SUGAR & SAY THAT YOU WILL ● JUNE 2026 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: SUGAR & SAY THAT YOU WILL

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Prologue: The Pull

Sleep's wave comes unevenly after the heat of the last few weeks stack upon each other, weighed down by something that lingers even after consciousness fades for Veteran Vessels. A newer Vessel's dreams begin in familiar places before the edges darken and lose definition. A tide rolls in slowly, black and glossy, thick like oil spreading across water. Its scent arrives first, unmistakably sweet and heavy, clinging to the senses and pulling you down.

The tide slips through the dream space, seeping beneath doors, climbing walls, pooling around ankles and wrists, remaining close enough to be felt without forcing itself forward. The sensation draws attention rather than fear, offering warmth rather than the pressure of scary resistance.

For younger vessels, or those uninterested in seduction, the darkness softens as it rises. The feeling becomes comforting, like being wrapped in a blanket, accompanied by the sense that something beautiful waits ahead. The promise is simple: a place where indulgence is allowed, where desire is not something to be denied. For older vessels, the closeness carries intimacy: The tide glides along skin with deliberate intent, lingering at throats, hips, and mouths, its presence suggestive without revealing a form. Breath seems to brush against them, and the promise offered is indulgence without apology, to be wanted and consumed without consequence.

The tide does not claim them unless they allow it. Consent comes quietly, through a thought, a movement toward it, the choice not to pull away. When that choice is made, the water surges upward, swallowing the dream and pulling them beneath its surface.

You all will awaken within a Garden.

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Play A Twisted Little Game

( content warnings: substance use, intoxication themes, addiction/temptation, manipulation and coercive influence, loss of inhibition, altered mental state, psychological horror, compulsive behavior, predatory/hunting instincts, animalistic aggression. )

The Garden stretches outward in impossible directions, lush to the point of excess, resembling a marvelously distorted fairy tale. Enormous flowers crowd the paths, their petals thick and glossy, colors saturated beyond reason. Trees twist into arches and spirals, their branches heavy with glowing fruit that hangs low enough to brush against shoulders. Massive mushrooms dot the landscape, their luminous caps casting soft light across the ground like candles and leading the way. Even where you step, flourescense lights your path.

Golden pollen drifts constantly through the air, clinging to skin and hair. Breathing it in brings a spreading warmth that softens one's restraint and dulls hesitation without fully erasing it. Laughter comes more easily, thoughts slow, and the urge to linger strengthens with every sweet breath you take.

The fruit is irresistible, for the record. It looks perfect, tastes even better, and leaves behind a pleasant haze that encourages indulgence. Those who partake may find themselves giving in to impulses they normally deny, choosing comfort over caution, distraction over vigilance, and pleasure over restraint. None of it feels dangerous, is how it entices you. How can it, when it feels this good?

Beyond fruit and flora, the Garden reshapes itself to suit each Vessel's wants and needs. It conjures whatever they love most, presenting it without shame or judgment. A clearing may reveal an entire pyramid of chilled pudding, each cup untouched and gleaming with sugar. A flower may open to offer fragrant tobacco and a lighter placed carefully within its petals. Sheltered spaces may contain alcohol, sweets, games, toys, music, drugs, books, instruments— anything capable of drawing the vessel deeper into indulgence.

The objects are real. They feel real, food tastes real, and they all satisfy, too.

The Garden responds eagerly to its use ever time. Paths widen, flowers bloom brighter, and the air grows warmer as indulgence continues among vessels. At the same time, subtle shifts begin to take hold. The pollen thickens, the sweetness becomes heavier, and vines creep closer to well-traveled spaces, brushing against ankles and legs as though testing their very boundaries. The more vessels indulge, the more the Garden thrives, and the harder it becomes to imagine leaving when everything they desire is right within reach.

Under a pink moon that hangs low above the canopy, the forest responds differently to Beastkin Tokens and Lycan Offerings. Scents sharpen and layer richly in the air. The hum of life beneath the soil grows louder, vibrating through bone and animal instinct. The floating pollen enhances instinct rather than dulling it. Hunger, territoriality, the urge to roam or chase press closer to the surface. The Garden may conjure open stretches of moonlit forest for running, fleeting silhouettes that invite pursuit, or rival presences that vanish just ahead of your grasp. Indulgence here may take the form of movement, dominance, or surrender to instinct beneath that glowing sky. The more these instincts are indulged, the more the forest reshapes itself to accommodate them, you, clearing paths forward, closing them behind, and making your hunts all the more exhilirating.

