#pathologic smut

he has an oral fixation

Liking your posts in succession, even ones that are more than a year old

Filling your comment section with his incoherent mumblings, unfinished sentences, and half-formed thoughts

If you make any form of art and share it online, he never fails to obsess over it for a good hour

Rambling about it in the comments

His unorthodox praise easy to mistake for insult

Both critiquing and idolising different aspects of your style

Wondering about your creative process in a sensual way that's vaguely pornographic

You can't tell if he especially loves your art or fervently hates it

His affectionate suffocating

His fascination bordering perversion

After he's had his fill and left you an amalgam of very confusing and borderline insane feedback, he retweet/reblog it to his account with your @ linked

Inadvertently placing it under the watchful eye of the masses

The prestigious architecture association that follows him

The famous artists that adhere to his innovation

The whole academia of fine arts basically

All now very aware of that piece you made on your lunch break for fun

Peter doesn't even introduce himself to you in dms, he just shows up one day, this celebrity account, and slithers his way into your online presence

At one point his actions can be classified as harassment

You try to have a polite conversation with him about it

Dm him and explain the situation whilst establishing some boundaries with this literal stranger

Only for it to become evidently clear that Peter Stamatin does not process a single thing you're saying

Words going in one ear and leaving intact out the other as he pivots the conversations towards his own topics

Trauma dumping on you in dms

He keeps mentioning names you don't recognise, Saburovs, Maria, Farkhad

He keeps talking about things that happened before

Clear gaps in his memory in faulty past recollections

He keeps saying how much he envies you, how you're still able to have passion for your art, how it's been years since he's made something, how is all his fault

Your phone won't stop pinging from his text notifications

You're left there staring at a screen wondering what the fuck is a Polyhedron

Your phone rings, an incoming online call

You hang up, hoping he gets the hint

but another and another follow after

When you finally pick up, you're only met with silence on the other end of the line

After the moment stretches for too long, you hesitantly say hello

Peter's voice comes out in a soft gasp followed by trembling breath

You call out his name, his last name, because he's still a stranger

But you're offered no reply

In a last show of courtesy, you attempt explaining your situation again, how uncomfortable he's been making you feel for the past months

The only thing assuring you Peter's listening being the sound of his shallow breath on the other end of the line

Growing more pronounced the more this one-sided conversation progressed

Until you notice the subtle sound of rustling fabric

The rhythm of flesh moving against flesh in the background

Your voice fades as the realisation dawns on you

Peter's own failing quietness betraying the intimate nature of his action

"Keep talking" Is the first thing you hear in his voice

Small and quiet, laced with desperation, in the tone of implicit begging

and the last as your thumb moves faster than you could think, Immediately hanging up

Dawn broke over the Town on Gorkhon – a town once ravaged by plague. Though it was still as death, now. The smoldering coals of the fires that once burned the infected districts made the air taste of decay - of what once was.

Pink and orange hues traced the skyline over the steppe, and his eyes followed the multicolored streaks downward like strokes of a brush. They ended at the horizon that was now distinctly visible in front of him – the view was no longer dominated by the presence of the polyhedron. He stared at the pieces of it in the Gorkhon, his feet plastered to the stone beneath him. 

He had always viewed the giant object with an air of suspicion – as he knew some others in the Town did as well. He held no love for it, but even he had to admit that it was a bit sad to watch the burnt remains bobbing in the water below. 

Artemy wasn’t sure why he came to see it. Maybe he just wouldn’t believe it unless he saw it with his own eyes. He now felt the weight of the last twelve days settle uncomfortably on his chest – his heart sagged beneath it. Had it only been twelve days? Less than two weeks since he had boarded that train at the request of his father – only to find that Isidor had been taken by the plague the same day. 

The events that followed that arrival were blurry now, though he knew they were real by the scars on his hands and the hunger in his belly. For the last twelve days he had done nothing but work tirelessly to save the Town from the Sand Pest. He had worked on minutes of sleep and scraps of toast to eat. He had seen and done things that he knew he would never be able to forget, as much as he may have wanted to. 

He stood on the precipice of what comes after; he didn’t know what to do then, staring at the waterlogged pieces of the polyhedron. The early morning warmth of the sun washed over his face, and he realized that it was over. He had done it, but what it was, he wasn’t sure of. 

The sound of footsteps behind him gave him pause, and he turned his head toward his shoulder, looking back at the silhouette of a person in the long shadow of the morning. He traced the outline and knew who it was immediately. Artemy turned his gaze forward as Daniil came to stand beside him.

