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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geto suguru ( jujutsu kaisen / new player. )

[gorb]

spoilers for jjk 0.

oo1. play a twisted little game.

( He should be upset.

He knows that, can feel the awareness of it in the back of his mind like the flicker of mist, quickly dissipating any time he tries to grasp the knowledge too tight. He should be - dead, or dying, somewhere in the middle of both. Instead here he is, sandalled feet traversing a lush, glimmering garden, every inch of him whole. Is this what death is? Something sweet and warm and lowly lit? He doesn't know. Because certainly it is not the kind he thought himself destined for. So a hallucination then, a dream. One last frantic grasp of his mind. How funny.

His daughters would have loved it, he thinks briefly, it looks like a movie.

But they are not here, and he will not see them again. And so that thought too gets folded neatly out of sight. Suguru instead follows the illuminated path, ignores the low hanging fruit - vision or fantasy he is not a fool - although when a twist in the road brings him to a copse of trees bowed over a shiny, perfectly bright vending machine, then he does pause at the anachronistic blot. The man in monk's robes approaches it, sandalled feet moving easily. He lifts a hand, presses it to the cool glass. Laughs aloud. ) Ha. How silly.

( He presses the button. Lifts the can from the confines. It feels cold to his skin. He'll take it with him. He doesn't seem perplexed by the slowly-crawling vines overtaking the machine, nor the way his hand seems to smoke at the edges around the can. He can't quite recall why he should. )

And yet, how nice.

( Should it be? )

oo2. won't you say that you will? i. mild emetophobia.

( His fingers are numb. He keeps moving them like he can will the feeling back in, the other palm curled around his bicep, arm crossed across his chest. How long has he been walking? How many narrow doorways and frozen hallways has he passed? Is this his true fate? Certainly his skin is pale, lips almost blue as a corpse. The lights flicker, a pain lancing above his eyebrow. Suguru swears under his breath, turns in an arc.

He spots it at the turn of another corner. The flutter of brown hair. The flap of a doll's limbs. His feet move him before he can stop himself, calling out to the figure. ) Mimiko, wait.

( It feels strange. That she is here, maybe. If he forces his mind to focus then he knows that Satoru had told him she was safe, and they are many things to each other now, but he does not believe he would lie. So he runs, and he ignores the sickness in his stomach and the clumsiness of his too cold limbs, a hand reaching to snag the girl by the wrist.

Wrong.

She's wrong.

Bile fills his throat, he falls back like a wounded animal. Mimiko blinks at him with eyelids that are drooping and the fear spikes in Suguru, sharp and biting. ) What --.

oo2. won't you say that you will? ii.

( There is a curse in the hallway. It looms in front of the partygoers with a mouth made of too sharp teeth, acidic saliva slipping between the rows of enamel. It has not attacked, simply because Suguru has not willed it. He is still trying to keep ahold of the thin thread of his sanity, he does not know what might happen. The fear that pounds in his chest has left him shaking and sick, his own teeth bared. Like predators, the partygoers have formed a pack, and Suguru does not quite like feeling like prey. )

You're pissing me off.

( There's no mild mannered nature about him now. He wants out in a way that makes him desperate to claw at his own skin.

If this is what he deserves -.

The curse twists, turns in a slow arc on quadrepedal feet, away from the grotesque figures and to the sound of a fast approach coming from behind. Suguru draws himself up tighter, drags strength in close. )

I really wouldn't. ( Voice gone honey soft and sick. Ah, maybe the thread is thinning. Maybe if this is death, he should act the way he found his way there. Violently. ) It won't go well for you.

oo4. wildcard.

( Feel free to hit me up with whatever, or if you want to plot first you can absolutely pm me! I'm down to clown! )

02/ii

[notalright]

... oh, look at you.