Token Effects

• Tokens may temporarily lose track of time spent in the Garden.
• A Token who indulges repeatedly may find decision-making delayed or softened, hesitating when asked to leave, choose violence, or break comfort.
• Emotional responses skew toward contentment and nostalgia. Irritation and fear are harder to access unless provoked sharply.
• Tokens may unconsciously rationalize indulgence, defending their choices even when questioned by others.
• After waking, Tokens can retain phantom cravings or habits tied to what they indulged in, persisting for a short time in the waking world.

Offering Effects

• Offerings may feel an increased urge to facilitate indulgence rather than prevent it, guiding Tokens toward comfort, distraction, or pleasure.
• Protective instincts soften; instead of guarding against danger, Offerings may prioritize keeping the Token relaxed and satisfied.
• Offerings might become indulgent themselves by proxy, gaining emotional satisfaction from watching or enabling their Token’s enjoyment.
• When indulgence is interrupted, Offerings may feel mild irritation or disappointment disproportionate to the situation.
• Upon waking, Offerings may recall the dream with unusual fondness, even if nothing dramatic occurred within it.

Beastkin Tokens & Lycan Offerings Specific Effects

• Beastkin Tokens may experience heightened body awareness, reacting more strongly to terrain, scent trails, and movement through space.
• Repetitive motion (running paths, circling clearings, pacing) can become grounding and soothing rather than restless.
• Lycan Offerings may feel compelled to remain nearby without overt guarding, choosing proximity over patrol or vigilance.
• Subtle pack dynamics can emerge naturally, with unspoken positioning, shared pacing, or mirroring behavior during indulgence.
• After waking, both may feel briefly unsettled by confined spaces or inactivity, as if the body expects continued motion.

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I've Developed A Taste For You

( content warnings: sexual content, aphrodisiac/sex pollen themes, coercion and impaired consent, restraint/bondage, dominance and submission themes, group sexual activity, possessiveness/territorial behavior, altered mental state. )

Deeper within the Garden lies a secluded expanse enclosed by dense growth that blocks sound and sight, forming a space that feels deliberately intimate. Vegetation grows close together, walls of leaves and vines pulsing faintly with warmth. Narrow beams of filtered light illuminate patches of soft ground and clusters of flowers that drip thick, honey-like nectar.

The air here is saturated with pollen that acts as a powerful aphrodisiac. Breathing it in heightens sensation immediately, making skin more reactive, touch more intense, and proximity impossible to ignore. Every sound feels closer than it should. Every movement carries weight.

The vines guide bodies together, coiling around ankles, wrists, and torsos, holding vessels in place until closeness is acknowledged. Resistance causes the grip to tighten insistently, while participation loosens it and rewards it with warmth and pressure that borders on pleasure.

The flora actively takes part for those who allow it. Vines may restrain, blindfold, or position bodies, holding them steady or pulling them closer. Some respond to voice and movement, tightening rhythmically, teasing, or delivering sharp sensations when struck or commanded. Flowers open at the sound of breath and noise, releasing thicker clouds of pollen that intensify arousal and blur restraint further.

Nectar drips freely from petals, sweet and sticky, suited for tasting, smearing, and shared indulgence, its effects compounding with every use. For Vessels willing to surrender more fully, the Garden offers deeper participation through vines capable of penetration, domination, and restraint, shaping themselves to suit acts of intimacy, control, and your very desire.

Every indulgence strengthens the ecosystem. The more Vessels give themselves over, the more responsive and possessive the Garden becomes, reshaping itself around desire until intention and influence begin to bleed into one another.

Under the same pink moon, visible here only in fragments through breaks in the canopy, Beastkin Tokens and Lycan Offerings feel instinct surge sharply to the surface of their consciousness. Scent becomes overwhelming, layered with skin, nectar, and earth. Territoriality, dominance, and physical closeness intensify, shaped by their nature rather than restrained by it. Vines will respond readily, coiling like extensions of instinct, guiding movement and contact. The urge to claim space, to press closer, to bare teeth or mark territory grows stronger beneath the moonlight. The Garden magnifies these impulses, encouraging surrender to physicality and sensation as the forest itself seems to breathe in time with their wild pulse.

Token Effects

• Sex pollen dramatically increases libido and lowers inhibition. Restraint becomes difficult to maintain in close proximity to their Offering/Tether.
• Vines respond more readily to Tokens, coiling around wrists, thighs, or hips at their unspoken command, assisting in pulling partners closer or holding them in place.
• Heightened dominance instinct. Tokens may feel compelled to physically position their Offering or guide additional partners into shared contact.
• Delayed climax and intensified arousal curve. Stimulation builds slowly but relentlessly, demanding escalation before release is possible.
• Stronger territorial urges that may manifest as possessive touch, visible marking (bites, scratches, imprints left by vines), or insistence on being the focal point.
• Increased openness to group dynamics. The pollen dulls jealousy and replaces it with competitive hunger or exhibitionistic thrill.
• Sensitivity to visual and auditory feedback. Moans, trembling, and visible pleasure act as accelerants.
• After climax, arousal may reignite quickly if vines remain in contact, creating cycles of repeated stimulation.

