She has to swallow before she speaks, her words gone thick from the whelm of Arthur's scent on her tongue, urgent in a way that betrays how much effort it takes to form speech at all.] Up. I want to taste you.

[A beat. She tilts her head, playfulness set against the predatory need in her eyes and the flash of fang in her smirk.] Please.

[pointedlook]

[ As her hand gently caresses the side of his face, he tilts into it, pressing his cheeks into the cup of her palm before she continues her path downwards. Between the tug at his bra strap and the solid curl of her hand around his bicep, he follows her urging up, huffing a startled laugh.

Because of course she wasn't going to be satisfied without giving him something in return. Not that he can complain about such a thing, considering how there was still an insistent burn under his skin—fueled as much by his own arousal as it was by what still sparks in her blood, even in the aftermath of her release. So, he unfolds himself from where he'd sunk to his knees with only a little less grace than earlier, once more between her and the unyielding flat of the door behind him. ]

Well, since you asked so nicely. [ He replies easily, despite the hitch in his breath at the teasing utterance. While her tone is playful, the gleam of her teeth is predatory, wanting. The same desire from earlier coalesces, settles low in his belly; if she wants to possess him, he won't say no.

Spurred on by the thought, he leans down to kiss her, gently arranging her hands to frame his waist. Another thrill goes through him and he slides his palms up her arms, nudging her backwards. ] Maybe a different venue, give the door a break.

[ There is also something alluring about the idea of being pinned in under her. ]

[longwillows]

[A low chuckle muffles in her throat as he comes in to kiss her again, mouth still tasting faintly of her; the heat in her chest warms her breath as she intones,] Think I would give it a break if we did it right here.

[She's probably not actually strong enough to fuck him so hard she breaks the door.

Probably.

Not yet, anyway.

The hands placed at his waist give him a little squeeze as they maneuver further into the room, her thumbs pressing with fascination into the lace of the garter belt. She feels it from him again, that burning want to be possessed, the zing of the thrill in his blood passing to her like an electrical current. Her conscious mind, quiet as it is, still doesn't know what to do with it. Instinct does, though, so about halfway across the room, she rotates their position with a few easy side steps so that she can back Arthur up the remainder of the distance to the bed he has so kindly conjured. (Always making sure she has a proper bed, isn't he?)

Once they find the bed, she wastes no time in using her grip on his waist to assert him down onto its edge. Her reluctance is palpable when she releases him to shrug her sweaty, wrinkled jacket off the length of her arms. Much like his suit, it's abandoned to the floor, leaving just the crystal-laden bikini underneath. As she bends at the waist to reach for her shoes, she braces one hand on the mattress at Arthur's side; the other undoes the straps of the heels, one at a time as she lifts each foot off the floor to discard them sight unseen while she leans heavily into his space and traces the buried notes of cedar and citrus in his scent.

The growl creeps back into her voice through the open door that hunger has left in her words as she kicks her shoes aside and dips her head to brush her lips to Arthur's neck.] Get comfortable.

[pointedlook]

Yeah, you might. It'd be fixable, but–[ He gives something of a bemused shrug. Why worry about that kind of thing when they could simply move elsewhere?

Besides, he can't complain about how her warm hands steer him further from the door and more fully into the space he's built, each point of pressure so keenly felt even through the lace of his outfit. As they make their way, he keeps touching her wherever he can without obstructing motion, hands tracing along her shoulders, the backs of his fingers following the delicate line of her collarbone, palms lightly cupping either side of her neck. He's only startled out of it as she turns them, backing him up to the bed and pushing him down towards the edge of it. To keep his balance, he reluctantly lets go, bracing his perch with his palms set on the mattress behind him.

Of course, she doesn't leave him waiting for too long, shrugging her jacket off to leave her in just the structured bikini top, crystal points clicking when she then leans over to pull her heels off. With her leaning so much into his space, he instinctively sways a bit towards her, the intoxicating scent of fruit and jasmine taking up all the space in his lungs.

A full-body shiver slides over him when she tells him to get comfortable, the predatory rasp enough to cause more of the slick wetness from earlier to reappear. It glosses the inside of his thigh as he swallows and moves, leaning back on the absurdly fluffy white pillows. ] Come here and touch me, please?