[ rust appears in the uneven light of the hall. pale and tall with red eyes, he couldn't be more otherworldly if he tried. there's an unfamiliar emotion seeping through him in the realization that he is no longer odd, in this company. he's not sure how to feel about that. maybe the point is he shouldn't.

the funny thing is, he and the curse feel the same: the suit he's wearing, the bandages around his neck straining to hide the cracks in this vessel, all portend that he's not human: a thing pretending to be something. the curse in front of him, reminiscent of a corruptor, feels a lot more honest than the skin he wears. the curse reacts to him in a way that implies it's found a hungry brethren: it speaks. ]

... oh, I'm sorry. I'm not familiar. [ he's ignoring geto to try and talk to this thing: a series of inhuman speech, gutteral, like the drone of a dead radio, airs out of his mouth. if it were possible, the curse looks confused. both of them are talking in different languages, it seems. ] No? Ah, that's all I got, sorry.

one day i will do a tl and number them properly but that is not this day

[gorb]

( For a moment Suguru watches this unfold.

It is hardly his fault, it is rare his control slips like this. Curses should not so much as breathe without his say-so, and he feels it when this one tugs at the leash. A barely there nuisance, but after an unfortunate collection of them it feels a little too sharp. His anger rises, peaks. Beyond them the partygoers start shuffling again. His cold fingers twitch, reasserting control. The curse slides back the way it came, and the noises it makes turn more agitated.

That leaves Suguru facing the newcomer. Sleepy looking eyes narrow in concentration, head tipped like a bird might study a worm. His frazzled nature might still be apparent, but he's trying to pull the shreds together now. )

You shouldn't speak to unfamiliar dogs.

( Pleasant sounding, though there's the sense that it comes slipped through his teeth. ) They might bite.

( The man who doesn't look like a man feels like the thing between them. But in a place like this, with his reality being toyed with, that could mean anything at all. He might be prone to dramatics, but he is still not stupid. He's being careful.

As careful as his attitude will let him be, anyway. )

hehe

[notalright]

A dog?

[ rust hums in response, looking up towards the apparent owner, now that he's being addressed specifically. fascinating. a ... human? he must be. no-one speaks to corruptors like that with a sense of familiarity unless you were someone attempting to control them, and pitifully so. that kind of language, at least, is familiar. ]

A strange thing to call a pet - you should swap. You might find it more freeing.

i;

[salaryman]

[ With his hands tucked in his pockets (like a child afraid they'll touch something they shouldn't), he trots along the lightened path. His steps light, playful. If there is a tree root, he hops over; a rock, he gives a light kick.

A stone rolls and collides with a machine that has vines slowly wrapping themselves around its shape. He wonders if it will eventually devour it whole. (Briefly, idly, he also wonders if this is how their future will look back home. Eventually?)

Another little quick trot before he reaches out to lightly poke the man's shoulder. ]

Forgive me - I was wondering what to get and fear I don't have any great wish.

[ A private little smile dances itself over his mouth before a glance upward, trying to peer around him to his hand. ]

What did you get?

[gorb]

( He turns easily, already knowing which face to play. His expression is serene, his fingers shifting so he can hold the can logo out. It is green, with a yellow font, and Suguru hums musically for a second, eyes sparkling. )

It was a youthful favourite, though I'm surprised to see it here of all places.

( His voice is even, mellow. His thoughts still question, throwing hypotheses against the wall of his skull. Dream? Purgatory? He'll figure it out. He might as well make it smooth sailing. He can talk pleasantly to monkeys after all. Even if they are beneath him. Even if it turns his mouth rancid. )

And I'm not sure it was a wish, but I'll take it all the same.

[salaryman]

It looks tasty.

[ Can he tell that from the design of a can? Eh?

His head bobs to the side as he smiles even wider. He wonders if this is an apology of some sort - the dream itself versus the can offered to this person. But actually, maybe all of it?

Letting out a soft hm, he nods. ]

I'll get the same and we can cheers our meeting.