Offering Effects

• Sex pollen heightens physical responsiveness. Arousal triggers quickly and intensely, even from indirect contact or vine pressure.
• Vines tend to restrain or spread the Offering more often, guiding posture and exposing vulnerable areas to touch.
• Increased suggestibility. Coaxing from their Token/Tether or physical encouragement from vines feels compelling and pleasurable rather than coercive.
• Shorter path to orgasm. Climaxes may arrive suddenly and powerfully, especially when restrained or held in place.
• Heightened desire to be touched, filled, or pressed against—physical closeness feels necessary rather than optional.
• Greater willingness to participate in shared intimacy. Additional partners may feel inviting rather than threatening.
• Emotional attachment intensifies during and after climax. Physical pleasure deepens the tether bond.
• Post-climax sensitivity spikes; even light contact from vines or skin may provoke aftershocks or overstimulation.

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Won't You Say That You Will

( content warnings: psychological horror, paranoia, identity distortion/impostor themes, stalking and predation, body horror, transformation, emotional manipulation, obsession/fixation, abandonment themes, possessiveness, isolation, anxiety, mistrust, loss of control. )

There is no sense of departure from the garden following the dream's transition, no moment where the air changes or the ground gives way. One second the dream feels familiar enough to be trusted, and the next it no longer behaves according to the rules it had just taught you. Space stretches in ways that do not correspond to movement. Pathways that should lead somewhere simply continue, folding back on themselves, their angles all wrong.

Suddenly, it's quite cold. Terrible winter winds brew and ice creeps through the newly forming geometry. There are no signs explaining where you are or how you arrived to this now strange, blank canvas of a place stricken with the worst of winter cold. The Backrooms assert themselves through repetition and absence, through hallways that refuse to end and rooms that look as though they were abandoned mid-thought. The air smells faintly of dust and something chemical, thick clouds following your breath. The longer you remain, the more your sense of sequence erodes. It becomes difficult to say whether you have been walking for minutes or hours, or whether the others near you have always been there or only just appeared. Perhaps you'll start losing the feeling you have in your extremities.

Beneath that confusion runs a quieter tension, one that does not feel native to the architecture itself. The space reacts strangely to closeness. When you move nearer to another presence, the lights flicker more often. When you pull away, corridors seem to lengthen. There is an impression, difficult to articulate but persistent, that something is monitoring these shifts, responding the most to hesitation. What does it want from you . . . ? No clue.

That uncertainty carries a familiar weight. Somewhere within the structure of this place is One, though he does not appear in any singular form. His influence manifests through moments of contradiction: doors that almost open, sounds that resemble footsteps but never resolve into a source, and the persistent sense that reassurance is being offered and withdrawn at the same time. There is no overt threat in this presence, but there is desperation threaded through it, a need for proximity paired with the fear that closeness will inevitably end in loss. The environment reflects this conflict, holding you near without fully committing to keeping you around. What's worse— Strange encounters here may happen when paths overlap, when attention lingers too long on a singular spot, or when curiosity outweighs caution.

A Skin-Stealer may be noticed first. At a distance, it looks human enough to pass, moving with an awkward imitation of natural motion, but when closer, details fail to align. Skin does not quite fit the frame beneath it, stretching or sagging where it should not. If you interact with it directly, so much as a call, you may experience a strong sense of familiarity paired with discomfort, as though someone you recognize is wearing themselves incorrectly. Yes— They shall take the form of those you know. Prolonged exposure induces disorientation and mistrust with others. Vessels may begin second-guessing the identities of those around them, hesitating before responding to voices or approaching new figures. If the Skin-Stealer makes physical contact, panic responses spike sharply, and the instinct to flee or isolate becomes overwhelming. The safest response is distance and verification through group presence; these entities struggle to maintain cohesion when closely observed by multiple people at once.

Jerry's presence, on the other hand, is quieter but far more . . . Dangerous? He appears as a thin, dark bird, out of place and almost gentle against the harsh geometry of the Backrooms. Encountering Jerry produces an immediate emotional softening. Characters may feel an unexpected calm, nostalgia, or a pull toward simple comforts that do not logically exist here. Physical contact deepens this effect rapidly. Those who touch or hold Jerry may find their priorities shifting, attention narrowing, and thoughts circling around him with increasing intensity. Speech becomes repetitive, often affectionate or reverent in tone toward Jerry. Decision-making slows, replaced by an urge to stay close and keep Jerry safe. Over time, this devotion can override self-preservation entirely. Characters caught in this state may resist leaving Jerry behind, argue against practical plans, downplay obvious threats, and at their worst— worship or even wish to sacrifice for Jerry. Separation is possible, but it is emotionally painful, leaving behind a hollowed, grieving sensation that lingers long after the encounter ends.

