Work Text:
What is heaven?
For most it's fluffy clouds and beautiful skies, lush gardens and roads paved with gold, harmonic choirs and carefree days. Heaven is a perfect daydream, feels of homecoming, spins constellation-bright in the sky, waiting patiently for the departed to reach it. Heaven is untainted, perfect paradise.
Not for me.
For me, heaven is red blood, is tears and sweat and feeble cries, ricocheting screams, echoing calls that ripple through the air. Heaven is a recurring slaughter, feels of flesh giving way beneath my palms, hangs hauntingly in my mind’s eye, a perfect overlay that sends thrills down my spine. Heaven is my poisoned, broken creator.
His wings are folded across his face, hiding his emotion from the world. He does not want to appear weak, not even to me, his own creation. But that's alright, because I know he is scared anyways. Scared since he knows he cannot win against me in a one on one, scared for the safety of others, scared because he does not want to face me in general — it does not matter. I can always tell when he is afraid.
How many times has he warded me off? Disoriented me with false starts and swings of his sword, pushing me back, bruising and battering me, uncaring of my pain? How many times has he ripped death from the grasp of my hands and herded the vermin away to live another day?
Yet there is nobody around to help him now. Ever the protector, never the protected.
He thinks I hate him.
Do I?
Not really, no.
I hate everything. But not him, never him. I enjoy his anguish, though. Because he is the only thing I cannot hate, so his suffering is the only thing that can bring me joy.
I am all that he was at his darkest. I am all that he will be at his lowest. I am the snake in Eden, Lucifer among the archangels, the traitor Judas of the Disciples. I am his deepest, most warped reflection. And I am owed his love.
Was it not him that made me this way, that forced me into this mold? Now I am stuck, not truly living, hunting and hurting and killing but never happy, chained to this facsimile of purgatory. And that is what I hate most of all.
So my creator owes me. Owes me everything he can spare of himself, because his is the only flesh I want, his the only regard I need.
I have long since learned the dangers of ignorance when it comes to my creator. Every subtle twitch was categorized, every microscopic change a tell that I carefully labeled and filed away. So I know he is about to run. He is about to leave me.
Unacceptable.
One entanglement takes care of it. A mass infection ensures he will be too injured to run regardless. I need to be careful, to account for all the possibilities. I cannot afford to have him slip away.
There is nobody around. Perfect.
I fall upon him like a bird of prey, a starving scavenger devouring its meal until only the wet gleam of bone is left. I want to crack his ribcage open and consume his heart, so that it may beat for nothing except me, so that I can keep him close. But that would kill him. And I don't want him to go, not yet.
I understand that kissing is something humans do, to express devotion to a significant other. And who else is more significant to me than my creator? Who else is more worthy of my fixation?
We slot into place easily, like we were inevitable. My creator thrashes under me, struggling to get out, but I pay him no mind. He is often confused, thinking he feels one way when he feels the other. I remember raging, back then, feeling his affection pulse next to my placebo heartbeat, the warmth putrid and vile because it was not for me. But he never acted upon it, seemed completely oblivious to it. So I had learned he needs a heavy hand in order to recognize want, and I shall endeavor to provide.
I may be able to resist more violent urges, but it seems I still need to work on my impulse control. Before I know it I am biting down on my creator’s bottom lip, and heat is spilling into my mouth, iron and copper heavy on my tongue.
My creator tastes of the finest ambrosia, his blood the best nectar, his presence a balm for my festering rot that soothes it into something manageable. He is the only deity I believe in.
I cannot get enough. He is addicting, a drug I am incapable of withdrawal from, warm and alive in a way I will never be. If I am damnation, he must be salvation, a being of fluttering feathers and obsidian locks come down to absolve me of my sins.
And oh, what a baptism it is.
My creator has ceased struggling against me. That’s good; it makes things easier.
I shift slightly, nothing more than the tilt of my head, and our lips finally connect properly. I feel the roughness of his skin beneath mine, the warm slipperiness that comes with blood and spit and soft flesh. My creator is mouthing something, words rendered unintelligible via my ministrations, and I push past his teeth without a care, unheeding of his attempts at communication.
What more needs to be said? We have always been each other’s. There is nothing else I ought to understand.
I explore his mouth with a fascination previously unknown to me, tracing his gums and circling his tongue with mine. He once again tries to speak, or perhaps eject me from his mouth, but the way his tongue curls around mine in the process leaves a sort of morbid curiosity bubbling in its wake. I pause for a moment, considering, before I venture even deeper, pushing myself until I can feel the tight warmth of his throat around me.
My creator makes a sort of choking sound, and I pull back, concerned for his health. It would not do for him to expire before I’ve drank my fill. Instead, after a second or two of gasping for air, he shoves me back.
I could easily resist if I wanted, but surprise renders me defenseless, and so his push sends me tumbling back, dirtying my hands as I use them to catch myself from the fall.
