It's Dulce Time

Intake.

Phil, arms bound in front of him, slowly recalled the events leading up to his admittance to the hospital. Navigating the memory felt like stumbling through fog, but the doctor steadily coaxed the story out of him.

"I'd woken up early. There were still a few hours before I needed to head to school, so I went to the beach for an early morning swim." Swimming was what he did when he was stressed. He was almost always stressed, lately. "There are some rocks kind of close to shore that I like to swim out to, and I found out diving near there can lead you to a hidden cave. It's really pretty down there. I had enough time, so I thought I'd visit."

He could still see the lichen glowing, the cave walls glittering with precious stones. Phil followed the memory deeper, waded further into its darkness. "I was exploring. At some point... I felt like I was being followed. Not footsteps, we were knee deep in water. Just the surface churning as someone pushed through. People."

The doctor had to redirect his focus, ease his thoughts back into something organized. Phil waded through chest-deep memory, fighting against the current. Details came out in choppy waves. "They came up behind me." "Three of them first." "Then four." "Then six." "Then three."

There had been fluids, dripping down his legs and covering his face and coating his thighs. Fluids across the planes of his chest and back. There had been so much liquid that eventually it had felt like Phil was swimming. Like he was in the ocean again, feeling the waves lap against him. The world muted to a distant hum. Water's gravity holding him, rocking him.

He'd been swimming. It had felt like he was swimming.

Assessment.

Phil sat across from Doctor Harper, arms free and his hospital gown loose across his body. He'd been good, nodding and obeying and agreeing with what he'd been told, up until Harper declared that Phil had been the one inciting the animals.

"That's not true," Phil responded, uncharacteristically decisive. "The fish come to me themselves."

"But that doesn't make sense," Doctor Harper dismissed, somehow managing to sound kind while doing so. "Fish have no reason to go out of their way to pleasure whoever enters their waters. They get nothing out of it."

"Right," Phil agreed. "They have no reason to. They do it because they're kind."

Harper's pen paused, the man staring blankly forward for a long, silent second. "They attack you because they're kind?"

"They want me to feel good."

Stillness broken, Harper began scribbling down another note. "It doesn't make sense for them to want that."

"Maybe they love me."

Doctor Harper's pen skidded sharply, most likely unintentionally. Despite it, his face remained carefully composed. "Not just one fish, but entire schools of fish? They all love you?"

"You'd understand if you saw it."

"Do you want me to see it?" Harper immediately asked.

"No. But you'd understand."

Smiling a little, Harper jotted down another note before asking how he'd know, what it looked like. Phil described the ways he was touched, the where and how of it, and although the doctor remained unconvinced Phil was happy to be given an opportunity to talk about it. He missed the fish. He missed the water.

There wasn't even a tub here.

Check ins.

At the beginning, Phil had exercised. The first time the staff had ordered them to run in the yard, they'd gotten to bathe afterward; it had been Phil's first exposure to a high quantity of water since he'd arrived, and even the pitiable shower had felt comforting after everything he'd went through. So after that Phil exercised, again and again, because he'd thought he'd be allowed back in the shower—and instead he'd been left sweaty, forced to wait until the following morning to wash off his perspiration (along with the other mysterious fluids he'd accumulated throughout the day).

It wasn't enough. Swimming was his stress relief. He didn't feel right outside of water. After a week, he was found strangling himself in an attempt to mimic the oxygen deprivation he felt while diving. The orderlies put him back in the straitjacket, arms rebound for his safety.

Treatment continued.

He wasn't sure how long it took. A while. Weeks. He stared at his hospital gown and wished it were longer, that it covered his legs. Having legs felt distinctly wrong. He didn't like to look at them.

Some of the patients were walked around like dogs, lead on leashes and paraded around the asylum. Later, a few were taken away in animal control trucks. Phil didn't talk about the fish anymore, or the water, or the dreams he had—dreams of being a mermaid, living deep below the water's surface where no one but the fish could touch him—but he hoped when he was released that Harper put him out to sea. The doctor must know that's where he needed to go. He must know it was where Phil belonged.

You're strapped to a table, wearing nothing but a familiar hospital gown.

You've had this dream before. Doctor Harper and the others in white coats come into the room, leering down at you with eager eyes. Harper takes out a scalpel and points it at your chest. You tense instinctually, feeling the same fearful anticipation you have every time this nightmare finds you.

But this time, when the blade's tip cuts through your gown, it keeps going.

The scalpel plunges between your ribs before you've really processed it. Your breath is stuck in your lungs, body completely and utterly still—shock. Normally, he just cuts your clothes off. Normally, the scalpel never touches skin.