Partygoers announce themselves through atmosphere before they are ever seen. Decorations appear where they should not exist as posters promising celebration and bright colors clashing violently with the monotony of the halls. When Partygoers enter an area, the tension shifts sharply to predation. These entities observe first, testing reactions, learning movement patterns. Characters may feel watched even when alone, with pressure building behind the eyes and a rising sense of being studied. Once engagement with them begins, Partygoers will attempt to herd rather than chase, using obstacles, noise, and misinformation to separate individuals from groups. Physical contact initiates rapid escalation of these effects. Those seized by their arm-mouths will experience intense sensory distortion, pain quickly giving way to numbness and intrusive thoughts that do not feel entirely their own. Early stages of transformation may cause affected characters to fixate on group dynamics, viewing others less as allies and more as resources or threats— until they too, may become one of them. Resistance is possible but time-sensitive, and intervention by others is critical to limit a Vessel's transformation. Partygoers do not act alone, and escape from them often depends on breaking line of sight and disrupting their coordination rather than brute force against them— You'll hardly ever win, in that case.

Throughout all of this, One's influence grows increasingly erratic. The Backrooms respond more dramatically to moments of connection and separation, lights stuttering when bonds are tested, hallways bending when someone considers leaving another behind. His presence presses closer in moments of intimacy as scrutiny, a palpable fear threaded through these reactions, and the sense that reassurance is being sought but never believed. Echoes of his internal conflict surface in fleeting impressions: the urge to cling paired with the certainty that abandonment is inevitable, the desire for closeness tangled with the impulse to wound before being wounded. This tension mirrors the emotional core underlying everything here, from promises feeling fragile, even when spoken sincerely, to Vessels finding themselves questioning not only the intentions of others, but their own.

The longer you remain, the clearer it becomes that progression here is not linear. There is no single path forward, only moments of proximity that rearrange the space around you. What follows this depends not on where you go next, but on who you choose to stay near, who you pull away from, and which promises you are willing to believe, even when you suspect they may not last.

The dream does not conclude so much as it fails to hold together. Somewhere within the shifting halls of the Backrooms, One becomes convinced that what anchored him has slipped away, and that belief fractures his ability to remain. The space reacts unevenly as his presence withdraws: corridors stretch and then collapse into themselves, lights hum without source, entities lose their rhythm, and the emotional pressure that bound Vessels together spikes sharply before snapping. For those still inside, sensations intensify all at once, where closeness turns unbearable, attachment feels abruptly severed, and attempts to reach for reassurance meet only distortion— until the dream can no longer sustain shared coherence. One by one, Vessels are torn awake mid-thought or mid-motion, breath catching as consciousness returns too fast, leaving behind the sense of being dropped rather than released, with unresolved desire, fixation, or unease lingering long after your eyes open.

Something else has awakened. "Awareness".

Token Effects

• Proximity dependency intensifies; physical distance from their Offering/Tethers causes agitation, shallow breathing, and intrusive thoughts about abandonment.
• Heightened sensitivity to tone and micro-expressions. Neutral gestures may be misread as rejection or withdrawal.
• Compulsion to seek verbal reassurance, even if they suspect the reassurance may be false.
• Increased fixation on touch as proof of presence. Tokens may repeatedly initiate contact to confirm their Offering/Tether is still there.
• Jealousy spikes in enclosed corridors; other figures in peripheral vision (real or not) may trigger possessive responses.
• Emotional volatility rises quickly from desire to defensiveness if they sense hesitation.
• After separation or forced distance, lingering obsession or replaying of final words heard may persist into waking.

Offering Effects

• Intensified urge to control or stabilize their dynamic; Offerings may feel compelled to define their relationship in absolute terms.
• Heightened dominance or surrender impulses depending on personality baseline, with less moderation than usual.
• Increased temptation to test loyalty through emotional pressure or loaded statements.
• Possessiveness sharpens in tight, enclosed spaces; they may position themselves physically between their Token/Tethers and perceived threats.
• Strong reaction to perceived emotional withdrawal. Reassurance may be given urgently, excessively, or manipulatively.
• Physical closeness feels like leverage as well as comfort.
• Suspicion of abandonment may cause preemptive emotional distancing or sharp, reactive behavior.
• After waking, unresolved tension may manifest as fixation, defensiveness, or a need to revisit the conversation.