[ A sparkling bright reply as he skips around - far too many steps, and spins, as he moves around - to get the same order. ]

o2i.

[deflagrate]

[ shades of shades, paper-thin images of what a person is supposed to be. karen's seen her fair share, burned through them herself idle. it never stops being discomfiting to see every time.

just like with the kamui's aunt, with the puppets that surrounded sora and arashi once, with the creatures that the kamui had thought were dogging his very steps. and now this man, too, but instead of men in suits it's the shadow of a girl-child, misshapen and crooked.

karen's hands pull at his monk's robes before he comes into contact, keeps pulling until some distance widens between them and that thing. already it's losing its grip on its shape, with limbs lengthening and thinning, blackening at the edges like a burning picture. ]

If you run, it'll follow. I'd walk backwards slowly, if I were you.

envelopes u in my arms

[gorb]

( There is a moment where his strength coils beneath the layers of fabric, where his body becomes unyielding, where the hands on him pull and he refuses to move. But then the thing before him starts to warp, to melt, flesh sagging around the eye sockets and the limbs distorting, and Suguru stops fighting, staggers the few steps before his feet lose their clumsiness and his breath rattles.

It is nothing more than a curse. Or something akin. It is not Mimiko. Even her doll melts away into nothing, formless. )

If it follows then I'll kill it.

( Sharp, angry, wild as they take a step back. Were he the height of his ability he wouldn't even consider retreating, but the cold, the confusion, the endless hallways and the heart hammering, they all add up. It stumbles a step after him, he thinks what if? )

hello my lovely

[deflagrate]

Mm, in this place? You're sure you want that?

[ the thing is a mimic, she decides. a more sophisticated one than the paper scrolls back home might be able to conjure, but also a less intelligent one where communication is concerned. the limitations of some magic, she supposes; the eyes melt from one color to another, and karen grimly decides she didn't see aoki's warm shades flickering around girlish coolness.

she moves to stand level with him, hand brushing up his bicep for a firmer, steadier hold. ]

Killing it might make it worse. If you've noticed, mister, we're a little short on exits at the moment.

I'm Karen, by the way.

002 // ii

[hallowedly]

( There is a man in the hallway, with the curse. He looms before the great yawning mouth of the shark-toothed entity, drip-drip-drip of its waters sizzling where they stand. He has not attacked, simply because the clinical fascination with which he approaches onryou in the wild is the only veneer past which no further veils of his illusions hide.

Palms up, the curvature of his spine feline, droplets of his curiosity comingled with their anticipation; meow-meow. Eight lives to go, if they step forward. Seven, if the man does their work. And they're hungry things, rounding amorphous around them, like cannibals dancing their steps for blood. Like intrusive thoughts, swirling.

Sakurazuka Seishirou has no patience for their play, for their quarrels without quarry; Act III — and climax. The man intervenes first. Not his cue, and Seishirou, either man of arrogance or follies, keeps his back turned.

The curse creature is superb. )

It always does. ( L'enfer, c'est pour les autres. ) Is this yours or theirs?

[gorb]

Mine.

( Simple, succinct. The curse shivers alongside the word. )

The mob has nothing to do with me.

( He would still consume them if he could, even if it the idea disgusts even here. His throat feels cold, swallowing would be difficult. He'd still do it. Suguru's forces had been split, then destroyed. He still doesn't know how this one survived, not least because he used them all up trying to get to Okkotsu Yuta. ( The dream cares little for sense, and he has yet to understand that. )

He looks to the man, the slope of his shoulders. )

His teeth are as sharp. His hunger the same. I wouldn't stray too close, I might not care to bring it to heel.

( He's busy assessing the hoard. )

[hallowedly]

( My, grandmother, what sharp teeth you have. All the better for the curse to presumably eat him with, grin garrulous and wide. Sloppy and slobbering like a hunting dog with his quarry striking the ground.