But now it's buried to the handle, stabbed through the middle of your chest. He pulls back and forces the blade down, slowly bisecting your torso from collar to hip, and the movement is smooth despite how arduous the task seems to be. Slowly, the skin parts.

When you look down into the wound, you're greeted with solid walls of fish meat.

There's no blood, or bones or organs or gore. Instead there's uninterrupted orangish flesh, thin white rings lining the cross sections in familiar rounded stripes. You'd seen slabs of meat like this, cuts of raw salmon put atop sushi or plastic-wrapped in the seafood aisle...or sometimes fresh, fish gouged open on the fishing boats to be gutted and cooked at the beach.

The doctor peels the last of your skin aside, and you realize he's filleted you open.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, pulse rushing like a current. There's fear, of course, but under that there's something like... pride? Like something true had just been affirmed in you, somehow?

Doctor Harper isn't surprised when he looks into you, like he was expecting this, and belatedly you realize you did too. This is exactly what should be inside you. It's who you've always been. Truth made flesh, made visible.

Staring down at the dissection, you notice that you're smiling. And then you're laughing—and your ribs lift with the action, and the pain finally hits in a sudden crashing wave—

you wake up, swimming in your sweat. Your breaths come in rapid gasps, a hand clutched in the fabric over your chest, and you realize your heart is there...your organs, bowels, bones and blood.

Your torso isn't split in two. A part of you is disappointed.

When Fillet is sucked into the oyster's mouth, the first thing he worries about is taking his diving suit off.

He's so trusting of the creature that he's more concerned with the £200 it would take to replace the wetsuit than he is of his life. Because nothing from the water would ever want to harm him—he thinks this even as he's swallowed up to the waist, the hungry maw greedily attempting to suck him in.

But he manages to get the diving suit off first, and has it clenched in his fist while he holds onto the oyster's exterior. Both arms braced against the creature's outer lip, he relaxes his naked body and surrenders himself to the oyster's mercy.

(He never wears anything beneath the diving suit. He wants to give what's beneath the water access to every part of him, as quickly as possible).

A large tongue licks up his feet, wraps around his legs, caresses his inner thighs. The flat of it presses against his entire stomach, pressing in—and Fillet feels arousal begin to grow within him.

Soon that tongue will go exactly where he needs it to, and he won't be able to hold on anymore. Even then, as the oyster attempts to devour him, he won't be afraid. He'll be sucked fully into its mouth, wriggling and writhing as its oral walls caress him, and only think about the pressure and the slick of it. The suffocating warmth will only feel close, intimate, and he'll let let that warmth cradle him until he finally gets his bearings and begins to crawl his way back out.

When the oyster attempts to keep him from escaping, he still won't think of it as an attempt to eat him. He'll interpret it like the actions of a needy lover, a kind of "come back, I'm not done with you yet, I want to make you feel so much better." Fillet won't feel threatened or scared, but find it flirtatious and teasing—he might, once he reemerges, simply hold on to the outer lip again, let himself linger a while longer before fully freeing his body.

Hidden beneath the ocean waves, he won't let himself moan. His lips will stay firmly shut, keeping the water out; his body will scream with oxygen deprivation, and even then he won't feel afraid. The burn in his lungs matches the heat building inside him, pairs so perfectly with his desperation.

(When he's finally had enough—trembling from oversensitivity, barely managing the last dregs of effort necessary to free his legs and swim to shore—giddy warmth will still be circulating through his veins. People on the beach will be confused why someone is zipping up their wetsuit as they're exiting the water, rather than as they enter, but some might be more distracted by his smile...a little too titilated, a little too flushed.

Your body is something to be passed around, something everyone in town feels entitled to. They've all seen the pictures, the videos—you've been publicly assaulted so many times that everyone has convinced themselves you want it. Now they snatch you off the street when they see you, talk as if they're doing you a favor... ripping off your pants, exposing your dick, and thinking that's what you're trying to hide as you scream and scream at the sight of your skin.

The underworld knows you as Rape Bait.

They get off on it: your fear, your 'reveal.' They think you play it up for attention, the hysterics another way to get eyes on you. But you don't want to be looked at.

You want to be beneath the sea.

You make your way to the beachfront, swimming out until you reach the rocky alcove a little ways from shore. Still half-submerged, you strip, peeling off your wetsuit without looking at your legs beneath the water.

One of the small squids that makes the rocks its home latches onto you, crawling up your thigh and caressing your naked skin. You let it, smiling as it clings and climbs, and just finish putting your swimsuit aside when a diver rises up from the water.

"Wow, you're just serving yourself on a silver platter, huh?" When they lift up their googles to get a good look at you, the recognition in their eyes is obvious. There's only one explanation they can think of for why you'd be stripping in the open. "I guess I heard right about you."