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NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's TDM, which doubles as a gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon.
➤ 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!
➤ This is the last TDM before the game's arc change, which will skip a TDM round— Thus, the next TDM will be scheduled only for October. This App round has no character cap, so please feel free to hop on before our break or another character cap!
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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simon 🩸 iron lung 🩸 offering: merrow

[effortinvein]

▲ twisted games.

All he ever wanted was to live. So to be found in a dream between life and death, plucked before his end- That was probably easy. Consent came immediately, freely. Even unaware as he was of what he was offering, he would take it for a chance to live. It feels like his mother tucking him in at night and telling him, despite everything, things would alright.

Like any dream, it doesn't last. He wakes with a violent, dramatic gasp like he hasn't truly breathed in far too long. Simon expects blood in his lungs - not only his own - but is greeted instead with a fresh gulp of air. Well, air and some pollen. Inhaling that makes him cough roughly next; he's on his hands and knees and retching up golden fleks that his body wholly rejects.

While it will effect him later, for now he's wiping his mouth with his forearm and truly taking a look at his surroundings. There's... life. Flora. Not just a single tree, but many and he can't quite comprehend it as he walks a random path, dazed. This isn't right. None of this is right. It's unnerving in ways that he can't articulate, so he doesn't. Simon sets out stoic, uncertain, and unsettlingly silent.

Desirability doesn't work on him. If it's too good to be true, that means it probably is. Tempting as the fruit and treasures might be, he abstains because he doesn't trust any of it.

He doesn't trust any of this.

▲ won't say.

The garden gives way to harsh shapes and fluorescent lights that he's familiar with. In a strange way, this scene is more comforting. It's more room than he's been given in a long, long time but cloying and claustrophobic simultaneously. He doesn't like it, necessarily, but he does feel more at east. Still quietly observing, guarded but- Less hostile, immediately.

And then along comes Jerry. The garden was full of flora but fauna had been lacking. To see a bird is... It should be alarming, shouldn't it? Part of him rationally recognizes that, but the emotional side of things only registers that his presence is comforting. How long had it been since he'd seen a living, breathing animal? Had he...? It's hard to remember, suddenly, and trying to only conjures forth a pain in his head instead of a memory.

But that's okay. Jerry is here. Jerry is safe. "Hey," he says, gentle and near breathlessly. Something caught between awe and care for this strange creature. He reaches out cautiously with his good arm to pet the downy feathers atop its head with a webbed hand. "Yeah. Yeah," he repeats, eyes misty with longing so potent for something he doesn't even know what yet, as he continues to crouch and pet this bird. "It's okay. Yeah."

So distracted is he by Jerry that he might not even notice someone approaching but they are free to. After all, this is a very... odd scene.

▲ wildcard / plot with me.

(( no nsfw prompts for Simon here. he's too traumatized to be able to handle any of that, unfortunately, but I'm happy to do some backrooms horror fun if the prompt provided doesn't appeal! also, I'm taking him from end of movie so he's missing an arm and not in in the best state of sanity.

hmu @ tentamenace on plurk/discord or PM this journal. ))

twisted games

[licensetotrill]

That makes one of them.

Jaskier is wholly involved in finishing off his own fruit - a stone fruit of some kind, delicious and sweet and juicy enough to make a mess that's wiped off on a handkerchief taken from his pocket. White with some red embroidery, catching sight of the elegantly stitched 'RV' on the edge has Jaskier's expression turning briefly bitter and sad. It's in that state that he comes to awareness he's no longer alone, startling enough to drop the pit of the fruit but not the handkerchief.

He looks like he belongs here, like this. Cloven hoves and brow crowned with twisting antlers.

"Goodness, you startled me!"

[effortinvein]

Despite 'sneaking up' on Jaskier, one would think the opposite from the way Simon jumps slightly at the sound of his voice. It's new and not one he's familiar with. It isn't Ava, her co-worker David, nor is it the voice that whispered to him in the depths. Although he's seen nothing but plantlife thus far, this man is... here. He looks in-between the plants and a person, but- He's real. Isn't he?

Simon can't be sure, of course, but nothing about this actually feels real. 'Real' for him would sound absolutely insane to other people too despite it being his normal.

It takes him a moment to mentally process all that. From an outside perspective, it'll look like a moment of awkward silence before he manages to articulate something. To him, the most pressing question is: "Who are you?" Not 'sorry' or anything. It's a bit brusque but, look, he's clearly freaked out by the everything happening here and also not the most social of men to begin with so, uh. Small steps.

