pathologicroundrobin | Pathologic Kink Meme!

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Pathologic Kink Meme!

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

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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?)

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.

Outside, the night has grown cold. Andrey shucks his coat regardless, tossing it underhand at one of the benches and watching it sail through the air. It catches just before it can touch the ground. Andrey grins. He spins on his heel and watches Rubin come out, warily, into the gold streetlight.

“Take your time, doctor!” Andrey calls, his voice bright. They’re not locked in by walls anymore. If he speaks loud enough the sky will hear him. The scent of ash drifts by on the wind.

“You’re something else,” Rubin says. He’s not coming close yet, flexing the fingers on his right hand, beginning to circle. He puts his back to the walkway to the street. Andrey notices, and calculates: he's smart not to trap himself against the benches or the trash cans. A great way to break your back, or your neck.

But Andrey’s center of gravity is low, and Rubin is so tired it’s like he’s walking through water. There’s no lift to his step. He won’t trip Andrey up. If anything, he’ll just crush him.

“I’m something,” Andrey says, smiling affably. “But you see creatures of all kinds in this city.” He circles too, cornering himself, and lifts his fists in a lazy boxer’s stance.

“Few like you,” Rubin says, steps in and swings. Andrey ducks easily, raises his eyebrows.

“I’m one of two,” Andrey says.

“Are you?” Rubin says, and Andrey doesn’t like where that sentence is going so he feints and jabs Rubin quick in the gut, dancing back out of reach when Rubin swears and lunges. Obstacles bend sweetly at his back. He can feel them like leaves.

Rubin tosses his head. He reorients himself, taking in the full breadth of Andrey’s speed, his size. This is when Andrey would move, but that’s not the kind of night he’s having. The way Rubin moves is fascinating to watch. There’s a fighter in there somewhere, drowned.

“My brother and I match,” Andrey says absently. He pushes more blood out of the welt in his cheek.

“I don’t know,” Rubin says. He rolls his shoulder and shrugs, like they’re having a different conversation. “You seem like different animals.”

“What animal are you, doctor?” Andrey steps to the side, making Rubin follow him, the bench yawning wide at his back. “A dog? A sheep, maybe? Or a draft horse, to be worked and broken?"

Rubin comes between him and the light, casting a long shadow. "Talk less, Stamatin." His doctor's clothes will weigh him down.

It tastes like soot, Rubin's anger. All across the city fires burn like the one in front of Andrey.

Andrey steps in and feints. Rubin hits him, full across the face, and Andrey lets it swing him under and hits him hard in the side where his body bends. It jolts all the way up his arm — Rubin's built solidly, muscled like a working animal — but it pays off as Rubin lists, his elbow pulling in unconsciously to cover himself.

The opening buzzes bright. Andrey gambles. He reaches out with both hands, grabs Rubin's wrist and his collar and pulls, hard. He drives his knee into Rubin's stomach.

Two things happen very quickly: Rubin snarls, mean and wounded, which goes straight to Andrey's gut; and he shoves his shoulder into Andrey's chest and grabs him around the waist.

Time slows in the grapple, which Andrey knows well. He sees it laid out in front of him like blueprints: the balance he sacrificed for the easy blow, Rubin's solidity, the benches at his back. If Rubin drives him down, if he's not careful —

It's not worth the risk. A hit to the back of his head could put him out for a long time. So he twists, a chaotic burst of motion, flapping in Rubin's grasp like a landed fish. Rubin grunts and pins his arms, but he got what he wanted: his footing.

The foundation is the first step. But just as important is give, a pattern of cuts in any solid structure to allow her to bend with outside force. Andrey won't push Rubin over, and Rubin won't tire. He'll grow impatient, or Andrey will goad him into backing away, and they'll resume their wary circle.

But Andrey is thinking of the sound Rubin made when he was hit; he's thinking about the difference in the mass of their bodies, weighed out like this; he's thinking about what could possibly possess a medical doctor to follow a bored agitator out into the night.

So he sways. Rubin steps forward, following the weakness, and Andrey knows without knowing the geography of the land at his back. They move closer to the line of obstacles, the low smoker's bench.

Andrey hangs his head onto Rubin's shoulder, going limp.

Rubin makes a noise of confusion. He begins to straighten and Andrey stomps on his foot.

From there it's easy. Rubin's weight staggers hard to one side. Andrey drops, halfway to a crouch, and as Rubin lunges Andrey swings under his fist and smashes his elbow and his body weight into the broad plane of his back.