Daniil had both hands in his coat pockets, his eyes following Artemy’s gaze and resting in the same spot. He was quiet, only the caw of crows on the cathedral announcing his presence.

Artemy spared a glance over to the man, and he found Daniil’s dark features almost unreadable – eyes dull but focused, the bags under them darker than the last time they had crossed paths. Artemy followed the lines of his face, noting the slight pull at the corners of his mouth and the way he seemed to study each piece of the polyhedron carefully. 

Daniil may have felt his gaze, because he turned his own toward Artemy, and for once, he wasn’t smirking. That smug look he often sported was not painting his face. What Artemy saw there was plain – exhaustion.

For a few heartbeats neither spoke; they simply stared at one another, watching as the scenes of the last twelve days replayed in the reflection of their eyes. Artemy felt a pang of sympathy, and some guilt, seeing Daniil’s lifeless expression. Maybe if he had been a better doctor, he could have saved the other man from all the torment he no doubt endured. If he had just been more thorough, more intelligent…

“Was it worth it?” 

The words stabbed into Artemy’s ears, though Daniil had not made them sharp. He hadn’t relinquished the hold his eyes had on Artemy’s, either. 

Still, he didn’t hesitate as he replied, “Undeniably.”

For that Rubin lamented his obscene mind, cursing each and every one of those memories to be viewed through the lens of depravity. But Stakh doesn't believe in curses. Something must be wrong with him instead, he concurred.

Why else would a sane man feel a thrill at fact you can't wrap your fingers around his arm if you've tried. Feel a twinge of pleasure knowing his pinkie is the size of your thumb.

In all of his life he barely paid his features any mind, until it was you who he towered over, and suddenly that fact became the centre of his universe. Even with his usual hunched over posture, you still crane your neck just to look him in the eyes... and yet you do each time. That sinful view he gets of you enveloped in his shadow tested the limits of his will more than any other tempation has. He struggled to keep track of the conversation as his mind wandered to unspeakable territories. Oh, he wanted nothing more than to bundle you up against the wall to see how other parts of him contrast against your smaller frame.

Could his lips swallow yours whole? Would his tongue crowd your mouth so much that spit leaks from its corners? Would your kisses be akin to kitten licks as you get more and more restless, desperate for more of him despite knowing it's simply not plausible.

You're just too small in comparison to him. Too tiny to properly sway together in a romantic dance without it looking ridiculous. His clothes wouldn't simply be overized on you, but tent-like floor-dragging baggy.

The wooden bedframe creaks as he turns, the mattress dipping under his weight. Burying his face into the rigid pillow, Rubin tries to quell his overactive imagination down to no avail.

It would never fit, he's just fooling himself.

Two of his fingers would be your limit. Rough pads rubbing against your gummy walls, stuffing you so full that you can't close your legs.

Lifting his head, he drags the pillow from underneath it, groaning against the white linen as he pushes it between his legs. Ignoring the waves of shame rippling through him for resorting to such a juvenile act just to sate his needs.

Would you moan? Cry out that it's too much? Tear up as you're hugging his arm like it's your very own comfort pillow, clinging to it and preventing him from pulling out of your stretched hole. It's too much, but you like it. That delicious burn, the feeling of being overstuffed. You'll like it as long as it's him, because you love him.

Grinding against the pillow in slow hesitated thrusts. It's been so long since he's done this, since anything made him feel the urge to do it. This simple rolling motion against the damp fabric is overwhelming his neglected dick with pleasure.

He can't fuck you, it won't fit. But you're so much braver than he is, you love him to a fault, and you'll climb on his lap and insist on taking him inside you. And he'll cave in, because he's a coward. Because he's weak. Oh so weak when it comes to you. The head will kiss the lips of your gaping hole, still freshly fingered and wet, and it won't be easy to get it inside. He'll have to distract you enough for you to loosen up and relax so the head of his cock can pop inside. His thumb rubbing circles on your nipples, maybe? Would you like that? You can't even reach his neck to bite into, all you can do is bury your face into his chest as he's pleads with you to relax. Be it thumbing against your clit or fisting your cock inside his much larger hand, he'll do whatever it takes to just—

A husband, your husband Lyuricheva, what a sweet melody this title is to her ear. And her very own wife too, to slide up against after work, litter kisses up your neck, feel down your hips, and urge you to make a seat of her knees on the couch.