[licensetotrill]

Lucky for Simon, Jaskier is fluent in 'brusque and socially awkward'. There's a brief regarding of the missing arm with some sympathy, but where Jaskier comes from there is an active war going on - missing limbs are only remarkable on a person for managing to survive the removal of them and not fall prey to infection or blood loss (ha) first.

He gives Simon a bright and charming smile, shifting his lute on it's strap to rest better against his back so he can hold his hand out.

"Jaskier, the bard! Who might you be?"

[effortinvein]

In his case, he's not actually sure how his arm has healed. The cut wasn't and doesn't look clean, even covered by makeshift wrapping of his tattered clothes, but... It isn't bleeding anymore. He isn't infected anymore with whatever mutagen had started to take hold of him near the end. The end? That's right, he- Ah. Some of this is starting to make a little more sense.

This is probably Hell, isn't it? Some version of it. There'd probably be a ferryman to greet him, welcoming and kind. He thinks there were stories about that. Eden didn't believe it but they still had some texts on the subject of life before The Quiet Rapture and, well, afterlife.

He stares at the offered hand. Like everything, it feels like a trap. So, he isn't going to take it. He does offer a small, subtle shake of his head at least in quiet denial. Yet, he's now stuck on how no one in the rehabilitation program had ever even asked his name. He'd never given it willingly. That definitely makes them feels more abnormal than not.

"Simon," he offers. What's the point in trying to withhold it now? And next on his mental priority list of questions: "Where are we?"

[licensetotrill]

At the small shake of his head, Jaskier withdraws the offered hand, though it's with a smile that says no offense has been taken and an easy shrug of 'oh well'.

"A pleasure to meet you, Simon," Jaskier still says, smoothly. He even sounds like he means it. Any company is better than none as far as Jaskier is concerned. The question of where they are does succeed in dimming some of that cheer, however. His expression turns thoughtful, bringing a hand up to tap at his chin as he looks around.

"... I ... think ... this is a dream. There's a familiarity to it for me. Not this specific forest, I'm fairly certain this is new, but... the feel of it, there's a recognition here. I suppose I'll find out when I wake. Does it feel that way to you?"

[effortinvein]

How long has it been since he dreamed? Nightmares plagued him constantly, but to dream- What a concept. Jaskier isn't entirely wrong though. This whole place, oddly enough, feels like what he imagines a dream should. Simon is here but not quite and so is everything around them. Too good temptations to be true, but tangible as long as they seem to believe it is. What would break the illusion, he wonders?

"No," he answers, honestly. "No, nothing about this is familiar."

He said something else of interest though. To Simon, at least. "How are you so sure? That you'll wake up."

[licensetotrill]

"It's the nature of dreams, isn't it?" Jaskier asks, but even then he's looking up into the branches of a nearby tree where more of that fruit was, taking a step back to get a better view. Within range, for sure. It doesn't stop his philosophizing. "Even the lovely ones. Especially the lovely ones. Eventually we always wake up, and all we carry with us into that waking is the feelings they gave us."

Jaskier reaches up, grabbing one fruit, then a second. Sure Simon turned down the handshake, he'll probably turn down the fruit too, but - no sense in not offering, holding the fruit out to Simon.

"So why not take that little comfort? Especially if the feelings after are all you get to keep?"

won't say;

[deflagrate]

Look at that: a bird, and where one shouldn't reasonably be. And a man lured to give his attentions, like thirst placed before an oasis; Karen approaches carefully, and quietly, fist loose but ready in case the encounter goes sideways.

"First time seeing a bird, mister?" She pitches her question playfully with a practiced, light tone. "That one looks like it bites."

[effortinvein]

'I don't know,' he thinks to say, at first. But that sounds crazy, doesn't it? Granted, the Quiet Rapture sounded crazy to everyone so far. All life and light just gone in a blink except for a few spattered space stations floating through the cosmos. But if he did see a bird, it was a long time ago. He was probably too young to really appreciate it, really remember what it was like. So, it's about the same as never having seen one.

His answer, at first, is just a small nod of his head.

"I'm okay," he offers, after another string of awkward silence, short but getting the point across. 'It's okay' would have also sufficed, maybe, but was less true. None of this is okay, but he is. With Jerry. For the first time, he does actually look at her though instead of at the bird. Is she another trapped soul in this surreal purgatory?

[deflagrate]

Men, as always, tend to lie. She doesn't have to be so familiar with the intimacies of male fragility to see that this man is out of it. They all are, under Sleep's dominion, though Karen will allow that some of the mess may be—however unintentionally—part of their own making.

When does a bird stop being a bird? When does a girl stop being a weapon, or a man a last-ditch effort, a college-try Hail Mary of a prayer?

