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Forced Confessions
Characters: Ensemble cast, any/all characters of Xistentia!
Summary: At the end of a spring-time mingle party, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. unleashes a psychic weapon that forces characters to confess their secrets to one another. Check out the mod announcement for more information.
Date(s): First 2 weeks of April 2018
Warnings/Notes: Psychic influence/coercion, potential trauma, etc. in confessions. Please use subject header warnings appropriately!
It begins with a party, out in the woods of Xistentia, with drinks, food, and fairy lights. The glade is illuminated in a brilliant palette of jewel tones, the most intense where the dancefloor stretches out between glow-in-the-dark marked trees, punctuated by F.A.T.E.S.' ever jarring, mismatched combination of musical tunes. Not far from that, you have enclosures of soft bedding set aside in mood-lit shadows, and veiled by mosquito net, for those of us who prefer more privacy.
The deeper nightclub colors fade to a warm, lustrous gold where there are spaces to sit, socialize, and eat.
Other liquid refreshments include a blood bar, courtesy of Rafaello d'Este's local business.
But on the fifth evening, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. strikes. There's a warning— only 10 minutes in advance-- over the network, even while the vast majority of revelers are a little too busy to pay any attention to their daemons.
A black ball of some writhing, metallic substance abruptly comes tearing through the atmosphere, the size of your average adult human curled into fetal position. As it breaks through layers of gas, it adopts an orange glow for a brief instant. It's easily lost in the canopy, even for the most agile and practiced of Xistentia residents. It's impossible to tell what it is. A faint whine fills the air, and a moment later, the projectile detonates. The scent of tar fills the forest along with shouts of dismay. And too little too late, F.A.T.E.S. warning system begins to blare that a contaminant has entered the atmosphere.
However, apart from a few bruises, panic and partial deafness, nobody seems harmed at all. That is, until the compulsion sets in.
Your secrets, both large and small, suddenly become wrenching fodder for impulsive speech... or signing, texting, any multitude of communication methods wind up hijacked. The worst of it comes when you face someone you know and love. Sheer willpower might stave off the urge long enough for your character to get out of range for conversation, and it might be a good time to avoid company for awhile. It will come randomly, in spikes, for 2 weeks to follow.
Feel free to use the confessions thread here to start some textspam trouble!
A week later, F.A.T.E.S. and both magic and science-minded researchers have analyzed the goop. The worst of the epidemic is localized around the party, though psychic ripples continue to be felt across Xistentia for a few days.
And now we need cleanup.
It's a motley group of unlikely volunteers. Some people are just lucky— they have no secrets they fear to share, or perhaps just no shame. Others are just good samaritans, willing to risk a terrifying level of honesty in the interest of preventing further damage to the relationships that make Xistentia run.
In any case, the group finds themselves armed with gloves, rubber suits, and floating glass containment orbs, manipulable with gestures, that can absorb the black ichor off the trees, earth, and furniture. This will be stored at the temple. And what we'll do with it—
Who knows. Or perhaps you and your compatriots have an idea for the substance permanent disposal to share.
Summary: At the end of a spring-time mingle party, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. unleashes a psychic weapon that forces characters to confess their secrets to one another. Check out the mod announcement for more information.
Date(s): First 2 weeks of April 2018
Warnings/Notes: Psychic influence/coercion, potential trauma, etc. in confessions. Please use subject header warnings appropriately!
Forced Confessions Event
I admit I'm on the rebound And I don't care
Five-Day Party
It begins with a party, out in the woods of Xistentia, with drinks, food, and fairy lights. The glade is illuminated in a brilliant palette of jewel tones, the most intense where the dancefloor stretches out between glow-in-the-dark marked trees, punctuated by F.A.T.E.S.' ever jarring, mismatched combination of musical tunes. Not far from that, you have enclosures of soft bedding set aside in mood-lit shadows, and veiled by mosquito net, for those of us who prefer more privacy.
The deeper nightclub colors fade to a warm, lustrous gold where there are spaces to sit, socialize, and eat.
Other liquid refreshments include a blood bar, courtesy of Rafaello d'Este's local business.
Psychic Bomb: The Confessions (April 5-14)
But on the fifth evening, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. strikes. There's a warning— only 10 minutes in advance-- over the network, even while the vast majority of revelers are a little too busy to pay any attention to their daemons.
A black ball of some writhing, metallic substance abruptly comes tearing through the atmosphere, the size of your average adult human curled into fetal position. As it breaks through layers of gas, it adopts an orange glow for a brief instant. It's easily lost in the canopy, even for the most agile and practiced of Xistentia residents. It's impossible to tell what it is. A faint whine fills the air, and a moment later, the projectile detonates. The scent of tar fills the forest along with shouts of dismay. And too little too late, F.A.T.E.S. warning system begins to blare that a contaminant has entered the atmosphere.
However, apart from a few bruises, panic and partial deafness, nobody seems harmed at all. That is, until the compulsion sets in.