Momentarily enraged at the objection to my rightful inheritance, I feel blindly behind me before my hands close around twin hilts. I snatch up my swords and spring from my fallen position, lunging and driving them both through the back of my creator, who has turned around to flee.
We fall together, tumbling and rolling around on the ground before we come to a halt. Carelessly, I yank my swords out, dropping them behind me with a clatter. My creator is breathing hard under me, and I can feel his heartbeat beneath my palm when I press it to his chest, a rabbit-quick thump thump thump that makes my mouth water and my hands itch with the urge to rip and tear and possess. I drag my fingers further down, and I hear his breath hitch as I dip them into the wound I have created.
The area is warm and slick with blood, flesh pliant underneath my hand, easily giving way to the intrusion. I ease my fingers in, tentatively at first, then more steadily descending into the deliciously red depths of my creator’s chest. I can hear him yelling something — maybe he’s begging, maybe he’s condemning me — but the audible pain in his voice is intoxicating, something I can’t get enough of.
More, more, more, I think, and press down hard, plunging my fingers all the way in at once, allowing the shape of the gash to guide me further inward.
My creator screams. The sound is beautiful, ricocheting like a gunshot in the ambiance of this realm. It’s addictive, heady and sweet and a curious bitterness all in one, and I find myself chasing that sound, thrusting my fingers in rhythm with his breaths. It’s a good strategy, one that works, drawing delightful symphonies of pained sounds from him. Until it doesn’t.
My creator is so very smart; he catches on quickly. He breathes slower, deeper, denying me the satisfaction of his whispered inhales, his shaky exhales. He does not cry, does not give voice to the sensations he must feel anymore, simply lies there and takes it, like a lifeless doll.
No, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.
I don’t understand it, but I am aware that humans engage in intimate practices sometimes. From what I can tell, it’s pleasurable for them.
I wonder if my creator will sound sweeter moaning than he does screaming.
There is only one way to find out.
My creator fights me every step of the way. Out of principle and instinct at the start, when he does not realize what I am doing, and out of desperation and an indignant sort of rage when the realization hits, kicking and struggling and yelling even as his inevitable defeat grows closer. It’s cute, almost, how he thinks it’ll make a difference.
I am final. Always have been, always will be. I am him. I am myself. And we are inevitable.
I ponder what to do once his lower half is exposed to me. I had mistakenly thought that, according to my own biology, my creator would also possess the strange extension of flesh that I did. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, that was not the case, and I instead found a pleasantly lubricated opening that I discover is just as warm and tight as his wounds. My fingers fit easily, like a key into his lock, and I have the sneaking suspicion that this will be what undos him.
My creator is saying something, faking bravado as he tries to jerk himself away from me. But I will always know him better than he knows himself. I see the halfheartedness in his struggles, the futility in his actions. I feel the way he bears down on my fingers, catch how he tries to make every reciprocation accidental, the subtle hitch of his breath as I curl my digits just-so and hit a patch of his insides that seems just the slightest bit more textured than everything else.
I take advantage of the opening, as all good swordsmen do, as all good fighters do. My creator taught me that long ago, underneath an orange sky, sparring recklessly with wooden swords. Back when I wasn’t myself, when my nature had yet to fully manifest. It was a short span of my life, simply a drop in the ocean, perhaps just a few days or weeks, but I remembered everything about that time — the brush of our hands together as he taught me to read and write, his ringing laughter that would grace my ears whenever we traded blows, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the smoothness of the Heights’ ground as we sat together and maintained his blades — I played those memories back again and again, an endless feedback loop of joy and joy and joy, until hatred clouded my vision and I could no longer see what my younger self did in those halcyon days.
Red looks much better on my creator than black, anyways.
I’ve been fiddling with that same patch of his insides for a while, now, and without warning, he throws his head back with a shout and tightens around me, clenching until my fingers are pressed together so tightly my bones grind against each other. I mean to withdraw, to examine my creator’s now puzzling condition, before I suddenly feel more lubrication gush past my fingers, and my creator loosens a bit, walls now fluttering around me like they’re not sure whether to constrict again or to let me go.
Ah. My creator has come.
The thought brings me as much disgruntlement as it does satisfaction. I have not even entered him yet, and here he was, trying to derive pleasure from an impersonal touch like this. I can see it in his quivering limbs, his tenseness and his closed eyes, that he is pretending my fingers are not mine.
Who is he imagining? A stranger? A robot? One of his beloved admins?
The thought makes my blood boil.
My creator is mine, only mine. It is time he learned this.
I wrench my fingers out of him, a cruel motion that has him gasping, eyes fluttering open, a protest already on his tongue. But I see all of his defiance dissolve in an instant when he lays his gaze on me.
A few moments pass. The silence is strangely heavy around us, a shawl that wraps us in its low, mourning tones. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand twitch, like he’s contemplating something.
Slowly, deliberately, I move. One hand gathers his wrists, raising to pin them down above his head. Another ventures downwards to close around a thigh, nails digging in as both a warning and a request: eyes on me.