Probably when God wakes up from where She's fallen asleep. But right now, there's the matter of—where are they, anyway? This isn't the same dream as last time, even if the wallpaper has some literary weight to its madness. Wink and a nudge there, she supposes; she's certainly losing her mind a little from all the turns.

–But. The bird.

Karen smooths over any awkward or pregnant pauses from current company; it's the polite thing to do. Another polite thing to do is to offer her hand as introduction, and hope this one doesn't sting her back. "Maybe we can admire the bird from a safer distance, then. I'm Karen."

[effortinvein]

A lot of Simon's mess is of his own making. Not all of it, but his hands certainly weren't clean before being plunged into the bloody depths. Even then, it wasn't the first time crimson red had stained them. He was expendable because of his crimes but then invaluable once they realized. What a cruel irony that was.

His hand leaves the bird's plush head but doesn't take hers either. It just drops to his side. Seems like he's less inclined to touch another person than a strange animal. Considering what other people did to him though, is it any wonder? "Simon," he at least offers, recognizing that's the least he can give right now. His name.

"He's not real, is he? None of this is." Maybe she might be, but he seems to doubt that too.

won't say

[hallowedly]

What a strange creature is man.

What a strange demonic entity of an oversized and overcooked rotisserie chicken is the thing straddling said man.

If Seishirou weren't a veterinarian, a professional of bloodshed and a deep admirer of the occult, he might find himself aghast at this strange and unlikely intersection of the three. Indeed, even he is arrested in place, blinking away waves upon drowning waves of stupor, before slowly, carefully slipping to crouch beside the gentleman and his diabolical feathered owner.

The oasis is one lure, understandable. It presents the quiet appeal of every vacation modern men are diligently denied. But this... sandwich filler deserves a more in-depth introduction.

"What a lovely little friend you have here. Careful you don't smother it." But, really. In Sleep's domain, there's little wrong with twisting a black bird's neck.

[effortinvein]

After everything, it makes sense he might be a bit more vulnerable to lures dangling in front of him. The creature in the blood had tried to persuade him, invade his body and mind- It had almost won, in the end. It probably would have if he hadn't taken action sooner.

But perhaps that's why Jerry's lure is strangely enticing. He's so different, so novel. The longing that he conjures forth in Simon is for a life he'd never known: earth on his feet, fresh air in his lungs instead of ozone, and a stationary place to call home. He's weak to it. He wants it, more than anything, and yet some part of him still recognizes that it's wrong. Some part of him yet fights.

"I won't," he answers. At first, that might seem like that's all he will say. "I can't," he follows up with, recognizing his inability to take action here and now. Maybe he's just too tired to keep fighting for long.

[hallowedly]

"Of course you can." And it's murmured, trickling, syrupy. Words, like spells and children, stumble into each other, lose themselves through dilution. It doesn't matter, does it? All in a fever dream. "If you only... clasp, then tighten."

Faint, the roundness of his fingers curling, from flatness to fist. A tender illustration. He releases the gesture, palm waving down to his side, until it anchors on brittle earth, and he remembers there's a thirst in the land, always. There's the call for bloodletting, and this sweet bird's likely only biding its time.

Then again, who keeps whom captive? Some men make their sickness a crutch. And the bird, beady eye trailing after Seishirou, seems so at ease.

"How long have you been here with your friend?"

[effortinvein]

While he can recognize this man has a point, that he can, there is something to be known about Simon: he doesn't like being told what to do. He can do what he's told. He did. But when given the option, his life and choices are his own to make. So, he watches the demonstrated finger movements with a stony gaze.

"A while," he answers, vague both purposefully and not. He doesn't really know how much time has elapsed. It's hard to without any markers around. In the submarine, he'd also been left to guess the passage of time. Maybe his concept of it should be better by now but maybe this place is fucking with him in that way too.

"Why do you want to kill it?" he questions. What do you know? seems to be the silent implication.

[hallowedly]

"Call it insurance." Habit, a little mindfulness. The best self care starts with slaughter. And it's a pretty little dastardly thing, all smoke and plumage and the tip of its head against the man's shoulder, like a defiled lover caught in the throes of an unspeakable act.

Putting on a show. Putting on fragility. It's inviting, Seishirou begins to suspect, either consideration or care or the habit of man to dismiss that which he thinks he has the power to ruin. One of Sleep's, he supposes. There's a stench to them, and the claws of interest sink around each of his vertebrae, coiling. Why doesn't he also come closer and closer and closer to pet, to have, to hold —

He takes a step back. Another. "Haven't you ever heard if you pay them too much mind, they'll follow you home?"

That's how it goes, with spirits, with grudges, with demons and their kin and their kind.