Around them, the noose of the merrymakers tightens, and they're prowling like every scavenger circling to see if the meat's gone cold without a pulse, before beaks can land. He wants to laugh. Waves them off, fingers twirling — hello, how do you do, step aside. )

You will. You need it mean and lean.

( This, to the gentleman poised for uncertain battle behind him, who is still negotiating his target. Because they're still at in the opening acts of a war where they pretend a shared species hasn't written their allegiances. )

Made up your mind if you're running yet?

1

[potentialman]

[ The particulars of the dreamscape are new, as always, but Megumi's beginning to settle into something of a routine, once he recognizes it for the dream it is. There will be new people, and while some of them may be gone without ever waking up in Sleep's Manhattan, enough of them will be dragged over that there's no sense in holding back information on what might be awaiting them.

So he roams the garden, looking for anyone who seems like they're having a tough time going with the flow, or just wouldn't mind having some questions answered. And, maybe, looking for familiar faces; he's seen a few come and go, by this point, and he's never quite sure whether he should be glad to see them or disappointed that they're also subjected to this bullshit, but either way, he wants to be sure they enter prepared.

He, on the other hand, isn't at all prepared for the man he spots examining a vending machine.

He'd missed crossing paths with Kenjaku in Shibuya, so most of what Megumi does remember is hazy, filtered through the time when Sukuna was in control of his body, before the bath had plunged him so far into the darkness that he gave up on trying to follow what was happening. But this figure had been there before that. Watching. Nonchalantly asking Uraume to explain the ritual, like they were talking about dinner plans.

He freezes, already too close to do a one-eighty and walk away like he never saw the man.

Oops. ]

lmk if u need anything changed!!

[gorb]

( Like a wolf spotting a fluffy white tail in the foliage, Suguru turns.

At first he stays silent. His eyes assess, sliding briefly from the top of dark hair down to the bottom of his feet and then back up. His expression remains placid, pale countenance a perfectly blank mask. He knows of Megumi, the same way he knew of Satoru's other students, something he kept tucked away in case he needed it. Mostly he'd always intended them to be happenstance. Students were of little concern, wards even more so, and he wouldn't kill another sorcerer unless he had to.

Until Okkotsu Yuta, that is.

What does surprise him is how familiar Megumi looks. Suguru is twenty-seven years old and yet the shadow hidden in Megumi's face still sends something close to panic scuttling down his spine, a nightmare that even now still follows him around. For a moment violence feels close. For a moment he considers letting it free. Does Satoru know? And if so, how could he have stood it? But then it does not matter now, does it? None of that shows, he is practised in this.

The can of soda pops when he digs a nail under the ring, the sound of fizzing loud in the quiet of the growing forest. )

If I was going to be haunted don't you think they'd bring me someone I knew? Tch, you're a little off the mark.

( Dreaming, dead, or dying. This ghost isn't quite as painful as he'd imagined he might get. )

[potentialman]

[ Megumi's conducting his own assessment, although his is considerably more focused, his gaze setting on Geto's forehead.

Clear. Completely unmarred by stitches.

So he's speaking to Geto, the real Geto, not to Kenjaku. He doesn't really know much about the man. A few comments overheard from the second-years. A couple things said while they were regrouping after Shibuya, though by then Geto himself wasn't the immediate concern. Megumi remembered the Night Parade happening, although he'd been forbidden to go anywhere near it; he'd been told in not so many words that it was bad enough they had to throw first years on the front lines, and he wasn't even that yet, so sit down and shut up.

Still, whatever he doesn't know about Geto, he'd still much rather be faced with him than with Kenjaku. ]

That might still be coming. [ He's been through enough of these dreams to know that might is really more like definitely, because whether it's Sleep pulling strings or just One's power bubbling out unchecked, it's never content to leave well enough alone. ]

But I'm not here for your benefit. I'm just also here.

twisted game;

[regulate]

[ What are a few more vines to add to the menagerie of tendrils emerging from the ground as Sunday tries to dodge their relentless grip? His extra wings sprout from his back, allowing him to weave away from their grasp in time to spot a stranger with a can. A man with a can, if you will. Before Sunday can even begin to interpret what a vending machine is doing in this endless psychedelic garden, one of the vines finally snags a hold of him, yanking him down into a flower field that makes him sneeze aggressively, his feathers growing disarrayed. ]

My apologies...I did not mean to intrude on your– drinking?

