Pathologic Kink Meme!

[maximumhusky]

Hello, welcome to the Pathologic Kink Meme! WARNING: This one is NSFW!

Please make anonymous prompts for things you would like to see, or anonymously fulfill prompts by creating stories, poetry, drawn art, music, or anything! I just want to say that this prompt meme is open to people of all skill levels, so have fun!

Some basic rules that were recommended to help out before we get started:

- This is the Pathologic Kink Meme, and it's NSFW! Please post any NSFW prompts or fills here. A good rule of thumb is whether or not you'd be comfortable with your boss at work looking over your shoulder and reading what you have on screen.

- If anything is a little too explicit in detail (e.g. in terms of medical procedures or gore), it probably needs to be here as well. Basic mentioning of medical procedures is allowed, but this is just in case for folks who have limits in regard to certain explicit things. Speaking of explicit things...

- Please use tags and content warnings, especially for things that people might be triggered over. For prompt fillers, please put those tags in the beginning of the post so that way people can skip over them if need be. Tags can also attract people to your art if it has content that they're interested in, so it can be a helpful tool for content creators as well.

- No writers of incest (kains which does include aglaya and her relatives, stamatins, olgimskys, etc), underage/adult ships (which DOES include Clara,) or rape. Please don't make anything gross happen to underage characters!

- Multiple fills to a single prompt is not only accepted, but wonderful! It's a win-win for everybody!

- In the case of a filler of a prompt going inactive for a long time in the middle of a story, it's okay for a different person to continue where they left off. Please make it obvious that you're not the original author, and then feel free to write.

And that's as much as I have in regards to rules! Hopefully these answered answer any questions you might have! Feel free to recommend any rules of your own, or ask me for clarification on the current ones.

AND THAT'S IT! Have fun! :D

LINKS:

Pathologic Prompt Meme: https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/825.html
Pathologic Round-Robin: https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/654.html
Pathologic Kink Meme (nsfw): https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/1201.html
Contact me here if you have any questions!: https://pathologicroundrobin.dreamwidth.org/1347.html

Newest Activity!

Latest Prompt: [Body Worship] Eva Yan/Peter Stamatin (link)
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Bathing in the steppe: Aspity/Eva link)
Latest Comment: "Thank you so much, I wanted this filled so bad! [. . .]" (link)

Comments

Var/Anyone

[(Anonymous)]

idk i just think he's hot. var/daniil, vartemy, whoever!

Re: Var/Anyone

[(Anonymous)]

OP, this is so valid. I hope this prompt gets filled.

daniil/artemy, erotic prostate massage

[(Anonymous)]

bonus points if it’s trans daniil and cis artemy.

extra bonus points if artemy’s never done this before and daniil’s cool and patient while artemy writhes on his fingers.

Re: daniil/artemy, erotic prostate massage

[(Anonymous)]

WOW seconded.

andrey fucking daniil stupid please. please. please. please. please. hello. you’re nothing

[(Anonymous)]

I WANT ANDREY TO OBLITERATE THIS TWINK. intense!!!!!! i want andrey to tease him, i want daniil to forget every word but andrey’s name, i want him to have daniil screaming (and still wanting more)

also if one or both are trans that would be cool

Re: andrey fucking daniil stupid please. please. please. please. please. hello. you’re nothing

[(Anonymous)]

Seconded and the title had me cackling

Artemy/Andrey

[(Anonymous)]

Something based on this line Andrey says in Pathologic 2: "You do look like a hero - from the front. But what about the other end? Bend over."

+If Andrey starts out being cocky but ends up the one bending over

Re: Artemy/Andrey

[(Anonymous)]

SECONDED. I WOULD PAY TO SEE THIS

Rubin/Grief

[(Anonymous)]

Rubin's got some issues he needs to work out with Grief, and there's certainly more than one way to do that than just talking.

*Bonus point for trans Grief

Re: Rubin/Grief

[(Anonymous)]

SECONDED PLEASE.....

Pathlogic 1 Artemy/Daniil/Pathologic 2 Artemy

[(Anonymous)]

Daniil (of either game! Your choice which one) gets sandwiched by two Artemys in his dreams, has the time of his life.

Bonus for any of them being trans! Have fun with it :)

Re: Pathlogic 1 Artemy/Daniil/Pathologic 2 Artemy

[(Anonymous)]

SECONDED....

author's choice, gloves kink

[(Anonymous)]

there are a few characters with gloves as part of their outfit and personally i would like if they kept them *on* during sex. gloves in mouth? partner whining for more while being fingerfucked but they're not even getting skin contact? skys the limit

FILL: Daniil Dankovsky/Alexander Block

[(Anonymous)]

(double the glove kink, trans daniil intended but there’s no gendered language for genitalia)

They quickly undress themselves and each other, stripping off their affects — Daniil, undoing the red knot of his cravat, exposing the pale line of his throat, and Block, letting Daniil push off his red coat and insignia, shedding it like skin. Block starts to take off his gloves, but Daniil catches his wrist and stops him.

He kisses the palm of Block’s gloved hand, and though Block can scarcely feel it, he shudders at the consideration in Daniil’s dark eyes. He watches, as Daniil kisses up to the crease of Block’s fingers, and laves them with his tongue, taking in the taste of leather.

“Dankovsky,” Block says softly, wonderingly. “Daniil …”

Without breaking eye contact, Daniil draws Block’s fingers into his mouth — the sensation muffled, but the sight of it stirs him, the sight of Daniil so focused, so devoted. Block has longed all his life to lay that life down for some just and holy cause, but Daniil handles him like a holy relic, worshipping and reveling in just the touch of his hand. How can he help giving into it? Daniil suckles and swallows him in, and Block matches him with a stroking rhythm, dredging a moan from the well of Daniil’s throat.

That he feels, singing somehow through leather to skin, and into Block’s bones. When Daniil pulls back at last, teeth catching in the glove’s fingertips, Block finds himself breathing fast, like a hunted animal.

There’s pride in Daniil’s smile, and Block imagines there’s fondness, too. He leans in to kiss Daniil’s lips, and once again those lips part eagerly for him.

“Go on, Commander,” he murmurs, in their mingled breaths. “Touch me.”

“There’s ... no need to call me that,” says Block — steadily as he can when they’re this close.

“Sir, then?”

“Alexander.”

This time when Daniil smiles, Block feels the curve of it on his own skin. “Alexander,” he says. His voice is music. He kisses along Block’s jaw. He lifts Block’s hand to where it can slide open Daniil’s unbuttoned shirt, and though it isn’t skin-to-skin, Block marvels at the contact, at how Daniil arches to meet the pressure of his palm.

He longs to map the whole of the other man’s body beneath his fingertips, and Daniil allows him, encourages him, his kisses longer and deeper the more that Block touches him. He kisses hard enough to bruise at the join of neck and shoulder, and Block groans with it, fingers curling.

Between one kiss and the next, Block’s back hits the table, and Daniil urges him on to it by crawling into his lap. There he sits, naked except for his open shirt and glove-garters, with a gaze as intimate as a caress — and Block wonders what he’s done to deserve Bachelor Dankovsky, wonders what choices led them here.

“I’m lucky to have you,” he voices aloud, and some unfamiliar emotion flits over Daniil’s face. He’s seen Daniil weary and worried, simmering with cold fury, but never seen his eyes flash at a compliment, then flick away, as if to hide it. “Really, I am,” Block reaffirms. “I’ve admired you since we first met, and I never imagined you …”

Before he can say another word, Daniil snatches a kiss from him, feverish and hot. He drags open Block’s trousers, deliberately palming his arousal, and the next thought flies from Block’s mind as he gasps his next breath into Daniil’s mouth.

He understands what made Daniil arch for a glove’s seam against bare skin. He wants anything, everything Daniil can give, yet the touch is teasing and light — loosely, lazily circling and stroking, but never grasping long enough for Block to lose himself to, and even that is almost too much — it’s not nearly enough —

And Block never imagined it, never imagined they could be together like this, that he could be this close to anyone, that he could ever be more than a distant commander of men. The daring of Daniil thrills him, and the searching confidence of his touch, as though he’d already guessed how to take Block apart and is pleased to prove himself right. His fingers smooth over a sensitive spot, and when Block lets out a strangled, half-keening sound they slither their way back, leather dragging and deliberate over skin. He discovers just how to push Block to the edge, and hold him there.

“Please … please ...”

“Finish your thought,” Daniil prompts him, merciless. “Please what?”

Block reaches for him, for the crux of his legs, with the same glove Daniil had lavished and kissed. “May I?” he asks, voice breathy and rough. “Please?”

It isn’t the answer Daniil seems to expect. There’s that flickering look again, almost-shy, but he summons up a smirk at the end of it. “Would you really beg me for that?”

“I would. I want you … I want you to feel as I do ...” He wants to feel connected

“If that’s what you want … Alexander.” The name rings in the air.

The gloved finger feels tight, and Daniil feels tight around him, but it slides in easily and he knows why. Daniil’s breath catches, and he’s beautiful like this. His eyes, once so dark and intent, go momentarily hazy, and the light glints off of them.