Or one knee, in particular, her good leg. Be good for her, be a good wife and let her softly bounce you on her knee, grind against it with your heat, wetness seeping through the thin fabric of your pretty panties—which you wear especially for her—and leaving a damp patch on the leg of her pants.

Is the rough fabric rubbing against your clit? Does it really feel that good to grind on her knee? What an obedient wife you are for her. Is it too much? It's okay, hold her hands, entangle your fingers together so you may not hide your face with them.

You can't deprive her of this view, deprive your husband of looking at you in such a state of desperation? Absolutely unacceptable.

Your thrusts become erratic as you get lost in the mind-numbing pleasure, motor skills deteriorating with every second. Yulia had to let go of your hands and take a hold of your hips, set her own pace for you to go grind in sync with the bounce of her knee, push you even lower, press your pussy more firmly onto her leg, and raise her knee to squish it with a mocking hum.

With nothing to hold onto, you paw at her chest, curling in her lap, tempted by the unbuttoned top rows of her shirt, tugging it even more open to gnaw on her collarbone.

Those whines and mewls pouring from your lips extend a live wire to her heart… and other areas. You make her feel alive, more than she has ever felt. The arousal burning like embers through her veins, how exhilarating it is to hold so much authority over you, to be bonded by law to you, to have every right to call you her wife with the ring to prove.

It gets to her head sometimes, all those posters and less than tasteful ads of husbands bending their wives over their knees to discipline them. Of having them sit like a doll between their spread legs under the breakfast table, for the husband to enjoy the toast while the wife gets her very own special breakfast.

While she sees the appeal, she wouldn't do it their way, of course. No, instead, she'd rather work you through it. Have you crave it as much as she does, dote on you through every step.

She wouldn't drag you over her knees, that's uncouth and dull. Yulia would coax you into it, flirt you through it. Gesturing you over and requesting it so bluntly, watching that confused wide eyed stare on your face at her words quickly turn into understanding, embarrassment dusting your cheeks.

With you sprawled over her lap, face down, the very same slender fingers trail the underside of your exposed thighs. Hooking the hem of your skirt upwards. Sensual slow movements, massaging your soft skin, touches lingering with every squeeze and handful of plump flesh.

She eases your nerves, familiarises you with the act by asking you about your day. To an outsider her voice would seem as monotone as ever, but you who have lived with her for more than half a decade can easily gauge the subtle playfulness weaved in-between the lines. The satirical nature of this sexual play between the both of you, parodying the ideal man/woman marriage deemed by society.

For there is no strong brooding husband spanking his wife in this room, but only a gentle husband rubbing the clit of her very enthusiastic wife. Easing a finger into you with your comfort in mind, working you open as the mundane conversation of daily inquiries flows between the both of you so seamlessly, except for the breathlessness on your end.

You stumble through your words, and she takes it as a sign for a second finger. This pretence of normalcy through this sexual act only amplifies the sinful nature, the shame swirling with the arousal deep inside you. As if this was the usual routine of your days, being bent over her knees and fingered into mindlessness as your answers to her inquiring polite questions turn more and more into dumb mumblings. Whines and pleas fall onto deaf ears as Yulia asks what's wrong with zero effort into making the faux concern sound believable.

Is telling your husband about your day a task too difficult for a simple housewife like you to achieve? She spreads her fingers inside you, short trimmed nails pressing against the rough patch between your silky walls.

Does she need to walk you through talking? Are you truly so helpless and hopeless without her around to hold your hand through the simplest of tasks? You feel the pressure building up, muscles tensing as her thumb rolls your clit around, fingers pushing inside to the knuckles, the coldness of the gold ring was your final straw before you came crumbling down.

The problem with both of these situations is that Yulia's self control is extremely weak. Her mind is as fragile as a glass figurine. Whether you're grinding on her knee or being fingered face down on her lap, she'll always be tempted by the intrusive thoughts of how divine you must taste right this instant.

And why deny herself the satisfaction of finding out?

Why not move you fully onto the couch and bury her face between your thighs, eager mouth kissing your damp pussy, hooked nose brushing against your clit as her tongue finds its right place inside you. Drinking you like ambrosia to her heart's content, groaning against your cunt as your hands attempt to latch onto her short hair strands, pulling at whatever you can reach. The vibrations from her voice only send you further and further into the turmoil of anticipation.

Her button-up shirt is a wrinkled mess by now, collar edges stained with your juices, a sultry look in her ghostly blue eyes staring you down like you were both the bane of her existence and the subject of all of her desires. It's painful, how much she longs for you, how much she wants you.