Your secrets, both large and small, suddenly become wrenching fodder for impulsive speech... or signing, texting, any multitude of communication methods wind up hijacked. The worst of it comes when you face someone you know and love. Sheer willpower might stave off the urge long enough for your character to get out of range for conversation, and it might be a good time to avoid company for awhile. It will come randomly, in spikes, for 2 weeks to follow.
Feel free to use the confessions thread here to start some textspam trouble!
Bomb Resolution (April 12+)
A week later, F.A.T.E.S. and both magic and science-minded researchers have analyzed the goop. The worst of the epidemic is localized around the party, though psychic ripples continue to be felt across Xistentia for a few days.
And now we need cleanup.
It's a motley group of unlikely volunteers. Some people are just lucky— they have no secrets they fear to share, or perhaps just no shame. Others are just good samaritans, willing to risk a terrifying level of honesty in the interest of preventing further damage to the relationships that make Xistentia run.
In any case, the group finds themselves armed with gloves, rubber suits, and floating glass containment orbs, manipulable with gestures, that can absorb the black ichor off the trees, earth, and furniture. This will be stored at the temple. And what we'll do with it—
Who knows. Or perhaps you and your compatriots have an idea for the substance permanent disposal to share.
no subject
ha ha. ha.
but then the smile fades. it's not that funny, actually. it's no laughing matter, kurt!!]
But you don't, [he says, finally. his eyes drop, but he looks up again.] You deserve somebody who fucking treats you good. And you know it. It's why you fucked off when I was being a asshole last time. I mean I get that you give some fucks about why I is the way I is. But I ain't what you deserve. And I sure as fuck don't deserve you. That's not me being 'too hard on myself,' man. That's just-- me.
[it's an easy out, you know. calling yourself names, bad words, condemnations, because that's easy. that's final. change would mean he'd have to have some fucking responsibility.]
no subject
until the smile fades from the other brunet's face, making his own falter ever so slightly. he keeps the left side of his face quirked, though, mirth in the barely there grin.]
Shouldn't I be the judge of what I deserve? When I said I didn't want you to change, I meant that, but it doesn't mean we can't work things out together. [his focus is centered on kavinsky, eyes wide and expectant.] If you could get past your self-hatred and fear, perhaps opening yourself up to someone wouldn't be as difficult as you're making it.
You must understand that I want to build with you and help you be your best self— not act like this is something that will merely kill time. [a beat.] And I'm the one that messed up that day. I shouldn't have told you during a mission that could have been compromised by such actions.
[accepting the blame for when he mucks up is something the dream thief would need to do, but kurt wouldn't berate him about such things. it'd be one of those 'live and learn' or 'everybody makes mistakes' moments. unless waterboarding people and baking puppies is involved? those would be some hardcore things he'd get up in arms about.]
powerpose fwd lmk if not ok
and that's not entirely gone from him yet. just less now.] Oh my fucking God, [he says.] You're so fucking—
[and then there's a tattooed hand on the left side of kurt's head, and another one on the right. blunt fingers curling around his ears, threading through his black hair. pulling him in to foist a kiss on his mouth. half of the kiss is some misguided effort to hijack a moment of real emotional sincerity with sexual contact, of course. but the other half is, he wants to kiss kurt. be kissed. to stop struggling with what's right, wrong, possible, or not. and maybe to check if, you know.
kurt's going to ask him for an apology. or if it's in him, really, to give one even if the mutant does not.]
why must you make me squeak out loud
okay, and maybe he's a little excited by kavinsky's vampire speed, the refreshing candor of this kiss they're sharing. he enclasps the fledgling, shifting in a particularly bold manner where their bodies are flush and cupping the back of joseph's neck. their mouths slot neatly, a simple press of his palm. the exchange is reminiscent of fireworks-- bright little sparks popping off, except behind his eyelids because kissing with them open is awkward as hell.
despite the abruptness (and grip on his hair), he urges himself back, fangs gleaming almost coyly.] Now, [the teleporter starts, warmth mingling between them as he inhales.] it's your turn to apologize.
[less asking, really, though the teleporter seems adamant about delaying this canoodling until he gets what he wants.]
cuz it cute, gf confirmed
You fucking serious right now? [there's an exasperated, predictable edge of complaint to his voice. moooom, i don't want to wash my hands. kuuuurt, why do i gotta apologize, besides that you deserve it, and i can turn that into shitting about you all day every day, but at the end of the day, i was just avoiding taking like 1% responsibility for my own toxic miasma of bullshit.]
What'm I apologizing for?
[he's being a bitch. kurt, no.]
fdasgs a double team!! how dare
but in case he has to say it again:] You know what for, [kurt murmurs, allowing his hand to move across joseph's neck, idly drifting down so the palm can flatten against his chest.
he's lingering on purpose, letting the heat of his breath tease their closeness.] Go on. [yet he knows to stay just out of reach, how to keep enticing.] Say you're sorry and I'll give you what you want.
no subject
does it?
kavinsky's pupils have swelled up big enough to contain universes of stars, sparkly like anime as he looks into the blue boy's face. how often has he wanted someone to look at him this way? how often has it happened? no less than it has ever ended, he's sure.]