“You can … give me … more than that …”

And so he does. A flush spreads from Daniil’s cheeks to his throat to the top of his shoulders. He bites his lip, but Block can hear the beginning of a whimper. “Is this good?” Block asks, watching, waiting to go deeper.

“Yes, yes,” Daniil answers. His thighs tremor around Block’s wrist. “Just … move.”

At first, he hesitates — it doesn’t seem possible, but Daniil’s body takes him so smoothly and when he tilts his fingers, Daniil shivers. He wishes he could feel it, feel more, but he feels the warmth of Daniil around him — feels Daniil pressing closer, quickening his pace — and any more would overwhelm him. It’s enough to chase the stuttering of Daniil’s hips, the sounds of his moans when he lets them loose at last. More than enough, and Block thinks he catches his name in the other man’s cries, Alexander, Aleksya, Sasha, ah, ah …

He follows those cries to their end, Daniil’s whole body tautening and trembling, head thrown back like some martyr, eyes wide and wild with revelation, and Block trembles, too.

Suddenly, Daniil removes his hand, and Block scarcely has time to feel the loss, before he snaps open his glove-garters behind Block’s back, and tears the gloves off with his teeth. He lays one naked palm on Block’s cheek and pulls him down for a drinking kiss. “Come for me,” he says, stroking Block again and harder, flesh on heated flesh. “You want it, you wanted me, don’t you? You wanted me, so show me —“

The words kindle something in him, some searing light sacred or profane, and it drives him shuddering over the edge.

With slow breaths, Block comes back to himself. If Daniil was beautiful before, he’s breathtaking now, the fervor gone and leaving him languid. Reluctantly, he begins to withdraw, but Block catches his hand and kisses the back of it.

Daniil’s lips part around a question, then close again. “You look satisfied with yourself,” he says.

“With you. Thank you.” Tender and careful, he twines their fingers together. “May I hold you, Daniil?”

“You don’t need to ask me for everything ... “ Daniil settles against his chest, a slight, but solid weight. “Go ahead.”

Block wraps his arms around him, and holds Daniil to his heart.

Yulia/any woman - bondage as geography

[(Anonymous)]

There’s a very sideways similarity between drawing the Town’s street maps and knowing how to tie someone up safely but powerfully, elevating their state of mind...

Bonus (but totally not necessary) if Yulia stays dressed the whole time.

Re: Yulia/any woman - bondage as geography - FILL

[(Anonymous)]

Yulia was good with all things mathematical. She enjoyed shapes, the angles made by several lines and the calculations that went into it. Architecture was her main interest, but she’d gotten a job in town design and she liked it well enough.

The art of deciding what lines flowed best, how to keep traffic at a minimum while still having convenient paths, the problem solving was entrancing.

When she wasn’t reading or working on equations, she would get lost in puzzles on her coffee table, each more difficult than the last. Yulia was always solving problems, whether it was lines on a map or strange shapes forming a square.

Or, like now, tying knots.

It was another puzzle, the twisting of rope around a warm body in a way that both heightened their senses and released them from the tension of the mind. It was an art she learned long ago at university, practicing while she turned over numbers in her mind. It came naturally to her, and she moved to hands on practice fairly quickly.

Her partners, grateful, enjoyed losing themselves slowly to her gentle touch and the tightening of their bonds. Yulia enjoyed being in control, bringing her partners to completion at her own pace, watching them cry out their utter devotion when she acquiesced to their pleas.

Aglaya Lilich, Inquisitor, had been one such partner. Despite her cold and demanding exterior, she was quite soft on the inside. It was hard, she had said, to be in control all the time. She wanted to relax at home, to let someone else take the reins, and so Yulia had.

It had been years, now, since Aglaya had submitted herself to her, yet here she was again, sitting naked on Yulia’s bed before her, hair untied and hung loosely around her face and across her shoulders. She seemed younger somehow with her hair down. They’d only just begun, Yulia painting the first layer on her canvas, setting up her masterpiece.

Truth be told, she’d missed the other woman. Their lives had led in differing paths, and they’d parted ways amicably, but never wrote each other like they’d promised. It was unfortunate, the circumstances that had brought them together, but Yulia wasn’t complaining. It had been a while since she’d worked her ropes around a person, and Aglaya desperately needed the distraction.

She sat still as Yulia wrapped the rope around her neck, tying a knot just below her clavicle. Yulia worked efficiently, nimble fingers tying more overhand knots down the length of the rope and Aglaya’s body.

Yulia instructed the other woman to stand, and pulled the rope between her legs, the last knot settling snugly against Aglaya’s clit. She walked around the woman as she worked from back to front, looping rope through strands on the front creating diamonds between the string of knots.

The knot placed between her breasts became the center of a cage, breasts separated and encircled by the rope. Aglaya’s breath hitched as Yulia’s gloved hands ghosted across her chest while pulling the rope just tight enough to add delicious pressure. Red blossomed across her cheeks and down her neck in splotches as easily as Yulia remembered.

“You’re as skillful as ever,” Aglaya spoke, breaking the companionable silence. “Seems you’ve learned a bit since we’ve been apart.”

Yulia hummed in acknowledgement, focusing on the crisscross of her handiwork. The mention of their distance didn’t phase her. She wasn’t doing this out of love, after all.

Aglaya had come to her the day after she’d arrived in town due to the plague, begging for some release. Well, begging was pushing it, but she hadn’t beat around the bush. There was no reason to refuse her, Yulia delighted in the art of bondage and it had been a while since she’d been intimate. Finding the other woman at her doorstep had been a relief, almost.

“I’ve got more to show you,” Yulia murmured, pulling the last of the rope through a knot on the back.

The other woman wriggled slightly in the bindings, observing the tight fit.

“You didn’t think I’d leave your arms free, did you?”

“Of course not,” Aglaya answered. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

Yulia produced another length of rope and began to form a harness around Aglaya’s thin shoulders. With the base set between her shoulder blades, Yulia began to create a latticework down the woman’s arms, four rings around her upper arms and another four along her forearms. It was a shame Aglaya couldn’t see the beautiful pattern against her back, twining her arms together.

Her work complete, Yulia touched Aglaya’s shoulder gently and pushed her back down onto the bed. She went willingly and their eyes met, the grey of her irises almost eclipsed by her pupils blown wide. Aglaya was a quiet woman, her words never approaching a shout no matter the situation. There was an intensity in her voice that required no amplification, and she spoke no more than was necessary.

However, Yulia remembered the quiet whimpers she let out when they’d had sex and wondered if they’d sound even sweeter here in the present. She had never moaned loudly, and Yulia had felt it was a great loss that she’d never gotten the woman to scream. She’d be forever chasing that high, trying to find the piece of the puzzle that would truly release her.

Perhaps it had been a while for Aglaya, as well, as her legs pressed together, rubbing at the knot there. Yulia hadn’t bound her legs, didn’t see a reason to. If she thought she’d get anywhere with the small mercy Yulia had given her, she was wrong.

It would have been strange not to kiss the woman, considering their history, and so Yulia bent down, hands placed on either side of the other woman’s shoulders, and pressed their lips together. Aglaya’s lips were rough and cracked, she’d clearly been stressed long before she’d arrived in the town.

Yulia licked along the harsh edges and Aglaya’s lips parted, granting permission. It was different, yet familiar, the way they licked into each other’s mouths, the sigh Aglaya let out as Yulia traced her tongue across the sensitive roof of her mouth.

“You’re beautiful like this, you know,” Yulia said as she pulled away.

“So are you,” Aglaya replied, eyes darting down and up again as she
surveyed Yulia’s body, fully clothed.

What Aglaya didn’t know was that there were ropes running across Yulia’s lower body, a harness that would be put to use later if things continued to go well. For now, though, she wore her usual attire, breasts bound beneath her crisp button-down shirt and vest. Dark pinstripe pants hid the garters that held up her crew length socks, feet tucked into loafers.

Yulia didn’t hate the idea of being naked, but she found that remaining clothed while her partner was bound and naked seemed to heighten the experience.

“I’m certainly not as lovely as you are,” Yulia said, gloved fingers trailing lightly down the trail ropework on Aglaya’s torso.

The leather of the gloves was cold, she knew, but that was by intention. Goosebumps rose where she touched, and the body beneath her shivered.

“You’re going to tease me, aren’t you?” Aglaya asked, already knowing the answer.

Yulia’s fingers traced along one of Aglaya’s breasts, just shy of a dusky brown nipple.

“I thought you wanted to give up control,” Yulia said. “Or did you think I did all this,” she tugged at the rope, “just to fuck you senseless the minute I was done?”

“No,” Aglaya breathed, “Not at all.”

Yulia continued to trace patterns against Aglaya’s skin, taking her time as Aglaya settled into her bonds. Her legs still hung over the side of the bed, so Yulia carefully lifted them and rearranged her on the bed. The tension had bled from her body and the limpness made her heavy, but it was nothing Yulia couldn’t handle.