How tender her heart turned tamed by your hands, you're a great flood invading the very essence of her being.

Tell her, how is she supposed to save herself from the overwhelming yearning to be by your side at every moment of the day?

Tell her, how could she survive the crippling sadness sowed by the inevitability of time, when those fields come to a flourish? The prospect of losing you hangs over her head like a pendulum saw.

What is she supposed to do with you now? Laying back, spreading your legs, looking at her throat clumped eyelashes like she's your god. You've turned her into an addict, delirious at the smell of you alone. Your taste stains her tongue forever, for the sin stained her soul through the smoke of the first cigarette you shared that fateful day, the sound of your moans are the bells of her cathedral.

Yulia's hooked on the way your thighs so innocuously squeeze her head, unaware of how dangerously close to snapping her neck you get whenever too overwhelmed by the motions of climax to notice.

You'll be the end of her one of those days, she is sure of that.

The first to get the information and the second to verify the authenticity of the first

Sometimes he sends you stuff

Yeah all those "lost packages" that keep mysteriously turning up on your doorway with no stamp or address? He orchestrated them

At one point—around the one year mark—it doesn't feel enough

It's not satisfying anymore to simply save your pictures

It doesn't hit the same way seeing you tweet about how reckless the shipping company must be for dropping another lost package at your door (not that you're complaining having found the cutest teddy bear inside)

His appetite is bottomless

He craves more than simply having your selfie as his laptop's background

Bit by bit the thoughts begin to manifest

Akin to water condensation on a bathroom mirror, fogging Vlad's brain and obscuring the right from wrong

Or morally dubious from outright criminal in his case

He has all this data he collected on you, painstakingly detailed and borderline pedantic—simply sitting there, collecting dust

In theory: he could use it to tailor-craft an online persona that's your perfect missing puzzle

So concerned with whether or not he could, he never stops to wonder if he should

From your point of view, it's a random chance of fate that brought you and this seemingly friendly person together

Vlad is careful, paitent, and with just enough obsession to hone and adapt this persona to your preference

He initiates only the socially acceptable amount of interactions with you and nothing more

Knowing when to stop and when to push, never overdoing it

Feeling immense pride at every new milestone he reaches as you promote his persona from stranger to acquaintance to friend

One might wonder that if Vlad is capable of achieving such a feat, then why doesn't he simply ditch his stalker account and actually befriend you as himself rather than create an entire new account and persona

One will need to realise that obsession doesn't operate by logic

Vlad doesn't like you, doesn't see you as a friend even

He is obsessed with you, he feels entitled to you

To your information, your pictures, stories about your days, hobbies, education, work

What you eat, what you wear, what you like, what you hate

When you sleep, when you bathe, when you brush your teeth

All of these feel of the utmost importance to him

Not out of love or affection, but a personal deep-sated desire to own

Vlad always thought himself above these feelings of crude possessiveness and primitive jealousy: rudimentary characteristics of dark ages

He'd tried to deny it, each time he felt the blood rushing downwards while scrolling through your saved pictures in his gallery

Pretend he the sudden dryness in his throat isn't related to the less than innocent joke you told his fake account, or to the explicit material of a certian written story you shared

He's definitely not fisting his cock later scrolling through it

Wondering if this is what you like

Thumb sweeping over the head, spreading the pearling droplets of white

If this is how you'd have him take you

Eyes never leaving the glowing screen, staring into your picture as he fucks into his hand

Oh how he'd treasure you, lock you up like a one-of-a-kind diamond

Tracing the outline of your lips while biting his to muffle the groans

You'd never long or desire for anything he wouldn't provide you with, you'd be free in his shackles, truly free of having to get a job or worry about pesky things such as food or rent

Messy light hair framing a flushed face, shiny droplets of sweat glimmer in the dim room

Free to be yourself, waste your days away sleeping on his bed, filling his sheets with your scent

He finishes with a mantra of your name pouring out in quiet reverent whispers

It's not long until your new online bestie starts suggesting you should come visit him

He lives in the most beautiful rural town, you'll love it

He knows you will

Vlad already paid for the tickets, in fact your flight is tomorrow

That's how Artemy found himself being dragged to the Stillwaters in the early hours of the morning. Or, more accurately, politely summoned by a very insisting letter that made it sound like an urgent emergency, the life or death kind of urgency.