[ How she makes that happen doesn't really matter too much. All he knows is he needs to be in contact with her somehow, the current lack of it a hollow ache somewhere in his middle. ]

[longwillows]

[This time the scent is accompanied by the sight, the brighter catch of the pink lights on the fluid streaking his thigh while he shifts closer to the head of the bed. A shuddering breath leaves her as her weight lists forward and down, depressing her braced hand into the give of the sheets and mattress. Instinctively the other hand catches her; in one motion she goes from swaying to prowling, wide eyes fixed on Arthur's as she crawls onto the bed after him.

He's an even prettier picture like this, the full view of him set against the pillows and bedspread. She's of no mind to deny his request, inasmuch as she's of any mind at all. That please again is a rush of heat straight down to her cock, a call to the possessive need that drives her, craving to both pamper and ruin.

After she bows and slides down to lay between his legs with stomach settled flat against the bed, she nudges her shoulders beneath his thighs to prop them up and open. It's dizzying, near delirium to be this close to him; her pupils dilate as she takes in the flush of the erection straining against its pretty maroon support, tasting slick and precome on the air she breathes before she's even opened her mouth. The bend of her arm leads into a reach up and around his right hip, her hand finding the edge of the panties. Claws puncture and snag in the lace where it meets the elastic when she takes hold to tug the damp panel of the garment aside.

For once, she's without a quip as she ducks her head to find the source of her temptation, the strange fluid signaling his body's readiness to be fucked. She's barely taken in the scope of its spread down his legs before she's dragging her tongue in wide laps over the lean plane of his inner thigh to collect it. The taste of it awakens a groan in her chest and a shudder in her spine, sheer gratified relief leading into deeper hunger. There is no patience or restraint as she works up to the crease of his hip and the hang of his balls, greedily seeking every drip of slick with open mouth and venturing tongue.]

[pointedlook]

[ The shift from an unintentional sway to the predatory crawl towards him is noticeable. It's in the confident roll of her shoulders, the swing of her hips, the black dilation of pupils signifying her focus. Whatever recovery he might have been able to make in the momentary absence of her touch gets stamped out, breath hitching with the intensity. Instinctively, he spreads his legs as she insinuates herself between them, a hot flush pouring over him as she settles, attention clearly pinned on the lace-trapped strain of his cock.

Almost delicately, she lifts part of the panties aside, the matte glint of claws in the rosy light enough to give him a head rush. Thigh muscles jump at the first touch of her tongue, the wet drag of it drawing a shuddering sigh from him. As she works her way along the crease of his hip, he can't stop himself from arching up, the humid fan of her breath enticingly close to the neglected curve of his erection. She sinks lower and he gasps, squirming from the sensitivity. Reaching down, he sets a hand along her neck, seeking more contact and to have something to hold onto that wasn't just the blanket. ]

[longwillows]

[Satisfaction curls deep in her gut at the uncontrolled movement of his body, delightful drips through the cracks in his self-restraint. To see him indulge so freely, come apart for her like this, only spurs her on further. Normally she would see just how much she could make him squirm for her touch. But impressions of his need have left their mark on her own desire, already of such a particular shape in this strange dream.

For a time she leaves him to it, too preoccupied with chasing the taste of him down to the source, a gratified moan in her chest as his hand finds her neck and her tongue finds the cleft of his ass, working around the maroon elastic just barely stretched out of the way. The pleased, possessive rumble of her purring reverberates through the bed's frame, a sound lost to her own ears in the stifling heat between his legs and the cloud of citrus and ozone that fills her sinuses as the (un)natural lubricant coats her mouth. Indulgently she laves over his hole with eyes closed, the pads of her fingers pressing divots into his hip where the tips of her claws emphasize her tight grasp.

Only once the slick overwhelms all other taste and smell does she venture back up, nuzzling his sac and the seam of his thigh in her path towards the blood-rush warmth of his erection. Now the nature of her grip changes, adjustments of her arms not entirely natural as she lifts her elbows and tenses her grasp to leverage more weight down onto her hands. It's a deceptively strong hold that pins his hips to the bed while she presses an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock, her eyes glinting in a sidelong glance up the length of his torso in a bid to catch his gaze.]