She looked peaceful, dark hair spilling across the pillow her head lay on, and Yulia couldn’t help but admire her. It was almost a shame to draw it out, Yulia’s patient nature almost forgotten. But she’d promised to help Aglaya, as an old friend, to soothe her worried mind. She was going to work until Aglaya’s mind was empty, until she was crying out in pure bliss, every worry forgotten.

So Yulia continued to stroke tan skin tantalizingly close to where it was pleasurable from where she sat upon Aglaya’s hips. Yulia pressed lightly over the soft skin below her navel and she arched into the touch, rubbing herself up against Yulia’s behind.

There were some that reprimanded their bedmates for such behavior, but Yulia never cared to. Why should she punish what was clearly a sign she was doing well? Besides, she knew Aglaya wouldn’t come until she had something inside her, whether fingers or the polished leather of a toy. Yulia intended on giving her both today.

Yulia shifted backwards, allowing herself access to Aglaya’s sex. She rubbed small circles down Aglaya’s inner thighs, and carefully stroked along the crease between vulva and thigh. Aglaya’s hips rose against Yulia’s fingers, trying to get as much pressure as she could from the knot pressed against her clit.

She looked beautiful; the red flush from her cheeks had spread down to her chest which seemed to bloom under the lines of rope. Her breathing had sped up as Yulia moved closer and closer to caressing her wet folds, but her excitement was in vain as Yulia’s hands slid up to her waist instead.

It was a dance between the two of them, no words were exchanged as Aglaya begged and Yulia teased, only the lull of the familiar rhythm as Yulia waited to strike. Small huffs came from Aglaya as she grew more frantic, her shoulders betraying the way her arms strained behind her.

The goal was for Aglaya to stop thinking, worrying, to lose herself to the sensations of the world around her, and Yulia wasn’t going to touch her until she was certain Aglaya was ready to completely give up control.

After a particularly wanton thrust a soft “ah” sound left Aglaya’s lips, her first vocalization of the evening. Yulia knew it was time, now, to give in. Though she wore gloves, it was easy to feel the heat coming off of Aglaya’s skin as she finally touched the woman’s folds directly. They were shiny and pink, almost dripping, and there was a nostalgia as Yulia petted them, rolling the folds that hung longer on one side between her thumb and forefinger.

Aglaya cried out again, only incrementally louder, but it spoke volumes to Yulia. She’d spent long enough teasing the woman, so she began slowly pressing a finger inside without ceremony. Aglaya clenched around her finger immediately, and the heat seemed to envelope it.

Yulia smirked, though the other woman’s eyes weren’t open to see it. Aglaya’s hips rocked against Yulia’s finger desperately, as though she thought it was all she would get that night. Curious, Yulia refrained from adding more and simply pressed the heel of her hand against the knot there, adding pressure onto Aglaya’s clit.

Sweat beaded across Aglaya’s forehead, her eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. Each thrust seemed to bring another sound to her lips, still quiet, like a prayer. Yulia crooked her finger up, pressing where she remembered the woman had liked in the past.

The reaction was almost instantaneous, Aglaya threw her head back against the pillow as her back arched, no support from her bound arms.

“Right there,” she whispered hoarsely before her body tensed, taut like a
bowstring as Yulia continued to prod gently at the spot inside of her.

Yulia repressed the urge to stroke the woman’s face as she would have long ago, and simply rubbed circles with the thumb of her free hand above Aglaya’s hip instead. Another night she would have professed her love anew, let sweet nothings flow from her lips as coaxed her through orgasms. But this was different. A favor between friends.

baruspex shibari + teasing (feat. dom daniil)

[(Anonymous)]

domkovsky ties artemiy up in pretty red rope and makes him sit on a vibrator... then sits across from him and reads while he gets all worked up and whiny

the vibrator can be a magic wand, a sybian, whatever you want. bonus points for edging and begging, double extra bonus points if artemiy drools

i'm ok with trans headcanons but if you write either of them as trans please only use male language for their genitals

Re: baruspex shibari + teasing (feat. dom daniil)

[(Anonymous)]

eagerly awaiting updates on this one hhhhhh

Mark/any, Bondage

[(Anonymous)]

Defining boundaries in order to transcend them.

(FILL) Mark/Daniil, Bondage

[(Anonymous)]

“Tell me what you see.” What a ridiculous question, Daniil thinks. I’ve got a blindfold on. I can’t see anything. But he hears, hears the heels of those fine leather shoes as they tap against the wood of the stage, the accompanying sound of the cane as Mark sets it down just ahead of himself, wood creaking when he leans against it. This, he can imagine: that suit, the scarf, Mark’s face in the dim lighting and the dust in the air around them. He can imagine the wood worn thin from rehearsal after rehearsal, scratches and chips from set pieces moved and dropped and dismantled against it.

But that wasn’t the question. And they’ve been over this before. ‘Not ‘what do you imagine,’ Bachelor; what do you see?’ Daniil’s brows furrow and his shoulders tug where he’s kept in place, tied too tightly to the chair. Mark will let him sit here and wait, agitated, until he gives the man a proper answer. “I see a town,” Daniil says. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. And it fits, doesn’t it? This is the role he was given to play. And if he doesn’t see it yet, he will soon enough.

“Is that all?” Mark seems to be behind him, now, leaning in so their knees press together. The touch would make Daniil shudder, if he could move. He feels the heat all pool in the same location, throbbing any time he feels something like contact. “Normally I can’t get you to shut up. Even when you’re not in the script. You ad lib too much.” He taps Daniil’s heel, but there’s nowhere for them to go, either. He doesn’t imagine the Bachelor would sit like this, but he’s not really in character yet. This has been more of a brainstorming session, director to actor. “You see a town,” Mark repeats. “And what sort of town is it?”

At least they finally seem to be getting somewhere. “A small town,” Daniil says. He can picture it now. Rows of townhouses, of little flats. Twisting walkways, made of stone. A few manors. Grocery stores on the bottom levels of apartments. “A quaint one. Not even a suburb. Rural. Far out in the steppe –“

“No, no, no,” Mark interrupts. “You’re being too literal.” Daniil tries to roll his shoulder, and the rope tugs at his skin painfully. A drop of sweat slides down his neck, under his collar. How long have they been out here? “Think, Bachelor: What is town?” A spread of land with people. With homes and buildings. Shops, families. But those answers had gotten a hard whack across his thighs, and no relief in his position. He feels Mark to his right, feels his eyes following the curve of his shoulder. Daniil’s ass is asleep, and all wiggling his hips does is rub his erection against the front of his trousers.

Not enough. Mark knows what he’s doing. “A town is a body,” Daniil says. It will have the names of one. Flank, chine, backbone. He tries to picture the form it will take, but it is nothing like a human’s. A cancerous form, a blob. A head too large, a stomach too wide, legs unfit to carry it.

He thinks Mark coos the word Good, but it’s spoken too softly for him to hear. It wasn’t meant for him, anyway; not a praise, but an acknowledgement of progression. “And what are you, Bachelor?” Not a man, he thinks. That’s not what Mark would want to hear. Something more abstract. If a Town is a body, then what is a person?

“I am not the Bachelor yet. The play has not begun.” Mark clicks his tongue against his teeth. Wrong answer. Daniil feels Marks knees press against his own, and can imagine how he stands, resting his weight on his cane to loom over Daniil. The height difference is not so great, but when he’s got Daniil bound to a chair the way he has…

Long fingers, cold fingers, press against his jaw. He doesn’t pretend this is a gentle caress. This is Mark, angling his face upward. And there’s no pretense, either, that Daniil can see him. It’s not about what Daniil can do, it is about Daniil obeying. “Do you even know why I’ve brought you here? Why you’re bound as you are?” Mark asks. It’s a rhetorical question. Daniil could only provide him sarcastic answers, anyway. Strangest audition I’ve ever been to. “How can you portray a man who seeks to overcome the limitations of Death if you yourself only rely on what you can see, on what you can touch?” The fingers slide down his jaw to grip his chin.

The ropes feel tighter against his chest, and he realizes he’s being pulled against them. His erection throbs. Transcend your boundaries, indeed. Daniil moves back, out of Mark’s grip. He waits for the blow to his thighs, body rigid, his tongue between his lips.

But it never comes. The hand leaves his face. He doesn’t hear Mark move away, though their knees no longer knock together. There’s a pressure, suddenly, against the base of his cock, and Daniil tries to squirm. Mark’s voice is calm, somewhere above his head. “What do boundaries do, Bachelor?” The more Daniil struggles, the better it feels. “Do they confine us?”

“They define us.” He doesn’t know why the answer comes as easily as it does. The pressure dissipates, and Daniil groans in frustration. He feels something, a hand, pushing on his thigh. He feels his zip being pulled, and nothing else. The implication is clear: Go on. “Our responses to our boundaries define us. How we react.”

His cock is pulled free of his trousers. The grip on it is almost painful. “And how does one overcome their boundaries? How do you transcend?”