If the Bachelor wanted to play doctors with him that badly why not just wait until the afternoon or something? Artemy left in such a hurry, he had to tiptoe his way around the house in order to not wake Sticky and Murky up.

A gut feeling told him that he was less of a patient and more of a guinea pig, a test run for Dankovsky to shake the rust off of his diagnostic talents before he actually lets any real patients through the door.

At least, that would explain the seemingly random test the bachelor put him through so far, each with very little correlation to the other.

"Burakh, your help has been invaluable, but there is one last thing I need to check." Daniil was never one to act coy or be easily embarrassed, yet in that moment a polite forced cough left his lips in an attempt to soften whatever he was going to say next. "I—" he passed, rephrasing the sentence"—We need to perform a DRE exam."

Huh that abbreviation sounded vaguely familiar, where did Artemy hear it before again? Oh yeah, he remembers now.

"Boleesh, over my cold dead body Dankov-"

"Please, we are professionals, Burakh. Both of us are educated doct... Well, one of us is academically educated—And, you're a capable surgeon with a plethora of experience under your belt." Daniil's heartfelt speech would've been more convincing wasn't it for that obvious grin curling his lips. That, and the fact he was aiming to get under his belt as well. "What's important is that we know how serious an abnormal finding in the prostate gland can be, or need I remind you?"

A moment of silence followed as both men simply stared at each other in a standstill. Daniil's persuasive eyes attempt to break the will of Artemy's defiant gaze.

The Haruspex sank deeper into the bed pillow, gloved fingers gripping the sheets as he contemplated this snake den he willingly had jumped into.

"Fine, emshen." Cornered at last, Artemy admitted defeat with a sigh.

Well, even if he hates to admit it, Daniil is right. They're both way too grown and mature to be embarrassed by such a thing as this. If anything, Daniil's the pinnacle of professionalism... right?

Right?

The snapping of new rubber gloves being put on followed shortly, "I'm glad you could see reason, my dear colleague." Daniil said, looking rather pleased with himself.

-

"Take a deep breath for me... yes just like that."

Cold. The lubricant covering the soft rubber sent shivers through Artemy's body as the other's fingers pressed against his skin.

Or maybe, it was the lack of clothes which made the chilly room air contrast against his hot body. Artemy has gotten so used to his surgical clothes, it almost felt like a second skin at times despite all of its suffocating cuffs and tight fits.

He knew he didn't need to take everything off, and yet he did. Daniil could've stopped or corrected him, and yet he didn't.

This supposedly simple examination was already evolving to be more than either of them claimed it was on the surface. Evidently by Daniil's rather intimate grip on Artemy's bare hip. Both of his coat and cravat lay discarded atop the chair he was sitting at mere moments ago, preferring to stand in front of the bed instead, just behind Artemy's parted legs... A little too close for professionalism, they could practically feel the heat radiating off one another.

An unbuttoned red vest with a subtle flush to his cheeks, Daniil looked at Artemy's strong body below him just like how Icarus must have gazed upon the sun. Both in admiration of its beauty and as a challenge to be conquered by him.

Artemy buried half of his face into the bed sheets, ones that smelled annoyingly pleasant with the undoubted scent of Daniil. The exposed half staring at the Bachelor above with stubbornness, refusing to hide away... Fully, at least.

Pretending his lips didn't quiver at the prodding of Daniil's fingers against his tight hole. Honeyed words of encouragement masquerading as mere professional support spilling from Dankovsky's lips and reminding Artemy to take deep breaths, reminding him that he is in safe hands.

Easing a single finger inside, then pulling it outside just as agonisingly slow. Instead of cutting corners and going deeper in search for his prostate, Daniil preferred opening Artemy up with such tenderness like he was a sweet flower entrusting the prince with his oh-so-sacred first time instead of the fearsome ripper that he was, instead of the experienced surgeon with the pungent smell of blood following him around everywhere, as if Artemy didn't instil fear in people's heart just with his reputation alone at times.

The hand gripping his hip pulled him closer to the edge of the bed, closer to Daniil, a thumb drawing circles against Artemy's skin in comfort.

How weirdly full Artemy felt just by one finger. This was far from his first time, courtesy of his adventure days in the army. And yet, it's been so long that his insides are squeezing around Dankovsky's finger impossibly tight.