Rubin stumbles quite honestly. Andrey just urges him along.

The bench does its job. Rubin flips and hits the ground hard, taking it on his back and shoulder. He lays in the long grass, gasping.

Andrey steps past the bench carefully. Rubin is clutching his chest, but Andrey toes his hands aside and kneels across his stomach. His body expands between Andrey's legs. Andrey grabs his head and pulls it upward, just enough to see his eyes open and focus, and then drops it.

"Simple machines," Andrey says. "But maybe they don't teach that to doctors."

Rubin's eyes flutter. His breathing is labored, slowing, growing even. Andrey reaches down, feeling the ground behind his head out of worry — but no, it's dirt, dry but soft. When he clamps his hand over Rubin's mouth and shakes, it takes longer than a second for him to wince and twist away.

Andrey presses his lips together. Maybe he was wrong. Rubin looks small and weak in the grass. Andrey can see the fight flowing out, all that good life energy sinking into the earth and staining it.

"Forget it," Andrey says. He shakes off his disappointment and starts to stand. "This isn't fun anymore." Better to drink alone downstairs than wait for a fight that isn't coming, straddling a man who's half-asleep—

And suddenly a sharp pain in his knee, so quick and efficient his vision whites out. He lurches forward, barely catching himself over Rubin's head, and it's only then that he registers a hand on his leg, forefinger pressed with surgical precision between tendons on the underside.

Andrey hears himself cuss and gasp. It hurts, God damn it, where'd his breath go—

Rubin flips him and digs his nail into the side of Andrey's neck, blocking his windpipe. His palm spreads out wide across Andrey's jaw.

"They don't teach us physics, architect," Rubin says through clenched teeth. "They teach us anatomy."

Andrey can't breathe. His whole body has lit up. This is good.

He hisses loud enough that Rubin loosens his grip and arches his neck to take a breath, arches the rest of his body beneath Rubin's thighs. He opens his mouth to spit and Rubin backhands him: a disdainful, condescending way to hit someone, hard and thrilling.

Andrey laughs in delight at his audacity, grabs him by the balls and twists. Rubin yowls like an animal and goes down heavy for the second time.

So here they are again: Rubin on his back, Andrey crawling over him, breathing hard. Rubin's eyes are blown, unfocused not because Andrey hit wrong but because he hit right.

Andrey drags his hand up Rubin's bloodstained surgeon's shirt. He slaps him casually, to sting instead of wound. Rubin rocks his head to the side, letting Andrey see his cheek flush white into pink before settling back and holding Andrey's gaze. Andrey rests on Rubin's stomach with a little more weight.

"You fight dirty," Rubin says. His hands stay at his sides, but he's moving well under Andrey's touch. Participating.

"Of course I do," Andrey says. "What do I care about honor, doctor? There's no one out here but us." He spreads his hand flat across Rubin's sternum, his forefinger dipping into the curve under his throat.

Rubin allows Andrey to touch him. He says, "You're bleeding."

Andrey cocks his head. He tongues his upper lip and sure enough, blood is spilling fresh and warm from his nose, entirely painless.

"Your good work," Andrey says. "What's that physician's oath?"

Rubin looks like he won't speak. Then, as he reconsiders and takes a breath, Andrey covers his mouth.

"Do no harm," Andrey says. "Hm?"

Rubin closes his eyes. He nods.

"And yet here you are."

Rubin's eyes crease up. He might be smiling.

“What happened to you, doctor?” Andrey pulls his chin to the side, just to see his eyelids flutter, hear his breath come back. “Why are you like this?”

Rubin looks up at him, silent. Andrey concedes, pulling his hand away from his mouth and resting it gently on his throat.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Rubin says. And then he coughs, and then he smiles.

Andrey feels himself break into a genuine grin.

“My kind of man,” Andrey says. He lolls backwards, tilting his chin towards the sky and licking blood off his lips. He smiles into the night. His body feels good, worked raw like meat; Rubin feels good below him. Autumn in the air smells stronger than ash.

When he looks down, Rubin's eyes are closed. The bruises around his eyes look delicate next to the ones on his cheek. Andrey touches his work, high on his cheekbone — still young and yellow, but it'll bloom.

Rubin hums soundlessly underneath him. He's gone totally limp.

Andrey says, "Enough?"

"Mmm." When Andrey grips his jaw he doesn't protest, just follows the application of force. Andrey tilts his head to one side, then the other.

He doesn't look dazed or disoriented. He looks, bafflingly, like he might fall asleep.