“You step outside.” He doesn’t need to be asked, Of what? His hips are dying to move, to grab at any stimulation. “You step outside of yourself, of the role you portray.” He gasps as the hand drags up his length, as a digit pushes hard against the slit. He hates how easily riled up he’s gotten, how the bonds put in place have sunk heat so heavily in his stomach. This is not his preferred method of sex, but they’ve been here over an hour now and he’s been on edge for half of it.

He doesn’t dare entertain the thought of Mark’s mouth around him. His voice comes from somewhere he can no longer place, head dizzy. “Good.” Mark’s hand on his cock is tight, his strokes a statement. Each one feels abrupt, and when Daniil’s orgasm hits him he isn’t quite expecting it. He grunts, overstimulation setting in as the hand pulls him to a twitching mess. It’s a moment before the hand pulls away, sitting with his cock falling against his trousers.

“I think we can call the scene,” Mark says.

Mark/any, oral sex

[(Anonymous)]

Mark has very expressive lips.

Mark/Peter oral sex, 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Peter swallows his breath down the same way Mark does his own. The difference is that his hand is covering his mouth, while Mark is pointedly more occupied.

He’s bitten little red rings over his knuckles, scraping his teeth against his own skin with every deep plunge of his cock down into the depth of Mark’s throat. Peter allows a vulgar sound to lift from him as he drops his hand back to Mark’s head, placed firmly over his cock.

“I don’t—” he begins, but Mark’s throat is tight and feels damningly closed that he can’t choke his groan of absolute bliss for a moment, “—Don’t think that this counts— as efficient discussion.”

Mark gives him a half-lidded, mirthful look, as if he’s about to pop his mouth off the head of Peter’s cock and say something damning or licentious. Instead, he lolls his head to the side, pressing him against the soft curve of his cheek. Mark pushes his head forward, helping Peter lean farther into his throat.

Peter tries to curse, but his tongue can barely focus on his own words. With a wary gesture, Peter reaches to touch his wild ashen hair, pushing it back as an offering of good faith. It makes Mark grin. The way his mouth stretches around Peter feels good.

Mark does lean back, now, lifting his head and resting the curve of Peter’s cock on his bottom lip. Peter must think his eyes are blown wide.

“Whatever provides your full attention,” Mark says, curling his hand around the length of his cock to stroke it, lazily. The drag of his fingers and the roll of his thumb are dangerous and unfair. Peter feels his body alight like a spilled fire. He has not felt skin against his own in quite some time. Mark gives him his mouth once more.

His bed is cramped, covered in a too-thick blanket that doesn’t fit either of them well. Peter extends a leg out to rest down Mark’s back. All tentative, as if he will decide at a moment’s notice that Peter broke an unspoken rule and deprive him of his mouth. But he doesn’t leave him, instead curls a hand over his length and another against his bollocks, pressing and massaging with the pads of his fingers in the most unfair manner.

Peter’s breathing is uneven and searches for purchase. Mark pulls him far into his mouth again, with a warm inside and a vulgar pressure at the head of his cock being teased by his throat. The way Mark allows Peter to slide further in, until his lips press firm against his groin with a purposed pause, could kill him.

“Mercy,” Peter groans, like there is a coil unwinding inside him, relieved by the pressure.

Mark Immortell/Bad Grief, playing roles

[(Anonymous)]

According to the design documents, Bad Grief is the anti-Immortell. I think they should explore that. In bed.

(It doesn't have to be in a bed.)

Re: Mark Immortell/Bad Grief, playing roles - FILL

[(Anonymous)]

A warehouse backroom, night. A moth circles the metal cage of a yellowing lightbulb overhead.

BAD GRIEF is spotlit; all else is dark. He's kneeling on the floor, fully dressed, with the addition of competently-tied red bondage rope: wrists together behind his back, ankles together beneath him, various knots and ties crisscrossing the rest of his body.

MARK IMMORTELL leans against his cane, standing on the border between light and dark. He observes GRIEF at an analytic remove.



GRIEF
Can't say I'm surprised you'd be into tying folks up, director. I'd almost say it's too obvious. One's first thought ain't always one's best, you know. No wonder there's no audience.

MARK
Oh? You think there isn’t an audience here?

GRIEF
You see any packed chairs? Don’t try to tell me there’s a line out the door. I take a firm stance with these things...

If I can’t see it, it’s not there.

MARK
For once, it seems, we’ve found something upon which we can agree.

GRIEF
What? That you’re a hack?

MARK
No.

That the belief in a stark division between life and acting can only ever lead to unconvincing actors. One knows what to expect when one isn’t implicated in the scene. There’s an unavoidable tendency to wear a mask. A façade that earns praise not in spite of, but because, it can be seen straight through...

GRIEF
(sarcastic laughter, unconvinced) Should I feel insulted?

MARK
Hardly. As I said, if there's something personally at stake for the actor, the performance becomes real. You're at risk. So you're doing a good job.

GRIEF
Because there's something threatening me?

MARK
Because there's something you're afraid of.

GRIEF
What? You? Is this the night where you snap and gut me like a fish?

MARK
That's not my role.

But no: I'm not going to stab you. I'm not going to hurt you at all.

Really. I promise.

Although you certainly might get hurt over the course of events. Who's to say how things might unfold?

GRIEF
Don't flatter yourself.

Beats me what brought about your change of heart tonight, showing your face over on this side of the tracks, but we both know what our hands can reach. What we control...

Tell all the stories you want. What I have is still real.

MARK
(silent, smiling) Of course. I see, I see. You'll untie yourself, then.

GRIEF
I said don't flatter yourself. Come on, you know I'm like this under false pretenses.

MARK
I did tell you a different story at first, didn't I?

You'll have to forgive me.

GRIEF
For wasting my time?

MARK
For changing the script.

Mark/Peter, blowjob

[(Anonymous)]

mark casts "no gag reflex" :)

Mark/Artemy, canning

[(Anonymous)]

I just think Mark should bend Artemy over his knees and put that cane to some good use.

peter topping artemy?

[(Anonymous)]

what can i say, i liked the other peter/artemy prompt. i just want him to top artemy. lovingly. marks his skin (artists fuck better because we turn sex into art ahhhhh putnthe pussy in the sarcomphaghosb), praises him even if it’s in a way artemy can’t quite understand, kisses along his neck, maps out his body with his hands.....

bonus points if artemy and/or peter are trans
bonus points again if peter has a bit of a passionate/intense streak you might not immediately expect. he can tug artemy around a little bit. here and there. as a treat

Re: peter topping artemy?

[(Anonymous)]

THIS PROMPT IN MY MOUTH. PLEASE...

andrey/daniil college days wild sex, but...

[(Anonymous)]

...they get interrupted by peter hitting the ceiling underneath them with a broom. they had no idea he was awake but he was and he was getting real tired of hearing them. petya says no fucking allowed.

Re: andrey/daniil college days wild sex, but...

[(Anonymous)]

Op your mind

Alexander Block/Daniil Dankovsky

[(Anonymous)]

Block respects Daniil's opinion and doesn't try to manipulate him, and Daniil is flustered and doesn't know what to do, and they're both very, very attracted to each other. I need more of this pairing, help me, my crops are barren.

Alexander Block/Daniil Dankovsky FILL

[(Anonymous)]

“What are you doing here?” the Commander asks, his voice not quite judgmental, almost curious, like somehow he really wants to know the answer. Daniil’s not that much of a fool, though.

“Waiting for your instructions.” he says. “Waiting for your orders.” Order me to my knees, take your pleasure from me, use me, please. Please. I’d let you. “You saved my life; there must be something you need from me.”

“I’m here to save everything I possibly can. It’s not my job, but it’s what I’m going to do, and even then I fear ‘everything I can’ won’t possibly be enough. I’ll need your help, Bachelor, I’ll need…” He meets his eyes intently, but it’s impossible to say what exactly he intends with that look. “Your guidance.”

Daniil guiding Block’s hand down his chest, whispering just how to stroke, just where to command his body and skin, and Block would listen to him, he knows this, and – no. He needs to get ahold of himself. “In that case, I will see you again when there is something to report. Feel free to drop me a line whenever you are in need of my assistance.” Throw me a line, drop your hooks beneath my skin, reel me in and have me, hold, me keep me.

He flees, then, and finds a quiet corner where he can still his trembling hands, and somehow keeps himself from shoving them down his trousers to still his restless thoughts. He won’t do the Commander such a disservice.

(And yet. He wants.)

Victor Kain/Alexander Saburov, Hot for Abuse of Power

[(Anonymous)]

So Victor's first love was Wild Nina who was broadly, maybe, kind of evil. She certainly had a lot of (magical?) power that she used to terrorise the Town-On-Gorkhon and do broadly what she liked to whomever she liked.

Then many years later Alexander gets special emergency powers during the plague crisis... aaaand promptly starts abusing that power. Suddenly Victor is intrigued. He has a type after all.

Up to you where it goes from there. Does Victor's breathless approval make Alexander's iron-fisted excesses worse or is Victor's regard an icy-cold wake up call?

