Tess, remember that one time in Minerval?

As you kneel close to Tess, with Tess's thought-form doppelgängers covering her with their too-solid dream flesh, your eyes locked, your fingertips touching each other's foreheads, you share your plan.

We're going to take care of them. Like Orestes de Landevale, but not the way he fucked it up. Literally.

Tess stares in disbelief.

Orestes de Landevale decided he was going to take one of Whiplash's lectures on purification rituals and put it into practice. He evoked all the parts of his soul he wanted to purify as daimones bearing his own form. The parts he wanted to keep, he embraced in sexual congress and welcomed back into himself. The parts he wished to release, he fucked them up the arse until they submitted to climax, he thanked and released them.

Or that was what Orestes was supposed to do, according to the ritual Oscar Whiplash had described. You'd rolled your eyes along with the other Minerval witches attending the lecture as then-Tutor Whiplash had enthused about the details.

One of Orestes' soul-fragments was his obsession with Lyncamoure, a junior witch in House Leontes. His obsession overcame him instead, and in short order, he had gone hotfoot to seek her. Orestes was fortunate that House Leontes' Warder, Barbara Torch, intervened before Lyncamoure had reduced Orestes to a pile of smouldering ash. Orestes was expelled. Lyncamoure had graduated last year with honors in dueling.

Can we? Tess sends.

We know how to love ourselves, you send. Butterflies in your tummy. May it be so. And we have each other. A muscle twitches in your scalp. Morgan. Golondrina. We have each other here.

Tess's eyes light up. Tears well up behind her flame-edged eyeglasses. You bend close and your lips meet. Tess's thought-forms moan hungrily. Though you have them under CHARM, their sheer wanting defines them.

You break the kiss. "Alright Tess. We're going to fill them with love. Keep the ones you want. Anyone you're done with, thank her and send her on her way, she was doing her best by you." You cough. "A few thought forms got pieces of me. They're keeping each other busy for now." Your eyes moisten. "But you. Let's do you."

Tess nods. "Alright Fay."

"Come on you lot," you say to the red-headed seemings. "Love up on your mum, gently, you know she loves you." You move the hungry Tess-things about, hoisting them by the hips or shoulders and pivoting them so Tess isn't at the bottom of a writhing scrum anymore. Your nose tickles from the fragrance of Tess's sex multiplied by all her duplicates, rising as you pull and shove them about. Focus, Fay.

But you're dripping again, your pearl throbbing. A huge sloppy pile of ginger cream Tess cakes moaning for it, gagging for it. You give yourself a sharp pinch to the ear to break you out of it.

Tess sighs as lips capture her nipples, soft pink raspberries under your lips, then giggles as tongues invade her ears, delicate and flushed with lust-heat, wonderful to nibble, moans as she lets her seemings part her legs, lift her knees, and plant kiss after kiss up her thighs, cake, so pale and soft and sensitive, and upon the coppery bush of her mound, the heat, the musk, mouth-watering, her moans louder and lower as tongues part her labia, Tess, that taste.

There's a fine, very Tess-like bum in front of your face, only faintly abstract, and definitely fragrant in that warmed-up-and-ready sort of way. That bum is making very enchanting wiggles as the Tess-ling feeds its hunger for love and attention, one little piggy amongst a litter, with Tess herself at the centre.

Loving it.

When it was a mewling pile, Tess was panicked, but now that you've sorted things, well, ah, you know enough magical theory to hold forth about eucharistic rites and shamanic initiation and the Rite of the Hungry Ghosts.

Tess is enjoying all that much more than all those dire sacrificial rites.

To you it's Tess times ten, all her fears and flaws transformed into desires made flesh, made Tess. You tremble, their contagious hunger giving you a want, to dive forward, fingers reaching to pinch, to caress, to plunge into wet caves of honey hungering for touch.

And to Tess?

"Tess baby?" you say.

"Oh Fay," Tess says. "You're right, I know how to love myself. Myselves? I don't even know I ahh OH!" She trembles, tenses, then groans, flexing upward with her first climactic spasm.

"Oh fuck," you mumble. "Enter FOOL at stage left." Cake. A platter of moaning, mouthwatering cake.

You dive in nose-first.

Describe your romp with Tess and her thought-form duplicates. Help Tess reclaim or release her bits of self, then deal with your Fay thought-forms and resolve GET OUT OF DANGER.