So when another finger was gently introduced, Artemy already felt like he was filled to the brim. Every doctor's manual that Artemy skimmed through clearly instructed to begin searching for the glands by this point, something that Daniil was anything but doing as it currently stands. The academically educated doctor with a prestigious degree, simply rocked his two fingers in and out of Artemy, gradually spreading him wider, easing him through the process to minimise any feelings of discomfort.

Adding more lubrication, inquiring about his state, how he's holding up. Speaking with such an nonchalant tone as if he was crossing paths with Artemy on the street and not two knuckles deep inside his most intimate area.

As if the both of them didn't know what was actually happening under this charade of medical examination.

As if the hardness poking through the Bachelor's pants and pressing against Artemy's thigh out of view was simply a product of imagination.

His body is growing increasingly hot, sweat droplets rolling down his skin, glistening under the early morning light seeping through the window. The town is still asleep outside, while two thirds of its only doctors were cramped together in this small bedroom, playing pretend.

By that point, Daniil loosened his insides to where the two fingers easily slipped in and out. The squelching of the rubber gloves against the lubrication grew louder the more Daniil stalled.

Swallowing his dry throat, Artemy finally spoke up. "Academically educated doctor my ass, even a nurse could've located the glands by no-"

Choked on his own words by the sudden pulse of pleasure that shot through him like electricity, the two fingers inside immoral pressed down against the tender patch of skin covering his prostate before he could reach the end of the sentence. Artemy's fists gripped the sheets tightly, biting down the whimper Daniil just attempted to force from his throat.

"You were saying, Burakh?" Just like clockwork, Daniil's condescending tone followed after.

Even Artemy's murderous glare seemed to pale in comparison to the self-satisfied look on Daniil's face. The audacity to look so smug while all but digging his clothed cock into Artemy's bare thigh. Prolonging the torture of his prostate under the pretence of properly examining it, toying with the sensitive spot to his heart's content. Playing the long game of waiting until the Haruspex gives in and the pleasure comes on top.

"Don't feel embarrassed, sexual arousal is quite common during a rectal examination. It's natural to find yourself developing an erection." Leaning down, Daniil's words had the opposite effect from being comforting as he whispered them directly against the haruspex's ears.

"Yeah, for the patient. Since when did the doctor have to pop a boner in solidarity?" The snappiness of his word didn't have half the intended effect Artemy hoped for, courtesy of the barrage of pleasure he's being subjected to.

Daniil's gloved hand slid up his hip, feeling up the curve into his waist, a not-so-accidental brush against his bare chest, before settling on Artemy's shoulder blade. It took one push for the strong body to cave in and sink deeper into the mattress. Neglected cock leaking pre-cum and staining the patterned sheets below.

Another pathetic whine slipped from the Haruspex's lips, the hand on his back moved in soothing circles, like calming down a fussy patient. The pitying act only had the opposite effect, adding salt to the wound, in Artemy's case. It wasn't until Daniil's hand ever so graciously went under his stomach—not before cupping a feel of his chest beforehand—and took Artemy's pulsing cock in his grasp.

Simply holding it in his palm, as if to present the evidence of Artemy's arousal. Or maybe in a faux power play to get the other to grind into his hand, to have the wise menkhu reduced to a desperate mess of hormones and desires as he whimpers Daniil's name.

It's practically a miracle how quiet and controlled Artemy managed to stay despite the fingers abusing his prostate, mercilessly grinding down on it and turning the fearsome ripper's brain into mush with the sheer intensity of the pleasure Daniil's subjecting him to.

God, what would he give to hear Artemy beg for release, beg for mercy, beg for Daniil. To know the other craves him just as much, longs for his body like an addiction day and night. That Daniil's perverted fantasies of all the places he could fuck his dear surgeon at weren't one-sided.

Start every so gently each time, antagonise Artemy with tenderness until he's at his limits, until he snaps at Daniil. And then, Dankovsky will give him what he wants and more. He will overwhelm him with pleasure and be as rough and merciless as the other demands. He'll make Artemy eat those words of asking for more until it becomes too much again, only for Daniil to gently shush him down, reminding him that this is what he asked for. Overwhelm him with pleasure until he's spent in every meaning of the word, before reverting back to handling him with delicate gloves and gentle manners

Speaking of which.

Daniil tightened his grip around the other's cock, squeezing the sensitive organ without providing any type of friction. Merely brushing his thumb against the opening of the head, smearing the pearling droplets of pre-cum around as it trickles down Artemy's shaft.

The third finger is abrupt, causing the Haruspex's back to arch from the delicious burn. If one finger made him feel completely filled before, then now he feels impossibly stretched wide.