Re: Victor Kain/Alexander Saburov, Hot for Abuse of Power

[(Anonymous)]

The sound of Viktor’s knuckles against the door of the Rod is too loud to his own ears. The streets of the town have grown quieter and quieter these days. Viktor has pushed that fact out of his mind as best as he can.

Saburov opens the door, looking surprised at who is standing at his doorstep. His posture straightens.
“Quite an unexpected visit, Mr. Kain. Please come in.”

He moves aside, allowing his guest to walk inside. Viktor strains to keep his expression neutral as Saburov touches his elbow and gestures forward.

“My office is this way.”

He leads Viktor to a room branching off the main hall. It is cluttered in places—papers cover half the desk, and there are medical journals scattered over a couch besides the bookcase.

Saburov stays at the center of the room, watching him.

“To what do I owe this visit, Mr. Kain?”

“It’s Viktor.”

“Erm—what?”

“Call me Viktor.”

The Governor’s eyebrows raise. “Apologies, I—I’m so used to formalities at this point… You may call me Alexander, if you wish.”

“Well, Alexander,” Viktor says, leaning against his desk. “Reports tell me that you tried to have Peter Stamatin killed.”

As expected, Alexander’s expression darkens. He looks to the side, adjusting his cuffs in what seems like habit.

“He’s a criminal, Mis—Viktor.”

“And you’re so sure? Despite having no evidence?”

Alexander’s eyes turn back up to him, and he steps forward.

“Are you questioning my authority? I know what I’m doing.”

Viktor can’t help the smirk that comes across his face.

“Yes, I think you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re using your newfound power to try to get someone you dislike killed.”

Alexander stalks closer. “It’s not about dislike, Viktor. He’s a murderer.”

“Not proven.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it! Peter Stamatin is guilty, I know this. And if I can’t prove it, then—”

“Then you’ll figure out some other reason for him to be killed?”

A hand grips the collar of his shirt, pulling him down with a touch more force than necessary. Viktor shivers. Their faces are inches from each other.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating.”

“Shut me up, then,” Viktor dares, without thinking.

Alexander looks like he’s about to say something, but closes his mouth, his eyes searching Viktor’s own. For a moment, Viktor wonders if he might actually be kicked out.

He waits with bated breath. His grip on the desk has a desperate edge.

It’s eight painstaking, eternal seconds before Alexander’s expression changes to something more sure, and he smashes their lips together.

Viktor groans into his mouth. The kiss is forceful, with too much teeth, and it’s exactly everything that he’d been hoping for. Alexander presses him back against the desk, still gripping his collar, while his free hand moves to Viktor’s waist. Viktor’s hands curl at the edge of the desk. He wants to be pushed around, be told what to do, but it’s hard to make that request when his tongue is preoccupied inside Alexander’s mouth.

One of Alexander’s legs slides between his own, pushing against his hardening length. A breathless gasp leaves Viktor. Alexander reels him back in by the collar.

Viktor’s pulse flutters in his throat, right against Alexander’s knuckles. Alexander pulls back. His gaze runs down Viktor’s body hungrily before snapping back up.

“You like that I have power over you?” he says in a low voice.

“With how liberally you’re using that power, I was hoping you might use it on me.”

Alexander stills. Clenching his jaw, Viktor resists the urge to push his hips towards the leg just an inch away.

There’s a sharp stab of disappointment in his gut as Alexander takes a step back. Viktor nearly misses the words that come next: “Get down on your knees.”

There is a stunned silence. Alexander narrows his eyes.

“I won’t say it again, Viktor.”

Viktor drops to the ground. His knees sting, but he hardly cares.

Neither of them want to waste any time. That's good. Alexander takes off his coat and unbuttons his pants quickly, pulling his dick out.

“Perhaps this will shut you up," he muses, tone turning from annoyed to thoughtful.

The implications are clear. Viktor curls his hand around the length, and gives one long stroke. Alexander stifles a noise. He pushes his hands through Viktor’s hair, pausing at the top of his head.

His facade cracks, and his voice is meek. “Can I pull on your hair?”

Viktor tries not to glare when he looks up at him. “Don’t ask. Take...whatever you want from me.”

Alexander flinches. “I don’t want to hurt you, Viktor.”

Viktor tightens his grip. “Fine,” he says dismissively. “I’ll shake my head if I want you to stop. Now, let’s save our time.”

Finally, Alexander grins, with a wicked edge that sends heat through Viktor’s core. Alexander yanks Viktor closer between his legs. “Let’s.”

There’s no point in foreplay—Viktor opens his mouth and takes the first few inches in.

Alexander’s hands grips his hair hard. Viktor holds on to Alexander’s thighs, his mind swimming. The hands tug again. Viktor groans, pulling off of Alexander to breathe. He counts to five, then looks upward.

Alexander is smirking down at him. It has a terrifying and familiar edge to it that makes Viktor close his eyes for half a second, clearing out the memories that threaten to bubble up.

“Quite interesting, Viktor. I didn’t know you liked to be handled so roughly.”

Viktor can feel the start of a throbbing pain in his scalp. It echoes how desperately hard he is through his pants. He decides, right then, that his dignity isn’t going to survive this encounter anyways. “More, please. Use me.”

Alexander waits, searching his eyes. Then, his nails bite into Viktor’s skin. “If you insist.”

Viktor is pulled by his hair back towards the cock in front of him. He takes it in gladly.

---

Neither of them talk afterwards. Alexander goes to his desk to fetch a handkerchief and wipe his hands. When Viktor tries to stand up, he unceremoniously discovers that his legs crumple beneath him like cotton. He drops to his knees again and winces, grabbing a chair for balance.

Alexander quickly drops the cloth. He returns to Viktor and hovers next to him, holding his hands in the air like a conductor with stagefright. Then, he frowns, and puts his arms around Viktor’s back to haul him into the desk chair. Viktor would apologize for leaving any stains on the upholstery, but he can’t work up the energy at the moment. He feels exhausted, sore in about five different places, and wonderfully sated.

Alexander hovers by the desk again. He fidgets with his cuff. Then, he announces, “I’m going to brew some tea.”

“Go ahead,” Viktor murmurs.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Viktor huffs a laugh. “Alexander, I can’t feel my legs.”

Alexander pauses, and nods once. “Right.”

He disappears down the hall. Viktor sits there, mind blank, until he hears a kettle begin whistling. The sound pushes him into action like a wind-up toy, though his knees creak in protest. There is an austere, wrought-iron mirror above the couch. which provides the necessary reflection to start putting himself back together.

The repetitive motion of buttoning up his shirt is somewhat comforting. He is back to his routine, and that helps him center his mind. It’s when he’s straightening his collar that the thought hits him properly: he just humiliated himself in front of the town governor. The one that has been his political rival for decades. The one that is imprisoning innocent people whenever he’s in a bad mood. A few minutes ago Viktor thought he had the perfect plan for handling his...personal compromises; now all he can do is list the regrets and possible repercussions that could arise—itemized and ranked according to how anxious he feels about it.

Oh, Christ.

Viktor tries to focus on damage control. There is a bruise on his neck that he has no memory of receiving, which means he’ll need to find Nina’s old face powder to cover the mark. The last time he had to worry about such things was when Nina was walking around herself. It feels like a time from another universe.

The man in the mirror seems too old and worn to still be doing this, but just desperate enough for it to make sense. Viktor smooths the front of his shirt and tries to remember how it looked when it was still new.

Viktor sees Saburov enter the room through the mirror. He’s as strange of an addition to Viktor’s reflection as anything else, and he looks uncomfortable to be there.

Viktor is half-hoping that Saburov will banish him from his estate and they’ll never have to bother with difficult conversations. Instead, Saburov is holding two steaming mugs of tea with a dish towel, one of which he sets on the desk, and the other mug he uses to nudge Viktor until he takes it. The tea is strong, fragrant with mint and chamomile. Viktor mumbles thanks.

Saburov glances from Viktor’s eyes, to his mouth, and to the bruise on his neck. Then he sighs. With one hand he cups Viktor’s chin, tilting his head down. The other hand dabs at his cheek with the hot dish towel. He isn’t gentle—Viktor feels like furniture being polished—but he doesn’t prefer kindness, anyways.

“Why did you do this?” Saburov says, suddenly.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Why did you set up the whole—” Saburov flushes. He stops scrubbing with the towel to gesture vaguely.

Great. So they both feel awkward.

“Normally the first question after sex should be ‘was it good for you too’,” Viktor says mildly, picking at his hair in the mirror.

Saburov flicks him with the end of the towel. “I know perfectly well that you enjoyed being debased.”

Well. No arguments there.

“You made the first move,” Viktor says. “I am not responsible for the choices you make or any doubts you may h—”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Saburov cuts in.

Viktor considers his options for five seconds. Then, he sighs through his nose. “Why do you ask?”

Saburov wipes Viktor’s lower lip like it personally offends him. “I know how you run negotiations, Viktor, and antagonism isn’t your style. Don’t you leave that appalling behaviour to your family? But today, you come to my home unannounced, you insult my judgement, and then—well. You were literally asking me to shut you up. While smiling. I’m not an idiot.”

