Bad Grief leans his head back against the bed. It’s late, or early, depending on one’s view—nearly 3 in the morning now. He’s gotten ready for bed, tucked away in his own secluded section of the warehouse. It's sort of like a bedroom, sort of like a storage space, but everyone knows not to come back there regardless.
There’s a small problem, though. Grief’s hand snakes under the threadbare blankets and beneath his underwear. Grief bites down on his lip as he grabs his cock. He’s half hard. It’s been a week or two since he’s gotten off, and now he’s aching to after Cub’s come home.
He shuts his eyes and shudders as he thinks about Artemiy. It doesn't feel right, to think about his old friend like this. It's hard to stop, though, when he'd seen Artemiy looking like he'd been dragged through a stampede and was still somehow devastatingly beautiful. The years apart had certainly done him well—it seems that he’s even more handsome than Grief remembers. His crooked and sarcastic smile, gleaming eyes, tousled brown hair, and his hands…
Those large hands of his are what keeps coming back to his mind. Surgeon’s hands, ones that Grief wishes were wrapped around his length instead of his own. His breath stutters, thinking of how Artemiy would be so gentle with him, as he is with everything. Grief wouldn’t deserve it, but Artemiy wouldn’t care.
Grief imagines Artemiy taking him to bed—his imagination doesn’t bother with the details of where the bed would be—and whispering into his neck, Russian and steppe words alike. Artemiy would want to take things slow, to really treat Grief right, to make love to him.
He would be above Grief, and his large hands would explore the bony angles of Grief's body. Every freckle on him would be noted, and kissed. That thought makes him gasp as he imagines Artemiy's head between his legs, kissing the freckles on his inner thigh.
Artemiy is soft and gorgeous, despite what he knows the townspeople have been saying. He has pouty lips and light stubble against his jaw that Grief wants to run his hand against. He recalls the same feelings when Stakh has shaved his head the first time.
His mind jumps to Stakh joining in, biting his neck harshly. Then it’s just Stakh’s rough hands against him, his teeth, leg rubbing against Grief's cock. His voice would be low and rough and hot, and Grief would love to hear it against his neck as Stakh touches him. He's always called Grief 'annoying' in a cheeky way Grief enjoys, but he imagines that the word breathed against him with hands holding his hips down would be even better.
He’s handsome in a different way—sharp cheekbones, even taller than Artemiy, and a piercing gaze. With Stakh, it's his eyes that he always thinks about, seeming like he's looking right through you. Stakh has the aura of someone who can and will lift you and pin you against the wall—and that’s an image Grief will be saving for later.
Stakh wouldn’t be afraid to get rough, to hold his thigh in a bruising grip as his lips wrap around Grief’s length. Grief’s hand would fist in Stakh’s robes—the dumb clunky robes that Grief wants off of him. Stakh would take him down to his base easily, it wouldn’t even be a struggle. He wouldn't be allowed to come in Stakh's mouth, of course. Stakh would want to fuck him, tear him apart from the inside until Grief's screaming out his name.
Grief’s hips buck into his own hand. He tries to keep quiet. There’s nobody in the warehouse at this time, but it’s still best to keep it down when the walls are this thin.
He thinks of Lara last, and it almost feels even worse than imagining Artemiy or Stakh, like he’s sullying her name. Beautiful, sweet Lara, with dark hair framing her face and her wide eyes, doe-like in their appearance. Her skin looks like a tapestry made of silk.
Her fingernails would scrape against his side as she kisses him gently. Lara's lips would be soft, just like the rest of her, but her teeth would nip at his bottom lip. Gentle and sharp in equal measures. She wouldn’t touch him at first, teasing him, until he’s begging her for it. Lara would want him to be completely undone.
Then her hand would stroke him slowly, and she wouldn’t be able to hold back a grin. Lara hates how she looks when she’s smiling, how her cheeks puff up and her eyes narrow, but Grief loves it.
She’d pull his hand to her crotch, where she’d be soaking wet. Grief would finger her as best as he can, but Lara’s hands on him would make him lose focus. He's never been great at multitasking. She wouldn't get mad, though, because she would understand that it's just too much for him.
Then he imagines Artemiy’s tongue is licking against his asshole, and Stakh is giving him a bruising kiss. Lara’s hand picks up the pace, her mouth beside his ear as she tells him what a ‘good boy’ he’s being for them.