And then you're taken, arms pinned behind your back as your assailant has their way. Almost immediately you give up, close your eyes and wait for it to be over—when the squid continues to squeeze you, unbothered and unnoticed by your attacker, you force yourself to focus only on its touch. You pretend that everything you're feeling is somehow attributable to the creature you've allowed onto your body. Pretend this is something you chose to let happen.

If to live is to surrender (which it is. It's all you've ever known), you at least want to choose what to surrender to.

When you orgasm, the diver talks like they're the cause. It only further reaffirms their beliefs about you, that you like and enjoy being used like this, and when they finally leave it's with the smug satisfaction of a job well done.

You're left limp against the rocks, cool ocean soothing your heated skin. The water laps against you and you imagine it aftercare, a balm to the nauseous heat you were left with. 

A few fish swim over curiously, nibbling at your toes and nipping your knees. Normally you hate reminders of your lower limbs, but sea life doesn't trigger the usual revulsion. You welcome the touch, not an entitlement but a different type of ownership, a claim... but while the contact is comfortable, you know the fish can't protect you. Not from the hands of man.

You wish you could dive down deep enough that the town disappears, swim and swim and never return. You wish you could belong there, truly belong, like you and the fish both know you should.

Instead you reach back for your wetsuit, slipping it on one leg at a time.

When you first started wearing dresses, everyone seemed to think it was for their benefit. Another layer of thrill, an extra kink thrown into the performance of your faux-autonomy; the sexual fantasy of running into a pretty little thing only to find a fun surprise under his skirt.

The underworld knows you as Diseased.

But it was never your dick you were hiding from them. It wasn't your legs, either—instead it was lumps of flesh hanging off your lower body, arranged like layers of tassels or the fronds of a grass skirt.

They hung off your torso and legs in tiers, varying in shape and size and looseness. Some dangled freely, with enough room to slide a hand under, while others had attached themselves more securely—the oldest beginning to properly fuse into your flesh, becoming less like skin tags and more like protrusions or growths.

The one thing they had in common were their scales, which started concentrated in the lumps before spreading out from their connection points. Smatterings of them speckled your skin, radiating from the sources they'd transferred from... though an untrained eye might think you were the one growing the scales, expelling them out rather than the other way around.

You were wrong in thinking that the fish couldn't protect you. Because here they were, doing exactly that: holding onto you, becoming one with you, in a way no one could understand. Keeping you safe, when a hand flipped up your skirt only to recoil back in horror.

Word travelled fast, and people didn't touch you anymore. The way the town viewed you was changing, and so was your body—the fish's mass absorbing into you, thickening your legs. The gap between your thighs was steadily shrinking.

Soon, you expected there wouldn't be any gap at all.

The underworld knows you as Monster.

A few weeks have passed since your missing persons posters went up in town. They haven't yet connected you to the thing they'd started seeing in the water, the creature with the long, scaled tail and almost human eyes. 

You'd already made a name for yourself, become a presence the dockworkers spoke about in whispers. The sailors shouldn't have indulged themselves so close to shore; when you'd heard the cries coming from their docked ships, so familiar they could have been your own, you'd made sure to pay them back in kind and let sailor's screams echo out from the waters.

And then you'd released them, let them go to swim off and tell their tales. Soon, everyone would know what happens if you were caught harming someone by the ocean. What would happen to you, if you bound your victims and tried to throw them into the sea.

You didn't like looking at the bodies of those victims, even while you rescued them. They were too reminiscent of what your's used to be—used, battered, so pitifully human.

But you aren't human now, not anymore. That's why you can't sit back, passive to any suffering you see. You don't take pleasure in it, either, though that hasn't stop you from causing some suffering of your own.

Still, you aren't like the humans. You practice catch and release, always let them go in the end. They still sometimes feel entitled to your body, attempt to string you in their nets and take their revenge—but your existence isn't theirs to play with anymore. Now, you surrender to no one.

how can i participate?

all you have to do is talk about how your pc behaves in a party gathering/ nightclub setting! i've created this graph to give a starter but it's not mandatory to use or anything, i just thought it would be nice. do they like or dislike parties, are the social or more avoidant, do they like to drink etc etc. and if you do end up using this please tag me for it !! i really want to see what you make !!

i wanted this to be more inclusive so it doesn't have to be only art, it can also be writing too! i also wanted this event to be to create more pc interaction opportunities as the nightclub is a single place where all of our pcs are integrated! go nuts with your imagination !!! the possibilities and hilarities are endless 🥳🥳 if you have any questions then send me an ask and i'll explain it better

event duration 01/13/2026 - 04/13/2026

3 months ! have as much fun as possible !!

(silhouettes featured for the poster are from right to left, @pervertreckoning 's evie

my lair

@ambicutiebutt 's daisy

@beevosmeower 's juno