“You could have fooled me,” Viktor says under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Executing Peter would have been stupid, irresponsible, and dangerous. He is one of the greatest minds of our time.”

Saburov pauses. “You want to talk about this now?”

“You’re on the brink of an insane dictatorship. I see no better time for it.”

Saburov slings the cloth over his shoulder and takes a step back. “I’m not debating this with you.”

Viktor catches him by the arm. “You won’t even take advice? Do you have zero respect for my opinion?”

In an instant, Alexander presses into Viktor’s space again and grabs him by the jaw. “Listen carefully, Mr. Kain,” he says quietly. “You gave me emergency powers, and now I am using them to clean up your family’s messes. I am your governor. I will not be questioned, or ridiculed, I will be obeyed.”

It’s funny how quickly the blood rushes to Viktor’s head. This time, it’s impossible not to make the association between Alexander and his wife. He can almost feel the pressure of her lacquered nails against his skin. The thought makes him laugh.

“What,” Alexander says.

“It turns out I have a type. Who knew?” Viktor muses.

Alexander’s fingers lighten their weight. “Are we talking about your sexual preferences again? Because in this context I’m not interested. It’s time you stop acting evasive and cryptic.”

Viktor waves a hand. “Fine, fine. Do you remember Nina?”

Alexander curls his lip. “How could I forget? A fiendish woman who did whatever she pleased. Every time I tried to have her arrested, you would find a loophole to bail her out.”

“She stole children. Destroyed houses on a whim. What a breathtaking sight...” Viktor says. “I’m sure that if she had control over the jails, she would be imprisoning people too.”

“...What are you trying to say?”

“I did this because I think the abuse of power is...well, enticing. And if my advice is worth nothing to you, then hopefully that comparison will give you food for thought.”

To say that Alexander didn't like his words would be an understatement. He has an expression like Viktor put all of his paperwork in a pile and lit it on fire.

He lets go of Viktor’s jaw and takes a step back.

Viktor smoothes his shirt again. “Thank you for the tea and the sex, Governor,” he says. “I must be on my way. Hopefully, we will never have to do this again.”

Artemy Burakh Fun Solo Times

[(Anonymous)]

artemy has hangups about actually touching himself so he humps a pillow instead while he thinks about daniil

Fill: Implied Artemy/Daniil, Masturbation, Internalised Shame

[(Anonymous)]

It was late enough at night that soon it would technically be morning. Artemy was hunched over the alembic in the workshop, preparing a few final brews for the day ahead. He was utterly alone. Sticky was off doing who knew what and had mumbled something about being back the next day for lunch. Artemy had long since given up trying to dictate the boy’s comings and goings. He’d merely pressed dried meat and a swevery-infused tincture into his hands and made him promise to stay away from any unsafe districts.

The work of brewing should have been soothing, the perfect way to lose himself and forget the tensions of the day. Instead, a familiar and deeply unwelcome restlessness was stirring in Artemy’s body. He’d tried pushing himself with his work, hoping the fatigue would smoother the heat rising from the pit of his stomach. But even with his vision nearly blurring with exhaustion, he couldn’t silence the demands of his body.

He stepped away from his workbench, mingled frustration and dread churning in his guts. Sleep would fix it. That was all he needed. And if his dreams were particularly vivid and… fruitful, well, he could hardly be blamed for what his body did while he was asleep. Artemy knew exactly what shape his dreams would take tonight. Accepting Dankovsky’s offer to sleep in his bed last night had been a mistake. The sheets had smelled of him and for the first few moments as he’d lain there, Artemy’s mind had whirled with half-formed fantasies about Dankovsky joining him. Fortunately, fatigue had won out and his sleep had been deep enough to prevent any embarrassing incidents.

Artemy removed his boots and then dragged his pants and undergarments down slowly over his hips, swallowing a grunt as the material slid torturously against his erection. He refused to look down at his bare body. Old teachings stirred in the depths of his memory. Pleasure and arousal were another facet of connection, a way of tangling your Lines with someone else’s. To use such things for one’s own gratification alone was seen as selfish and scorning the very purpose of the gift. Artemy wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth of that, but pleasuring himself was always tinged with a sense of doing something he shouldn’t. Easier to simply ignore the desire when circumstance prevented him from seeking connection with another. Like when he was in the middle of a plague and two of the town’s few doctors couldn’t afford distractions.

I’ve seen corpses prettier than you. The words rose unbidden in Artemy’s mind as he slipped beneath the covers of his bed and he shivered. It should have just been an insult, a way for Dankovsky to reassure himself that he wasn’t going soft after showing a hint of humanity in offering his bed. But his eyes and his tone had told a different story. His gaze had lingered on Artemy’s face like a caress and drifted down his body. The close scrutiny was eerily similar to the attention he’d given the vial of bull’s blood, but there was hunger in look he’d turned on Artemy and his words had carried an undercurrent of insinuation. That he was even considering Artemy’s relative prettiness was a revelation. Such things carried little importance in Artemy’s world, but he’d felt heat creeping up his neck all the same and he’d turned toward the bed to avoid letting his reaction show.

Artemy found that his hand had drifted down between his legs. The heel of his palm was pressing against his cock to relieve the ache. Slowly and deliberately he moved his hand away and gritted his teeth against the renewed throb of arousal. He gripped his pillow instead and faced the wall, resolutely shutting his eyes for sleep.

It didn’t work. He was tired enough that he could feel it like a building pressure behind his eye sockets, but his body was wound too tightly. His thighs tensed and relaxed in an effort not to thrust against the empty air. Or the bedcovers. Artemy’s hand went bloodless with the force of his grip on his pillow.

What if he’d been like this in Dankovsky’s bed? What if Dankovsky had seen him like this? Instead of discouraging his arousal the thought of Dankovsky noticing, or doing something about it, sent a fresh wave of heat rolling up his spine. He could almost feel a gloved hand brushing through his hair, down his shoulder, along his ribs. He bit back a groan. He wanted those cold brown eyes watching and all that intent curiosity focused solely on him.

Artemy’s hands where shaking with how tightly they were clenched. The arousal roaring through his body was almost painful now, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach down and actually touch himself like that. But if Dankovsky were here. If those deft fingers would only part his tense thighs or wrap around his cock…

Artemy shoved his pillow down and pressed it hard against his erection. The relief drew a ragged gasp from him and his hips rolled against the yielding surface. This was only about easing the ache, he wasn't going to, wasn’t…

His traitorous mind conjured up the feel of what it might be like to rut against Dankovsky. Hot flesh pressed against hot flesh, slick with sweat, the sound of Dankovsky panting his ear, moaning. The friction of cloth against his erection felt wretchedly good, but it wasn’t exactly convincing. Unless… Artemy swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth.

His mind wandered back to the idea of Dankovsky’s hands on his flesh, but this time the touch burned against his hip as Dankovsky directed him, encouraged the sharp, reluctant thrusts. He imagined Dankovsky’s voice, all precise capital vowels and that condescending edge. That’s it, keep going. A low groan escaped Artemy’s clenched jaw. I want you to feel good. Let me see you come undone.

Artemy’s breaths were loud and ragged to his own ears and he felt his heartbeat in every part of his body. The last threads of his self control snapped and flung himself face-down, clenched hand still buried in his pillow as he thrust against it, chasing the harsh friction as he imagined Dankovsky draped across his back. Those smirking lips pressing against the back of his neck, his shoulder, a careless or intentional scrape of teeth. He imagined crude suggestions and encouragements whispered in his ear. Dankovsky wouldn’t even understand Artemy’s hesitation and the ways the Kin looked down on self-pleasure. It would simply be an amusement to him.

Artemy shuddered as he spilled against the fabric of his pillow. The pleasure was a warm weight settling in his limbs. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, but even that felt strangely good in the wake of his climax. He flung his pillow off the bed, deciding he was tired enough to go without one for a few hours. Sleep stole over him, slowly and inexorably, and Artemy was sure that he’d dream.

Daniil/Rubin

[(Anonymous)]

I like when they're colleagues who respect each other's abilities without the baggage Rubin is used to because Daniil's an outsider.

I also like the height difference. If Rubin can lift Daniil up and fuck him against a wall at Daniil's urging, that'd be good.

FILL Daniil/Rubin

[(Anonymous)]

(trans Daniil, there is wall sex but it takes a while to get there!!)

Rubin is not a man much given to indulgence, per se, and so Daniil does not kiss him near as often as he thinks about it. In truth the impulse takes him by surprise most of the time; putting away the equipment after an evening of work, Rubin’s tools gleaming under the light, or, later still, in his cramped apartment, somewhere between a minor disagreement on the technicalities of sample preservation and a digression on the mechanisms of postmortem informational transference — their bodies will brush, or their eyes will meet, and want will twist inside of him like a ribbon of heat.

In a way it resembles the restlessness that drives him to pace, or to tap his fingers on the closest convenient surface. There is no urgency tonight, no life-or-death sword to hang above their heads and give him purpose or direction, but still he walks circles around the worn kitchen table and feels Rubin’s frank and steady gaze on him while they talk, that impulse rising in him again. He lets it sit at the back of his throat for a while while they speak, turns it over, considering.