"What a character you are," Andrey says wonderingly. "If I were a proud man I'd be insulted."

Rubin's chest rumbles below him. His mouth splits into something close to a smile, though his eyes stay closed. "Don't be." He reaches up and spreads his fingers across Andrey's thigh.

Andrey laughs and rocks into it, a low press of his body forward, and then back, across Rubin's stomach. "Oh? You surprise me."

Rubin reaches up towards Andrey's face. Andrey bends down to meet him. "Be quiet," he says. Andrey grins and pushes his bloody mouth into the palm of Rubin's hand.

"No," he murmurs.

Rubin pushes his thumb between Andrey's teeth and stops his voice. Andrey bites down and tastes his own blood, fights just enough to feel it as Rubin grips his jaw with a practiced hand and forces it open. His other hand presses hot against the front of Andrey's pants.

Andrey bucks into it and curls his spine, thrashing, making Rubin hold him still. Rubin breathes hotly as Andrey traps a knuckle between his molars, a second between his canines, and tries to break skin. A liquid trail of red flees down Rubin's wrist.

To Rubin's credit, he doesn't wince. Blood stains the hem of his sleeve as he works at Andrey's buttons and Andrey flexes his fingers at his side to keep them still, rocking into the touch and down against Rubin's chest. He licks at Rubin's thumb and chuckles wetly when he makes a face.

Rubin's grip on his jaw tightens. "Cooperate," he says, and doesn't seem the slightest bit surprised when Andrey immediately twists away, Rubin's thumb dropping from his mouth, riddled with the white marks of teeth.

"Cooperate," Rubin says again, and Andrey laughs and presses both of his hands over Rubin's grip on his crotch, and Rubin slaps Andrey across his face with his free hand, a weak hit full of sentiment. Blood splatters the long grass in a perfect arc.

Andrey pants and smiles and covers the old wound on his stomach as Rubin finally gets his fingers below it, past the constricting fabric around his hips, and touches him.

Andrey hisses happily. His hands are rough and callused, and for a long moment the undercurrent of pain is good, before he tosses his head and says "Ah—ah, doctor, dry—" Rubin clicks his tongue and pulls away his hand away, holding it palm-up. Andrey spits in it. Blood drips down the tip of his nose and mingles with it over Rubin's lifeline.

Rubin puts his hand back, the friction mitigated somewhat, and Andrey shudders and closes his eyes.

All sensations are good sensations this late at night. Andrey groans lowly until he feels a soft press against his mouth. He bares his teeth, but the touch drags upward.

A hand cards through his hair, almost gentle.

Andrey's brows furrow for a moment before he relaxes. He leans into the touch. Bent over like this, his spine curled and exposed to the air, he feels like a cat held by the collar.

Then Rubin fists his hand and pulls Andrey forward by the hair. Andrey yelps and swallows it in a gasp of delight. His eyes fly open, stinging.

Rubin's face is knit in concentration. He has the far-seeing gaze of a scientist with an experiment.

It holds Andrey fully captive for a moment: Rubin's hands on him, his focus, the impossible gap between the man sitting at the bar half an hour ago and the man laying below him now. The full force of his luck bears down upon him, taking his breath—

And then it's gone, and he's light.

Rubin's gotten the hang of it. He holds Andrey just still enough to keep him upright, hips kicking into his palm, and then he pulls him to the side or yanks him forward and Andrey fights enough to be forced back down. He keeps one hand over Rubin's, loosely touching the knuckles of his working hand. The other is behind his back, knotted savagely in the hem of Rubin's shirt.

For a while there is a perfect concert of understanding, two bodies working together, small underneath the night. Then, as partnerships go, Rubin slows, and Andrey quickens, and eventually the touch becomes too much and Andrey bats Rubin's hand away and comes into his own palm, wincing gently, as Rubin cradles his red cheek with a hand that is growing numb.

Andrey exhales heavily, his breath reflecting off Rubin's palm. Rubin drops his hand behind his head, where it disappears into the dark shadows left by the dying grass. They sit. Far away Andrey can hear the yelping of dogs, the crackling of imagined fires.

He wipes his palm on his thigh. He didn't notice before, but the gray dark is close to them. Rubin's expression is unreadable. The hand that was touching Andrey has fallen to his side.

There's often a lack of intimacy after encounters like these, but Andrey doesn't feel that now. His curiosity bubbles like boiling water.

Rubin is quiet. Andrey can feel his breathing.

He tucks himself back into his pants. He raises himself up on his knees and brackets Rubin's head with his hands. Below him, Rubin's face is in heavy shadow.