[ He imagines they are back in the Dreamscape, which explains some of the discordant imagery, especially when he is now being teased with visions of Soulglad bottles floating along with fairy wings. Sleep is definitely in an unhinged mood this month, it seems.

Both hands dust away some of the flowers off as he stands and summons the wherewithal to greet the stranger properly. ]

I am Sunday. Are you new? I do not recall seeing your face before.

[ And Sleep does keep a relatively predictable schedule when it comes to importing newcomers, though he's surprised her recent antics hadn't exhausted her powers completely. ]

[gorb]

( It is certainly an entrance.

At first Suguru does not know what to make of the stranger. Human-shaped, but feathered, winged. Not a sorcerer so far as he can tell ( but his awareness of cursed energy seems off-put right now ) and not a curse either. Curiosity drags him closer, a polite distance when Sunday pulls himself together, purple eyes watching with slight amusement as the vines start reaching again. )

Sunday-san. ( A greeting. ) Geto. And I think so.

( What does new mean when he doesn't know where he is? )

In that I've wound up somewhere I didn't mean to be, then new yes. Why is the forest so fond of you?

Play a Twisted Game - I had to

[reversecursedoc]

[There's the sound of a lighter being struck and then an inhale. Someone's decided to start smoking by the vending machine. She's just standing there, smoking quietly like she usually did, and watching him.

She hadn't been afraid of him when he left, and she was sure that she had seen and checked his body after his death, but here he was. Former classmate and best friend. She blew the smoke away from him before she decided to say anything.]

Suguru.

[That one word held so much. He was one of her best friends after all and he was back from the dead.]

shokooooo.

[gorb]

( There is something off about this dream ( hallucination? ) in that it takes him until she speaks to know she's there at all. He turns with the sound of his name, eyes landing on her almost immediately. It has been ten years, and yet the sudden softening of his expression is like there's no time at all. )

Shoko.

( Voice warm, devoid of confusion -

Should he be? He's never seen her like this before. If the dying chemicals of his brain are set on conjuring ghosts shouldn't she be just as she was? She looks tired. Maybe they all are -

The thoughts come, then drift. It is hard to keep them close here. ) When did you get here?

[reversecursedoc]

I don't know when I got here.

[She moves closer to him, while still being respectful about the cigarette smoke. Even in a dream she's careful.]

I don't know. The last thing I knew I was trying to get some sleep and the next I woke up here.

[She finishes her cigarette and carefully puts it out before walking up to the vending machine and choosing a drink.]

Its been a while.

[She's talking like they hadn't seen each other in ages, not like she was talking with a dead man.]

1 (although i wouldn't be mad if we eventually hit sex pollen garden...)

[oversize]

( the six eyes know the shape of getou suguru, inside and out.

they know the broad expanse of his shoulders, the long, sweeping weight of his hair. they know the way his mouth twists in silent displeasure, the way his eyes narrow, shrewd with annoyance. they know the way his throat vibrates with laughter; the way his bangs fall over his brow. they know--the shape of his soul, inside of all that, weary and tired, a heart that worked too hard for too long, that sullied itself with the morality it tried to protect. suguru is no longer his moral compass, but sometimes he wonders: would he have stayed, would he have lived, if he hadn't taken it from him?

it doesn't matter. this is not the first time the six eyes have seen and declared that this creature, in this dream, is getou suguru. the gut-wrenching shame twists at his stomach, again, the same burning feeling that had him frustrated in front of strangers, standing before a body that had been more bloodied--and less intact--in the ruins of the school boundaries. he should be over this, by now, but the horrors of this place seem content to tread over his worst moments like a movie reel, frames skipping and sliding back only to start over again; at least this time, there's no one to witness his agony but himself.