Then he thinks to hell with it, and adjusts his course. Rubin catches him before he can get all the way into his space, hand heavy across his shoulder.

Daniil pauses, starts to recalculate. Has he misstepped? But Rubin’s expression is guarded rather than angry. “You know this isn’t why I asked you to stay the night,” he says, and Daniil relaxes. Though Rubin’s hand remains on him there is no resistance when he leans forward, and in.

“I know you wouldn’t presume,” Daniil tells him, and then presumes himself, reaching out to tilt Rubin’s chin back a fraction. The man’s tall enough that even though he remains seated Daniil barely needs to bend to take his kiss — which he does, and thoroughly. They’ve not done this often enough for it to be familiar yet, but Rubin returns it after only a moment’s hesitation, as competent in his attentions as he is in other matters. Though he keeps his hands at his side, his teeth tug at Daniil’s lip when he pulls away, and the contrast leaves him even more wanting.

He is weighing the risks of going for a second kiss when Rubin makes the choice for him, pulling him closer. He puts more force into it this time, and Daniil doesn’t conceal his enjoyment of it, gasps softly against his mouth when he again feels a sting of teeth.

“Tell me what you want,” Rubin tells him when he lets go. From another man this might be a tease, or a dare, but from him it’s utilitarian, practical. Daniil appreciates it just the same, perhaps more. He presses his hip against Rubin’s side as he gives his answer the thought it is due, tugs at the ties of his shirt to keep his hands busy.

“I would like if you took me to bed,” he starts, and feels deeply pleased at the intent cast to Rubin’s face, the interest he sees simmering there, “but I’d like it even more if you had me here.”

Rubin makes a sound that could almost pass for a huff of laughter. Daniil represses the automatic bloom of self-doubt, eased in part by the way Rubin shifts in his seat, turning to fully face him. The hand at his shoulder drifts to his neck, fingers pull at the short hair at the back of his head, and he leans into the touch, the sting. After the things they’ve done Daniil trusts Rubin to not think ill of him if he acts too boldly, or asks for too much — and though he has not said yes yet, neither is he saying no.

“You want me to fuck you on the table,” Rubin states more than ask, but Daniil shakes his head. Lowers his lashes, pushes his luck and says: “Actually, dear colleague, I was thinking against the wall.”

A moment passes where Rubin gauges that idea. “The neighbours are never home,” he muses, and then stands. Daniil barely has the time to step back that already Rubin is hoisting him off his feet, only a grunt to acknowledge the effort, and then he finds himself atop the table, legs dangling from its side, Rubin tantalizingly close to him.

Well, Daniil thinks, I tried.

And really, he can’t complain. Rubin fits neatly between his parted knees; his coat falls open with a good tug on the fastenings, and Daniil would make short work of his tunic as well were he not distracted by Rubin’s mouth shaping a bruise on his throat, Rubin’s hand working the buckle of his belt. He drapes his arms over Rubin’s shoulders, lifts his hips so he can pull his pants out of the way, whines a little when Rubin lifts his head again without kissing him.

“Eager, aren’t you?”

Daniil, imperious, lifts his brow and pushes back against Rubin’s hand. “You seem to be enjoying this too.”

Rubin seems almost affronted to be accused of such a thing. There’s no judgement in Daniil’s tone, but his eyes drift to the side, and Daniil is content to let him have that escape so long as he is still being touched — and he is! One broad hand rucking up his shirt to run along his side, the other finally, finally slipping between his legs.

“In,” he says, and sighs when Rubin obeys, pushing a finger inside him. One knuckle, then the second, and past that — he moves slow but deep, in a manner that feels deliberate rather than out of worry or caution. Daniil feels how easily it slides in, how even the second finger finds him slick and yielding. He rocks his hip, angling for more, but Rubin holds him in place, maintains his pace.

Even when Daniil digs nails into the meat of his shoulder, pants and squirms in what he’s been told from reliable sources to be a very convincing sort of display, Rubin’s only response is to curl his fingers — three, now, and he can feel the stretch, the way pleasure coils and twists low in his belly. He’s never been on the end of Rubin’s scalpel and he knows this isn’t how it works, but still part of him wonders if that’s how it would feel, to be laid on the table and opened up throat to belly by those steady hands.

When was it exactly that he closed his eyes, or pressed his face into Rubin’s chest? He isn’t sure. He can hear the wet sounds of Rubin’s fingers fucking him, the way his body tenses around them, the small noises falling from his mouth as the palm of Rubin’s hand drags over his clit. Hazily he wonders if Rubin might just like to keep him suspended on the edge of almost-but-not-quite-enough forever — he thinks he might not mind. He’s never balked at pushing limits before, he doesn’t see why he should stop now.

But then Rubin slows. His voice rumbles in his chest. “All good, Bachelor?”

Given an inch, Daniil goes for the mile, and this has nothing to do at all with how the loss in stimulation almost made him whine. “I won’t be responsible for my actions if you don’t fuck me properly soon,” he says, and scowls when Rubin nudges him back enough to look at his face.

“You’ll have to work on your threats, Dankovsky,” he remarks, but he withdraws his hand. The sudden emptiness feels jarring, but there’s a rustle of cloth, Rubin’s hand at his mouth, wet and heady with his own scent. He bites down and Rubin laughs in earnest, a sight rare enough to stop Daniil in his tracks. Heedless, Rubin traces the line of his lip with his thumb and then moves away only to take hold of him by the waist and thigh, pull him to the edge of the table. He can feel Rubin’s cock now against him, reaches down to guide it inside, and oh it feels just perfect —

“Move,” he says, and Rubin says “Wait, hold on,” and lifts him from the table. Daniil has to grab onto him, shuddering as his own weight drives him down on Rubin’s cock. The apartment’s small; it’s only a few steps to the wall and Daniil is incredibly aware of each of them, how even though Rubin carries him with ease he can see the tension in his arms, feel each movement jostling through him.

His back hits the wall with a dull thud, finds it rough against his spine. Arm looped over Rubin’s shoulder, legs hooked behind him, his shoulders braced back, every adjustment keenly felt; he can hear the way Rubin’s breathing quicken whenever he shifts, and Daniil’s ready when he starts moving, even impatient.

Something about how big Rubin is, how boxed-in Daniil feels like this, half-folded, how easily handled — he should feel trapped but instead of panic there is just hunger, heat. He rocks his hips into Rubin’s, welcomes it, the stretch and fullness different than earlier, less measured but more deep. When he clenches down Rubin groans, and he likes the sound so much he does it again, chasing a repeat.

Now Rubin no longer pretends at gentleness. Certainly there’ll be bruises after this; Daniil thinks they might span from ass to hip, so tightly he is held, so broad Rubin’s hands. He presses his heel down to pull him closer, deeper, has to bite down on a moan or three as Rubin responds in consequence.

“I won’t break,” he says just to make sure there’s nothing holding Rubin back, but Rubin only grunts, says “I’m aware.” Daniil wants to kiss him again, but the angle is unwieldy. Instead he holds onto him tighter, and lets himself give in. Rubin fucks him into the wall, hard, and Daniil gets to hold on and just take it, a string of soft and needy sounds driven from his lungs, his back arching as the tension in him draws tight. It feels incredible. At the risk of sounding selfish, he could get used to it.

“Not much longer,” Rubin warns, his own voice strained, and Daniil is inordinately pleased at knowing he’s had this impact. He throws caution to the wind by loosening his hold to better grab at his shoulder, bend him down closer so he can nip at his mouth, steal at least a clumsy version of that kiss he wanted earlier.

“Inside, Rubin,” Daniil says, and Rubin frowns, asks “Are you sure?”, and Daniil nips at his again, sharper. He’s close, himself, so he again braves fate to take one of Rubin’s hand, tugs until he can guide it from his thigh to between his legs. He feels the shift in weight, how Rubin adjusts to carry him with the other arm, the wall supporting them, and he’s shamelessly loud when Rubin touches him, firm strokes over his clit, a few times dipping to tease where he’s still fucking into Daniil, and maybe it’s not too surprising that that’s what brings him to climax, the shiver of what if, the possibility of taking more.

He can’t find the breath to spur Rubin on like this, but his body does it for him, tensing and relaxing in waves, and he tightens his legs around Rubin, holds him inside until he can feel him shaking too.

Perhaps the most admirable thing in all this is that Rubin doesn’t simply let the both of them collapse to the ground after this, but that he has the fortitude to slowly step back and pry Daniil off, sets him back on his feet where he wobbles a little, a little sore and extremely pleased with himself. He luxuriates in the feeling while Rubin sets about cleaning them up, blinks up when offered a hand.

“You’re not staying here when there’s a perfectly serviceable bed.”

“I knew you to be indefatigable, but already, round two?” Daniil teases, and Rubin, who he is now discovering might be convinced to indulge sometimes after all, pulls him up, says “If you ask nicely, dear colleague, maybe next time.”

daniil finds out peter can eat pussy like a king. a starving king. peter gets IN IT.