Grief comes seeing stars. He pants hard, laying still for a few seconds as he considers what just happened.
Fuck. Why did all his friends have to be that attractive?
FILL: Grief/Apple Basket Gang, Fantasizing
There’s a small problem, though. Grief’s hand snakes under the threadbare blankets and beneath his underwear. Grief bites down on his lip as he grabs his cock. He’s half hard. It’s been a week or two since he’s gotten off, and now he’s aching to after Cub’s come home.
He shuts his eyes and shudders as he thinks about Artemiy. It doesn't feel right, to think about his old friend like this. It's hard to stop, though, when he'd seen Artemiy looking like he'd been dragged through a stampede and was still somehow devastatingly beautiful. The years apart had certainly done him well—it seems that he’s even more handsome than Grief remembers. His crooked and sarcastic smile, gleaming eyes, tousled brown hair, and his hands…
Those large hands of his are what keeps coming back to his mind. Surgeon’s hands, ones that Grief wishes were wrapped around his length instead of his own. His breath stutters, thinking of how Artemiy would be so gentle with him, as he is with everything. Grief wouldn’t deserve it, but Artemiy wouldn’t care.
Grief imagines Artemiy taking him to bed—his imagination doesn’t bother with the details of where the bed would be—and whispering into his neck, Russian and steppe words alike. Artemiy would want to take things slow, to really treat Grief right, to make love to him.
He would be above Grief, and his large hands would explore the bony angles of Grief's body. Every freckle on him would be noted, and kissed. That thought makes him gasp as he imagines Artemiy's head between his legs, kissing the freckles on his inner thigh.
Artemiy is soft and gorgeous, despite what he knows the townspeople have been saying. He has pouty lips and light stubble against his jaw that Grief wants to run his hand against. He recalls the same feelings when Stakh has shaved his head the first time.
His mind jumps to Stakh joining in, biting his neck harshly. Then it’s just Stakh’s rough hands against him, his teeth, leg rubbing against Grief's cock. His voice would be low and rough and hot, and Grief would love to hear it against his neck as Stakh touches him. He's always called Grief 'annoying' in a cheeky way Grief enjoys, but he imagines that the word breathed against him with hands holding his hips down would be even better.
He’s handsome in a different way—sharp cheekbones, even taller than Artemiy, and a piercing gaze. With Stakh, it's his eyes that he always thinks about, seeming like he's looking right through you. Stakh has the aura of someone who can and will lift you and pin you against the wall—and that’s an image Grief will be saving for later.
Stakh wouldn’t be afraid to get rough, to hold his thigh in a bruising grip as his lips wrap around Grief’s length. Grief’s hand would fist in Stakh’s robes—the dumb clunky robes that Grief wants off of him. Stakh would take him down to his base easily, it wouldn’t even be a struggle. He wouldn't be allowed to come in Stakh's mouth, of course. Stakh would want to fuck him, tear him apart from the inside until Grief's screaming out his name.
Grief’s hips buck into his own hand. He tries to keep quiet. There’s nobody in the warehouse at this time, but it’s still best to keep it down when the walls are this thin.
He thinks of Lara last, and it almost feels even worse than imagining Artemiy or Stakh, like he’s sullying her name. Beautiful, sweet Lara, with dark hair framing her face and her wide eyes, doe-like in their appearance. Her skin looks like a tapestry made of silk.
Her fingernails would scrape against his side as she kisses him gently. Lara's lips would be soft, just like the rest of her, but her teeth would nip at his bottom lip. Gentle and sharp in equal measures. She wouldn’t touch him at first, teasing him, until he’s begging her for it. Lara would want him to be completely undone.
Then her hand would stroke him slowly, and she wouldn’t be able to hold back a grin. Lara hates how she looks when she’s smiling, how her cheeks puff up and her eyes narrow, but Grief loves it.
She’d pull his hand to her crotch, where she’d be soaking wet. Grief would finger her as best as he can, but Lara’s hands on him would make him lose focus. He's never been great at multitasking. She wouldn't get mad, though, because she would understand that it's just too much for him.
Then he imagines Artemiy’s tongue is licking against his asshole, and Stakh is giving him a bruising kiss. Lara’s hand picks up the pace, her mouth beside his ear as she tells him what a ‘good boy’ he’s being for them.
Grief comes seeing stars. He pants hard, laying still for a few seconds as he considers what just happened.
Fuck. Why did all his friends have to be that attractive?