Oh, Daniil thought, if merely three fingers broke him completely, then how would his dear colleague feel with being spread open on his cock? What face would he make as Daniil fills him to the brim, what sounds would pour out from his lips as he rocked in and out. Until Artemy's insides are overflowing with his cum, until the other is a whimpering moaning mess beneath him.

Meanwhile, Artemy's desperation is starting to show as he grinded back into Daniil's fingers, and forth into the hand holding his cock. Fucking the other's hand with an unsteady pace and trembling hips, chasing after the prospects of a release.

A flushed face and blushing chest, heavy breathes and glistening eyes. A needy look replacing the usual glare he wore, lips parted with stifled whimpers filtering through.

The title of emshen being spoken in such a perverse way has the air stuck in Daniil's throat. Various Steppe phrases and words slipping past Artemy's lips that Daniil doesn't know the meaning of, yet every single syllable sounds more beautiful than the last. God, he can never let the other know how beautiful he finds his language, how each word steals Daniil's breath away.

Artemy is beyond gorgeous, the sight of him at this current state is nothing short of a work of art. All the golden framed paintings in the Capital's institution grand hall pale in comparison to the mesmerising sight of Artemy's golden locks sticking to his forehead from the sweat and framing his face.

He can't resist anymore, Daniil's a mere man in the face of great temptation.

Hungry lips meeting the Haruspex's parted ones, all of his repressed passion pouring into this one kiss and stealing Artemy's breath away.

Stealing every sound and swallowing it down as Daniil stands witness to the euphoria of climax washing down Artemy. The stutter of his hips as he empties himself into Dankovsky's hand. Strong fists that have taken many lives and given many a new chance at life, taking hold of Daniil's hair in a painful grip, pulling him closer like Artemy needed Daniil more than air.

A supernova of emotions, of desires rearing its head after being swept below the carpet for so long. For a moment, both of their masks slip off and they're just two lost souls, clinging to each other as they navigate this ruthless hurricane of feelings and expectations, of longing and yearning, of love.

Of love.

Just like that, it's over.

All of their movements stalls, for a moment they are one soul, whole once more, before they fall apart back into two.

Only the sound of their heavy breathing remains.

Daniil's the first to pull away, making a quick trip to dispose of the rubber gloves into the room's trash can. The cleaning process should start.

Artemy would prefer taking it on his back, he likes looking at your face through it. Knowing that you see him as he sees you. Sex to him is more than just sex. It brings physical pleasure, yes, but also more, a union of bodies, your hearts adjusting to match each other's rhythms.

It starts slow, he's playful during it. Spreading his legs to wrap around you. A healthy flush dusting his face as he feels you push into it, bit by bit, sinking inside. Steppe words occasionally slipping through alongside his hums and ahs of satisfaction.

He always tightens his legs around you once you're fully inside, keeping you in place. Artemy loves to prolong this moment just a bit, where your bodies are pressed together as physically possible.

You give him ample time to adjust to the girth parting his insides, filling him so deliciously.

Artemy's not the type to expression his emotions well, but for someone who knows him as well as you, it's not hard to notice the comfort in his half closed eyelids, the satisfaction undoing the tension of his muscle with your every thrust. Starting slow, never fully pulling out as you rock in and out of him. A deep gruff voice sighing in pleasure, encouraging you to go faster, he's ready, he can handle it.

Artemy's hand wraps around yours, guiding your hand towards his hard cock. Left neglected against his stomach, leaking droplets of white, softly swaying with each roll of your hips as you fuck in and out of the ripper. "Please..." He pleads, eyelashes clumped together as he looks up at you in desperation, meeting your thrusts halfway through, seeking to finish with you inside him still.

He finds your neck once he gets close, his teeth grazing against your pulse point is how you know he's about to cum himself stupid in your arms. Your intoxicating smell filling his lungs, getting him even more aroused than he thought was possible. For a man of few words, he sure can't stop blabbering incoherent sentences now. Half-cut declarations of affection, of love, of how he belongs to you and you to him. Of how he could drown in your scent. Of how heavenly you feel inside him, how—and he finishes with a loud cry that he stifles through biting the tender flesh of your neck.

His back arches above the bed in the most beautiful way once you give his hard dick a good tug. Sweat droplets rolling down his chest, glimmering under the dimly lit room. The bed creaks in protest under his mass of muscles and fat, a very well-built man made to endure.