[(Anonymous)]

yeah that’s it. daniil is writhing under peter, can barely hold it together, he’s loving it. he did not expect THAT from peter but he isn’t mad
i want them to both be trans because i’m a genius

;)

[(Anonymous)]

victor/nina + possession

[(Anonymous)]

please i just need nina to possess victor and get him off while she dirty talks him from beyond the grave :pensive:

Re: victor/nina + possession FILL

[(Anonymous)]

When Victor wakes, he knows he’s not alone. The room is too dark to see and there’s no sound other than his own rapid breathing, but he knows this distant feeling of his body and the presence that fills him like a flame. She’s here.

He tests it, tries to flex his fingers and turn his head, but he’s completely paralyzed. There’s a moment of wretched weakness where he doubts, where he thinks that this might just be sleep paralysis, but then she speaks.

“Hello again, my love.”

Victor’s vocal chords vibrate, but there’s no mistaking the voice.

Nina…

He’s been able to focus on her better lately, been able to call her to mind twice in the last four months. They must be getting close to accomplishing their goal.

His hand moves of its own accord, or of Nina’s rather, reaching up to caress his face. He remembers how much the last eight years have aged him, and he feels faintly embarrassed by the deep lines on his face. Nina is kind enough not to say anything about it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says. His thumb rubs along his bottom lip. “I wish I could kiss you.”

He’ll never get used to this feeling, like there was too much in his body. His whole body feels seen, filled by her, setting his nerves on fire, and it’s…

“Victor…” her tone carried a touch of her teasing condescension. “Is this exciting you?” Distantly, he feels a flush of embarrassment, but Nina just laughs. “It’s alright. I’ve missed this, too.”

His hands begin to tease over his chest, pulling apart the buttons of his pajamas. It’s a little strange, to feel her touch through his much rougher hand, but his body knows the difference. She pinches his nipples, tugs them to make him gasp. The sensation shoots down to his gut.

One hand slides down over his stomach, tugging down his pajamas and underwear. Rough fingers wrap around his length, stroke him expertly, and he quickly grows hard in her grasp. Some long, lonely nights, he’s tried to touch himself like she used to, but it just felt like a poor imitation. But now, with Nina truly here, it’s the best he’s felt in a long time.

“So eager,” she purrs, rolling his balls in his other hand. “How long has it been since anyone’s touched you?” His thumb rubs over his head, smearing traces of precome.

The pleasure builds rapidly, burning Victor from the inside out. It’s different when he’s outside his body like this, more dreamlike, more all-consuming. It’s easier to lose himself to it when he has less of the physical to cling to, but Nina is still speaking, and he tries to focus in on her words. He is determined to stay here with her in the present.

“My dear Victor,” she says. Her voice is starting to tremble. “I wonder if I should light a lamp, bring you in front of the mirror so that I can see your face as you come. Although--” She twists his wrist and gasps harshly. Her train of thought seems a bit derailed for a moment as she touches him, but she suppresses her moans enough to finish. “Although I’m not sure there’s enough time.”

She’s not wrong: Victor can feel the connection between them growing a little more tenuous, the threads that held Nina together becoming frayed. He focuses as much energy as he can on keeping her together inside him.

“If we had more time, if I still had a body of my own, I’d do this properly. I’d suck you, put on my strap and fill up your ass, make you come over and over until you’re begging me for relief.” His cock twitches and she sighs a breathless little laugh. “At least you’re easy to please. You always were such a sweet little slut for me.”

He would be bucking, if he could, be writhing and panting and shouting her name until his voice gave out. He wants to give himself to her completely, to let her take everything he has. His body, his life, it doesn’t matter: none of it is worth her.

“Come for me.” Her voice is low, and the urgency in it has to do with more than their impending orgasm. “Go on, love, show me how much you want me.”

His whole body lights up with his release, and as it burns through him, his mind goes soft and blank for a few blessed moments. But the good never lasts, and as he comes back to himself, he’s vaguely aware of how immediate the spend on his stomach feels, how well he can feel the press of the mattress underneath him.

Panic replaces satisfaction and he forces himself to lie still. He can still feel her there, just barely. It was so stupid to let himself go like that, so stupid to lose focus. He grasps for her with his mind, but every time he thinks he has her, she slips through her fingers like sand through an hourglass.

Please don’t go, he thinks, his fingers tightening on the cold sheets. Just a little while longer. But there’s no response, and when a sigh escapes him, he knows it’s his own.

andrey/artemiy where andrey tops

[(Anonymous)]

ok look theres a line in another fill on here where andrey says to artemiy, “let me have you and i’ll make you scream” and i just want him to make good on that promise

andrey just wants to help the poor big guy take the edge off, he always looks so stressed out... let andrey top artemiy!!! bonus points for artemiy being a lot more vocal than expected, and for artemiy being inexperienced + andrey finding it cute

i prefer artemiy to be written as amab, but if u write andrey as trans pls only use male language for his dick thank u

Re: andrey/artemiy where andrey tops

[(Anonymous)]

I’m the a!a of the fill you mentioned and I’m super-flattered. I would also be very fascinated to see what someone comes up with for this prompt. Seconded!

everybody loves burakh!

[(Anonymous)]

artemy just getting absolutely destroyed by as many partners as you want to write! i mean, artemy is hot as fuck, and there are a LOT of people in the town-on-gorkhon who probably agree!

bonus points if:
+ overstimulation
+ edging
+ praise or degradation

DOUBLE bonus points if artemy drools

Re: everybody loves burakh!

[(Anonymous)]

SECONDED PLEASE

Andrey Stamatin’s Fighting Kink

[(Anonymous)]

I don’t care who his partner is. Maybe Artemy because I like Artemy, but mostly I just wanna see a brawl turn into a /different/ kind of brawl, y’know. This man gets off on pain and that rush of adrenaline and I want to see it. (Just nothing too violent, or it’ll make me uncomfortable. Nothing that’ll REALLY have him in pain. Sure, smack him around a bit, but keep it a good fun and sexy time, yeah?)

FILL: Andrey/rubin, fighting kink (1/??)

[(Anonymous)]

This ran away from me. hope ur still around, op!
Cw for fighting obv, and andrey's...everything, but specifically choking, hair-pulling, and blood

--


They don’t know each other. Rubin keeps odd hours, talks rarely, drinks his liquor straight. The barkeeps don’t like him — old superstition, apparently, something about ethics and surgery. It’s good he doesn’t have hair — it’d be hanging into his twyrine.

Andrey grabs a bottle at random from the speed rail and sets it in front of the man, loud enough to startle him. He straightens, shakes himself into focus, and glares.

“You're dripping blood over my bar,” Andrey says.

Rubin looks down at his shirtsleeve, where the stains of old death have turned the hem russet. He exhales through his teeth.

Andrey smiles insincerely and refills his glass.

“There’s a plague,” Rubin says, tempering his voice. “Or haven’t you heard? I’m a doctor.”

“Ah.” Andrey clicks his teeth, the way the people he hated in school used to do. “That's funny. I thought the doctor died.”

The exhaustion is slipping away from Rubin’s expression. In its place: incredulity and irritation, brushing against the legitimate anger of the sleepless. Andrey watches his eyes grow clear and feels it in his gut.

"What do you want?" Rubin says, but he doesn't have the guile to be convincing. His public face peels away easily, flaking like the summer bark of a sycamore, and his words sound harsh.

Andrey leans against the back bar, setting the twyrine to his side. He cracks the last two knuckles of his left hand and feels nameless patrons turn to look.

"Watch your tone in my bar, Burakh," Andrey says easily.

Rubin’s lip twitches for a meager second, showing teeth. He stands up so forcefully that his stool skids, feet shrieking against the floor.

Andrey grins. As Rubin turns he crosses out from behind the bar and calls, "Oh, my apologies!"

Rubin doesn't stop, but he can't help slowing.

The acoustics are clear; his voice echoes. Everyone watches as he closes the space between them. "An earnest mistake," Andrey continues. "I mistook you for the son."

And Rubin turns on his heel, quick for a man his size, and gets Andrey full across the face with his knuckles, so hard he spins. Andrey follows the kinetic force. He knows how to take it. Up ahead, his barkeep stills, eyes glinting. The whole club waits.

Andrey bends into it for a soft few seconds. He tongues the beginning of a welt on the inside of his cheek, then pulls it between his teeth and bites it. It mixes with spit, films, and colors his grin pink. He turns to Rubin.

Rubin takes a step back. He’s alert, but Andrey sees it in his breathing—his battered circadian rhythm, struggling to keep up. Andrey’s smaller, but whatever advantage Rubin had was lost nights ago.

Andrey smiles with the bottom half of his face. He says, “If you want to brawl, you do it outside with the dogs.”

Rubin stares at him, and the patrons of the Broken Heart stare at Rubin. After a beat of a pause, he nods.

Andrey laughs, and turns his back to Rubin to take the steps two at a time, his body singing.