"Stamatin," Rubin warns.

Andrey says, "I can be gentle. Just say the word."

The black mask of Rubin's face doesn't move. Andrey shrugs and begins to move away, but Rubin catches his wrist before he can.

"I don't—" Rubin begins to say. There's an edge to his voice.

"Relax," Andrey says, in the voice he uses when he's handling someone. "I'll return the favor, if you'd like. That's all. A kindness for a kindness."

Rubin looks up at him. His grip on Andrey's wrist loosens. He seems uncertain if he wants to entirely let it go.

Andrey cocks his head. "Yes or no?"

"Yes," comes Rubin's rough voice.

Andrey smiles. Blood cracks on his lips. He's glad that was the answer.

"Alright," Andrey says plainly. He settles back upright, going slow. Rubin's face is blank. Now that he's looking, Andrey sees the hard line of his cock underneath his doctor's robes. He smirks and looks at Rubin pointedly before spreading his hand over it.

Rubin hisses and twitches, and Andrey drops forward to cover his body, bracketing him as he flinches again. He kneads Rubin's cock through the layers of fabric and tucks his face into Rubin's neck.

"I meant it when I told you to relax," he says lowly. Rubin is holding himself very still. Andrey reaches up and pushes his shirt away, touches his stomach before tugging at a ragged drawstring, being deliberate. Rubin's breathing is shallow.

He reaches underneath clothes and wraps his hand around Rubin's cock. Rubin's hips kick involuntarily as he lets out a low noise, and Andrey pulls back, shushing Rubin when he twists his neck to look.

"Easy, doctor," he says, shifting his weight and pushing Rubin's knees apart, lifting the back of his thigh with his own. He spits in his palm and puts his hand back, and then leans forward again, laughing a bit at Rubin's confusion, his own acceptance of being moved. His forehead brushes the ground when he bends back down; he smells sweat and steppe grass in Rubin's neck.

Low choked noises are coming from Rubin's throat, though Andrey isn't doing much. It's clear he hasn't been touched in a long time.

Andrey smiles. He bites the skin of Rubin's neck and feels it all along his body when Rubin shudders.

"Come on," Andrey coaxes. It's a game now, like the first one they played. Rubin's resolve is wavering, the force of his formidable strength made brittle by time and tiredness. He's leaning into Andrey's touch, his knee coming up further against the back of Andrey's leg.

His breaths are short and sharp. Andrey presses his mouth against the front of Rubin's neck, feeling the labored movement as a low groan escapes his lips.

Rubin's hands are still hidden by the grass, held down at his sides. Andrey says, "Touch me, why don't you?"

Rubin doesn't move. Andrey clicks his tongue and feels carelessly around in the grass, finding Rubin's hand and dragging it up to the back of Andrey's head. Then he bites Rubin's neck, with more force than before, and Rubin clings to him on reflex.

Andrey hums approvingly. He rocks his own hips, pushing Rubin's leg forward, and Rubin's fingers flex in his hair. First tentative, then pushing down.

It feels like victory in Andrey's way as Rubin's movements get clumsy, as wetness spreads down the head of his cock and his grip on Andrey's hair grows tighter. It doesn't take long for him to come. Andrey shushes him through it, soundlessly, against the skin of his neck.

Rubin's hand drops from Andrey's hair. Andrey sits back and watches him catch his breath, eyes closed, haloed by the grass.

He looks like he did when Andrey flipped him, countless minutes ago. Conquered and quiet, on the edge of sleep.

Andrey takes a look at Rubin's ruined tunic and wipes his wet hand on it. He pulls Rubin's pants high enough to cover him and flops down onto the ground at Rubin's side.

The dry brush scratches his back. How Rubin stood it, he doesn't know. He stretches, arching his back, reaching his hands towards the wall beyond them. He flexes his legs and winces at the uncomfortable warmth in his pants.

The night sky is flat and dark, pocketed with rural stars. The shoots of naked tree branches stretch across it, cutting some in half, blacking others out entirely. Andrey tilts his head. New stars blink into existence; others wink away.

He rolls over and looks at Rubin.

His bruised face looks peaceful. It might be the shadows from the streetlight. After a moment, he opens his eyes and looks over at Andrey.

Andrey smirks, but Rubin doesn't respond. He just looks, with what feels to Andrey to be an inappropriate solemnity.

"What?" Andrey says, not unkindly.

Rubin doesn't seem to hear. He reaches out and touches the bandages at Andrey's waist.