There's an unmistakable thrill in breeding the so-called fearsome ripper on his very own bed. This towering gaint of a man not just letting you inside him, but losing himself in the sheer pleasure of it. Desiring your strap to fill his tiny little hole whenever it's getting late at night and he can't sleep. You are to blame for fucking the wise Menkhu of the town dumb until drool seeps from his mouth.

Heaving with breath, his iron grip from around your body slowly peels off limb by limb. Coming down from his pleasure high, the traces of a satisfied smile to his lips.

You're truly made for him. Lay down on the bed, let him return the favour and bring you to completion with his mouth.

-

Despite his humble living and moments of wisdom, Artemy remains a prideful individual whenever it comes to asking for help.

He's devoted himself soley for you, and expects you to do the same... but as a consequence of his self-reliance, he doesn't share his troubles of heart with you. Merely burying his thoughts of jealousy deep down, taking the overwhelming urge of possessiveness to the grave. Set on his ways and as stubborn as a bull.

Alas, they still manifest in subtle ways, in the way he holds you like he never wants to let go, or how he's always pulling you to bed for another sleepless night of passion whenever he thinks you're getting a little too friendly with some other guy or else.

For Andrey, it's definitely about sex for the sake of sex. But he doesn't just sleep with anyone, so at the very least, you've got indirect confirmation he tolerates you as a person.

It's more thrilling than your average run of the mill bang in a barn, for sure. It's elevated, enticing, as much as fucking can be. He's usually the one to initiate it, firey eyes and a loop-sided smirk as he whispers into your ear how you have ten seconds to run off to his place, take your clothes off, and fuck him to an inch of his life.

He has no qualms about quickies, either. The amount of times he's left the bar unattended because he decided he wanted to have a little fun with you and your strap in the staff-only backroom is more than he can count.

Andrey always switches positions, never settling on one for too long lest it gets boring. However, his favourites has got to be the ones where he's either laying on his stomach with his ass in the air as you slide into him from behind, or the ones where you're chained to the bedpost with handcuffs he nicked from one of the poor guards, as he rides you like you're his very own bull to tame.

It's fast and overwhelming, he burns himself into an early ejaculation as quickly as he recovers for another round. You've counted more than seven rounds that one time.

Chiseled body that's lean in all the right places, no wonder he walks around shirtless. As if he sculpted his stomach and chest with his very two own hands. Andrey takes pride in his appearance, and expects you to as well; Run your hand over his chest, play with his nipples, press down his stomach and feel your strap squeezed inside him.

Somehow, Andrey always talks you into increasing its size every month or so. You questioned him one time and he told you that this is exactly why he prefers your strap over any other lame dick, yours can get as big or as small as his heart desires. He can commission one with veins and riggeds custom tailored to his very own sensitive spots.

Not to mention, the one wielding the weapon is just as important. You know him, you know what he likes. You can keep up with him, unlike the rest he's tried. Be it roughly fucking into him until bruises litter his hips, or edging him for hours on end with the most agonising slow pace. Whatever he's in the mood for, you're always ready to match his energy.

Even with you inside him, he enjoys vying for control. Relishing in it whenever he wins. Holding you down by the throat as he bounces up and down your strap, taking a mouthful of the nearby bottle, before making you swallow the mixture of twyrine and his spit.

One thing he isn't, is a jealous or confining lover. The sole thing he's possessive of is his freedom. He considers you one of his lovers, which is a spot very few people in this town can claim to have ever held. Likewise, he treats you to equal terms and doesn't care if you share your bed with others, as long as you remain as devoted to him as he is to you.

Andrey can get gross with it sometimes; the more sexual experiences he collects under your belt the more desensitised to the arousal he becomes, the more niche his kinks morph. Most of the time he's still down to good ol'reliable sex, but some other times he has an itch that only a specific fetish will scratch.

But other times, where he completely surrenders all control and power to you? Those are absolutely unforgettable nights.

Andrey didn't have a dangerous reputation for nothing, all of his self-confidence and smug attitude are very much warranted and hard-earned by his very own two hands. He doesn't kill, but he maims, beats, destroys. Burning like a blaze through another's lifework, leaving them in the mud.

And tonight, you are the person he gets on his knees for, to lap up your strap like a puppydog. Putting on a show just for you as he spits on the head before smearing it up and down the shaft with his tongue. Leaning into your hand as they caress the side of his face. The most lovestruck expression in his eyes as you coax him into taking all of you inside his mouth until it hits the back of his throat.

-