a vending machine is humming, half-swallowed into vines: approaching it, rather than suguru's retreating back, has it slithering forward again as though revived simply by his presence. with a frown, he pushes forward with a hand--just like his youth, two fingers hit two separate buttons at the same time, as though hoping, like any silly teenager might, that the action could reward him with two drinks for the price of one.

doesn't much matter here. he hasn't paid for anything. a can of cola clunks and clatters into the bottom of the machine, and wordless, he bends to take it up. it's cold, a relief to the slight, sweltering heat of this bizarre garden; still, his piercing gaze jerks back up to suguru, considering, before he calls out. )

You're going the wrong way. ( standing there, with his shoulder nudged against the front of the vending machine, he looks just as he did when they last met: his dusty uniform is fully intact, but there's no bandaging or blindfold or even sunglasses to shield the bright, demanding blue of the six eyes, which still--somehow--tell him that this is really suguru. )

If the point is for you to remind me of everything wrong I've done, you'll have to turn around.

( --he still doesn't trust it. he doesn't know how to trust it. funny: isn't this garden meant to give him anything he could possibly want? well, here it is. )

i'd have said buy him a drink first but the vending machine supplies so let's go

[gorb]

( There is a moment where the slow ambling falters, a step skipped, grace momentarily toppled. Two shoulders tighten briefly, a singular hard shape under black fabric, sandalled toes digging deeper into the ground than they should. He keeps his gaze in a straight line before him, focused intently on the blooming flowers to best his wavering vision. A breath comes, then another. Deep lungfuls of air that are two sweet for his liking and fingertips loudly popping the cool aluminium of his can. This is fine, he is fine.

But Suguru hadn't felt him. He should have felt him. An energy as familiar as his own tugging at his senses. He should not be surprised. Maybe the usual rules do not apply to a dying man.

He turns when he's ready, the mask slipped firmly on. A smile alights his face, eyes crinkling. Good-natured. Beatific. When his head tilts to one side his hair falls briefly into his eyes. It is possibly as dizzying for him as it is for anyone else. Lavender sweeps from head to toe and if there's a softening by the time they return to unconcealed eyes well, he'd thank his old friend for not mentioning it. )

Satoru. ( Warm, like always. Ten years and one bloody battle, the tone has yet to change. ) Isn't that my line? Tch, you were never very good at doling out rightful punishment.

( Is that what this is? Maybe not. This does not feel like retribution. More like neurons firing as the sun sets. Because he'd been relieved, when Satoru had found him, glad for the other man's presence even as he was bleeding out. This very well might be another facet. If he is dead, then at least he gets one more chance to look. )

Didn't Shoko tells us once that a brain can only fire for so long? So don't look so worried, I'm sure this is fleeting. Even as a hallucination I won't let you suffer much more. Ha.

( It sounds a little sad.

It hits him that it does because he might be. )

i

[vixenish]

I don't know that I'd drink that, if I were you.

[ she's not terribly far ahead of him; she'd heard the sounds the vending machine made, paused, and drawn close enough to see...

... well, whomever this is.

there's no reproach in her sweet voice, though it is a genuine warning. she's smiling, even, and gestures with a hand. ]

Though I suppose silly isn't the worst word for it. Nice, though... well. If only it were ever truly so easy.

[gorb]

I doubt it could harm me now.

( His understanding of what is happening remains limited. As far as Suguru is concerned he is well beyond injury now, though there should be something troubling about how swiftly the vines have taken the vending machine into their writhing grasp. That isn't natural.

A nail taps on the head of the can. Usually machine given are quick to fizz up upon opening. He doesn't want to be surprised either way. )

Not a fan of ill-placed forests?