"Healed," Andrey says. "But my brother frets, so I wear them past their usefulness."

"You barely needed them," Rubin says, his voice rough. When Andrey raises his eyebrows, he says, "You came to see old Burakh. A fortnight ago. I remember."

"I don't," Andrey says. "I don't remember you. I remember the old man and his hands, and I remember him frightening Petya. You didn't show your face."

"I washed the bandages," Rubin says steadily. "I cleaned the tools. I was there."

Andrey looks at him. He feels, in concert, a sense of compassion and of mournful loss.

"I shouldn't have spoken against Burakh," Andrey says. "That was vulgar of me. I was only trying to anger you."

Rubin stares at him, mouth slightly ajar. Andrey feels a tenderness towards his broken lip, his bruised cheek, and feels quite content to lay on the ground and gaze at him, but Rubin sits up. He wraps his arms around his bent legs like a child and looks down at Andrey.

After a moment he says, "Come wash your face, Stamatin."

It's polite. It's generous, in a way that feels wholly out of place in the wretched city during the gray plague. It's not what Andrey expected — none of this is — and it strikes him sideways with youthful delight, douses his well-worn concern in color.

He buzzes happily, emboldened by the beautiful moment in the encroaching night, and rolls to his side, then his feet. He sticks his hand down to Rubin.

"I'll deny you, I'm afraid," Andrey says, as he pulls Rubin to his feet. "But you are kind, genuinely. You're different than I thought."

Rubin's tall, half a head higher than Andrey. His eyebrows knit gently as he studies Andrey's face. "I don't know what to make of that," he says eventually.

"It's a compliment," Andrey says patiently. "Most people don't like you."

"I don't understand," Rubin says. "Are you trying to insult me?"

Andrey beams at him. After a moment, Rubin shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. They turn to the street in symmetrical motion.

Rubin stops under the streetlight as Andrey moves to break away.

"Please come upstairs," he says, softer. "You're covered in blood."

Andrey turns. He evaluates Rubin's face, the marks he left and the marks that were there before. Like a sycamore, the bark has peeled away, and underneath all is white.

"No," Andrey says. "But thank you. I'll go to my brother."

Rubin nods shortly. His mouth has twisted into an unknowable line. Andrey recognizes wounded stubbornness and moves to calm it.

He makes his voice gentle. He says, "See that you sleep, doctor."

Rubin's eyes snap to him, and for a moment Andrey sees blind terror, fevered and animal. He steps back, but it's gone as quick as it came.

"You as well, architect," Rubin says, steady as iron. "We all need rest."

Andrey watches him as he walks to the dark courtyard lining the homes at the side of the road. He watches the blank brick buildings long past when Rubin leaves his sight and wonders what purpose they serve except to isolate, to sever connection, to hide human animals from their siblings on the ground.

He shakes it off. He rubs his face and brushes flakes of dried blood off the heel of his hand.

He'll go find Peter. The local doctor has made him sad.

not OP but ANON I LOVE THIS!! your andrey pov is a delight to read, and i love the way you capture how these two interact with the world. the fight transitioning into sex was perfect, u really have a gift for writing action. UGH im going to reread it now

also not OP, but oh my god, anon — I stayed up late reading this then read it again as soon as I woke up. WOW. I have to second the other comment: your handle on action scenes is masterful, such good flow and sense of blocking, and the transitions between moments as they size each other up and get the sense of each other feels intense and real. your Andrey POV is on-the-nose perfect and I can’t get over how precise and colorful your phrasing is; every sentence feels like the perfect way to have said it. my jaw dropped. if you’re ever comfortable deanoning with this, I’d LOVE to read your other work!

not op either but this is masterful. the atmosphere is so palpable - I could feel andrey biting on the inside of his cheek, and the ash in the sky, and the fires in the distance. your descriptions are amazing. the porn is also exquisite, you say a lot with very sparse writing that glosses over details and focuses on a different kind of physicality than what you usually see in straight up porn. this isn't a ship I really considered, to be honest, but it's really perfect here. their dynamic is great. rubin is a dumbass, and andrey is............. andrey. he's andrey, huh. he's dancing through life.

Oh this is so GOOD!!!! It all flows so smoothly, the tension, the push and pull, their dynamic, aaah!!! I never considered Andrey/Rubin, but now I have to. I’d looove to go into detail but my brain is far too much an incoherent mush right now lmao I just hope you know this is everything I wanted and more

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Pathologic Kink Meme!

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Andrey Stamatin’s Fighting Kink

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HI I’M OP