I'm sorry, [he says. not fast, not slow. clearly, shaping syllables into the air that kurt can feel on the skin of his lips, each consonant cut from teeth and tongue.]
no subject
so, give him a break or something? mutants and humans (or vampires that once were) can surely relate on carnal activities.
all the while, kurt's fangs are gleaming, animated golden eyes focused only on the dream thief as he waits. then kavinsky says it, earns himself the slightest peck at first.]
That wasn't so hard, [nightcrawler chuckles, following that up with another full-lipped kiss, his fingers interlocking behind joseph's neck.]
no subject
You're kind of a asshole, [he says. and then, in an easy flash of vampire strength, he hoists the mutant right off the ground. hands cupped under his buttocks, a knuckle dipping into the underside of his tail. he's strong enough that kurt's greater height doesn't matter at all.] No wonder I like you. But-- hey. [he looks fixedly at kurt's face, and clears his throat. his eyes almost drop, then go up again.] Yo. Yo yo, I ain't trying to fucking... ruin the emotional money shot, but uh...
[he's bad a happiness, partly.] I feel like this psychic shit-- it could fuck things up for us right now. Right? [he sounds-- uncharacteristically uncertain.] Or-- fuck. Am I just being that guy?
no subject
Kind of? [kurt snorts then abruptly follows it up with a yip once his feet leave the ground, arms looping tight around the other boy's shoulders to help keep himself held up. his immediate thought to respond gets put on the back-burner in favor of squinting at his partner. things seem outlandish because their confessing has opened up doors nightcrawler's never thought imaginable; he isn't planning on letting that all come crashing down.
he breathes deep through his nose and sighs it back out, hesitation creasing his features, despite how he props his forehead against kavinsky's, making sure he holds eye contact.] Maybe you are being 'that guy,' but it's difficult to worry about that when you're occupied with ... other things. [are you picking up what he's putting down, k?]
no subject
predictably. his dick is under all circumstances, hungry— and in the metaphorical sense, not for blood. his pupils swell. he almost wets his lip, but even now, in the throes of psychic fuckery and half in love, he's too good a liar to betray himself that much. the vulgar pout of his mouth stays still for the moment, even while his mind races.
in the end, it's not exactly nobility that wins out. sure, maybe it'd be unfair— to be with kurt while kurt runs the risk of exposing himself, of making himself vulnerable when he doesn't mean to. the magic afoot, d.e.s.t.i.n.y., it could hurt kurt, absolutely. but that isn't what kavinsky's worried about, of course. kavinsky is always down to get naked in one sense of the term.
in every other, no.]
Maybe we shouldn't do this now, [he says, finally.] I'm-- there's this psychic shit going on. Look. I'm not trying to be that guy. Or that douche. What if I-- ask you out later? Like, for fucking real this time. No joke.
nsfw...ish
their current position possibly wouldn't be if not for the event, though, and while part of him still worries, it's his boldness that overpowered such anxiety. mostly, since there's a slight chance that apprehension is what makes nightcrawler's throat briefly tighten when he notices the older male's cock hardening. his own twitches to life between them, excitement coursing through his veins at the idea of kavinsky's attraction to him along with his own desire.
his second time experiencing such a thing with someone feels more genuine this time around, at least. should he ever be told of his thoughts once otherworldly effects wear off, kurt may even admire joseph for having any self-control.
after leveling him with another look, he repeats,] For real. [they haven't actually done that, after all. he peers at kavinsky a long moment, gaze unwavering before his lips curve up.] So, a date. You do know I'll hold you to that, right?
no subject
Yeah. [he can barely recognize his own voice.] Cool. You can hold me to—
[he grips kurt's hips for a moment, yanks him close. their bellies and thighs line up, heat trapped, dicks and elastic flush. he thinks about hooking kurt's thighs over his hips, pressing his scarred spine deep into a rumpled blanket. he thinks about doing some weird shit to that tail. but then he lets the mutant go with a little snap of his wrists. a date. he knows it's the bullshit kurt will want in the morning. his ears feel warm for some reason. he takes his time shifting his eyes away, pretending that he isn't bizarrely awkward under the weight of the mutant's stare.]
See you around, Wagner, [he says. his voice is light. his cock is heavy.]
fadin' yo
the teleporter's mouth opens, closes, then opens again, like a gasping fish out of water. his chest rumbles, some heady sounding mixture of growling and purring, eyes half-lidded as kavinsky holds them flush. he lifts both arms, loops them tight around the shorter male, fists curling against his shoulders, lips at his forehead and nose buried into his tousled hair where he breathes deep. holds the air in his lungs, memorizes every little thing about this mess of a boy in his arms until he's released. with great reluctance, he withdraws as well, although the sharpness of his teeth might be felt before he pulls back the rest of the way.
he's smiling, hands reaching for kavinsky's shirtfront, keeping him close long enough for their lips to brush when he leans and says:] Yes, you will.
[then, he playfully pushes kavinsky while he isn't looking and turns away, knowing he'll have to focus on anything else or he might decide to make the dream thief change his mind.]