[effortinvein]

He might not be able to refute that with how many C.O.I. agents he's killed. It's what got him the title of 'butcher,' after all. Sometimes, a bit of self-care is slaughtering those that might stand in the way of you and happiness.

"Might not be so bad," he answers, quicker than even he expects. "I'd be okay with a pet." Okay. Okay. He keeps saying that, doesn't he? Some part of him can recognize that, some part of him still trying to fight whatever influence this in. "First time in my life I'd have one. That'd be okay."

He grinds his teeth in frustration.

Twisted Games

[wasteland_101]

There's a woman a short distance away. Or at least from a distance it looks like a woman. She was staring up at a tree like it was something that shouldn't exist. Like him, she wasn't used to seeing such lush flora. She was used to seeing what was left behind after nuclear apocalypse. What nature managed to survive was sparce and sickly. Nothing like these.

The woman herself looked like she had been through hell. Dirt, blood, and other grime clung to her clothes, skin, and hair. Showers weren't the biggest things in the Wasteland. Water was too precious to be wasted on staying clean. Hearing movement, she turned, looking at Simon.

"Hello?"

[effortinvein]

He was 'healed' but that didn't erase the grime from him either. Mostly blood, dried and not, but also oil and charcoal. His clothes were tattered and burnt; chemically induced, but not many people seemed to know the difference. But then again- Even Simon wasn't sure exactly what chemical it had been. Something that seared his skin and boiled through his veins but now it's just gone. He feels oddly cold without it but free in body and mind. He'll take that over any temporary discomfort.

She is familiar though in a way he recognizes. A survivor. Someone used to less than what this place is offering openly. It's strange, right? He feels like the strange one though for thinking so based on other people's reactions thus far. "Hey," he says. "I didn't... I wasn't trying to scare you or, uh, anything. I'm just not sure..." His voice trails off. Saying 'what's real or not' probably doesn't sound very sane.

"I don't know where I am. Where this is."

[wasteland_101]

"You didn't startle me," she said with a small, cautious smile. She's not used to trusting people pretty quickly, but she could work with others that she just met. "I don't know where we are either. There's nothing like this in the Wasteland."

She poked at a couple of leaves on the low hanging branch that she had been examining before. "I don't like what's going on here. Anything could happen and I'm unarmed."

She probably shouldn't have admitted that she didn't have a weapon on her, but she didn't like being unarmed in strange places. Not that she expected Simon to attack her. She was so used to living in a dangerous place that it was second nature to be armed.

twisted games

[vixenish]

You're not partaking, hm.

[ it's not really a question. she's about ten feet away, having spotted his silhouette between the trees and vines and come close enough to see him... well, engage with nothing at all, even with that pollen on his skin.

she smiles, a little, and though it touches her eyes, it's without anymore or warmth. ]

I think I know the feeling.

[effortinvein]

[ By now, he is feeling some of the... influence of the pollen. But he's no stranger to something outside of himself trying to point him in a certain direction. He has practice in telling it no, in fighting against the rising tide washing over him of unnatural influence. ]

No, [ he answers. He eyes her like he has everyone: cold, mistrusting. All these people were... strange, for Simon. Not just for their presence alone but the circumstances they're in. So many of them were treating it as just a normal affair. A dream garden, temptations galore, and yeah- That's just another Tuesday for them. ]

Does this happen often? Gardens spawning overnight?

twisted games

[zauns]

A pleasant stroll through an impossible garden. It's relaxing, more than it should be, even for a man who isn't exactly known for relaxing often. So Silco's in quite a good mood, strolling along the paths, appreciating the foliage. He has a wine bottle in one hand, the cork out, as if he might have been taking swigs from it now and then. And why not? Perhaps he had a glass too, once, but it's been set aside.

He's not startled to see a stranger. In dreams like these, you meet plenty of strangers, and sometimes you never see them again. But the man's discomfort seems clear, even through the haze of pleasure and indulgence in the air. And that piques Silco's interest.

"Lost? Or simply concerned you're caught in a trap?"

[effortinvein]

Simon has learned that he isn't alone in this dream. But like everything, even the presence of another person seems uncomfortably foreign to him. And it is. In a world where most everyone is gone, it's unsettling for him to see a new face. He eyes Silco silently at first; the man looks a little like Ava, with that eye, and he wonders what he suffered to gain the appearance.

There's a pang of grief as he realizes he'll never know now. Granted, that was never really the nature of their relationship. Maybe it never would have been. He can't be too hung up on what could have been. Simon needs to focus on now and figuring things out.

"Bit of both," he answers, after a moment, keeping a comfortable distance. As he shifts slightly to turns towards Silco though, his lack of one arm becomes more prominent. "Do you know where this is? Seems like you're... comfortable with it." The wine is a tell towards that, at least.