My creator listens, for once. I find myself pleased at his acquiescence, my mood improving just the slightest as he quietly watches me. I release his thigh and slide my fingers back into him — the motion is easy, natural, like breathing, like killing. His walls offer no resistance, easily parting beneath my insistent pressing. He jolts as I open him again, a shudder wracking his frame momentarily, like a corrupted tape skipping and stuttering before rewinding just to do it all again. I want to rewind him, do it all to him again, make him come again, except this time he’ll be looking at me, not whatever hollow illusion his mind’s eye has conjured up.
With this in mind, I aim for the same textured spot that had brought him such great pleasure last time, and make sure to drag the full breadth of my fingerpads across it whenever I can. This yields exceptional results, and I find myself captivated by the way my creator writhes underneath me, hypnotized by his cut-off groans, his low panting and clipped choking gasps, like he’s witnessing an epiphany. He is, in a way. I am his best, his worst, his only. I am his everything. And today I will finally drag him into my maw.
“W-wait, ugh, too much—” my creator protests, squirming away from me as I abuse that sensitive place within him. “Stop, stop- gah—”
I continue, undaunted. I will not let something as trivial as overstimulation get in the way of my goals.
“You—” my creator chokes as he tries to take in another breath. “By the Heights- slow down, at least, fuck—!”
I pause for a moment, gauging his sincerity. My creator seems to genuinely believe he needs a break, and though I am not happy to mellow my current pace, I am keenly aware that angering him beyond a certain point will provide him more than enough motivation to renew his struggles and make it difficult for me to proceed. I could, of course, still overpower him; he is not the god he once was. But I find myself wanting something different this time. So I oblige and ease my fingers out of him slowly.
For some reason, my creator seems unsatisfied with this outcome. I frown slightly, unsure why his reaction is negative. He has turned his head to the side, unable to obscure his face via other means due to me still restraining his arms, and he is muttering something. Thoughtlessly, I focus on my hearing a bit, and my senses sharpen until I am able to tune into his ramblings.
“—edging me like a bastard when you can’t even be assed to fuck me properly—”
Huh. What…?
I consider his irritated countenance. Turn the phrase “fuck me properly” over in my head a few times. Glance down at my free hand and my sticky fingers glistening with lubrication. Consider his opening, still fluttering and clenching like it’s pleading for me to enter again. Consider my own biology. Then it clicks.
My attachment is roughly a compatible shape to insert into him. Does he want me to do that?
Well, never let it be said that I’d back down from a challenge.
Impatiently, I swipe my free hand over my own lower region, and run my fingers along the area where I remember it being. The lubrication from my creator smears across my skin, and soon the tingling from the fluid is joined by something else.
My creator goes very, very still as my strange extension emerges. I draw my digits up its length, humming at the way I can feel the light press of my fingertips against the flesh, and lean over him again. I give myself a moment to line up to his opening, adjusting myself around until I feel the warmth of his opening pressed against the tip of me, and permit myself one second to look him over, memorize that look of blended fear and anticipation in his gaze — shock and awe and terror and a wild, wild sort of adrenaline lining his pupils — before I shift my hips forward.
Warmth.
Blinding, gripping warmth that has me shuddering immediately as my entire body freezes up. Beneath me, my creator is also struggling, small gasps shaking his frame as he clenches tight around me. I need him to stop that, to relax. The frantic constrictions, intensely strong and rapid in number, send strings of pleasure signals taking up my spine until I ache with how raw it has flayed me. I would have come here, only half-inside and already so undone, if only I did not have my pride.
Stop, I shake my head as I grip my creator’s shoulder tightly with my free hand. Distantly, I can almost hear his arms creak, stiff from being stuck in the same position for so long. I almost feel pity at the way he winces, his shaking intensifying, but it cannot be helped until I have ensured he will not escape the moment I let him go. He seems to get the message, at least, the pulsations around me beginning to lessen in frequency.
Slowly, I ease myself into him, and I cannot help the hiss I let out as I finally press completely in. His insides are scalding, a roaring hotness that sears down my length, and he is bearing down on me again, taking me in a vice grip. It feels perfect, here. It feels so good, like home.
Yes, this is where I need to be.
Tight, so unbearably tight. Warm, burning, all-consuming, inevitably undoing. My creator arches his back, clenches so tight around me, slick gushing around my length, shaking, and I know he’s coming again, and—
“Fuck, ah, 1x—”
Everything becomes muddled for a bit.
When I regain awareness, I have collapsed, although I have not come. My grip on my creator has completely fallen away, both my hands now slack, my arms sprawled out gracelessly as my entire weight leans on the body underneath me. I count myself lucky to always have been light: as it stands, my creator already seems stifled enough, pushing at me weakly. He seems remarkably resilient in the face of his recent climax, resistance already surfacing in his boldening movements.
I cannot let him go, and I will not let him recover. He is much more suited to tears than triumph, anyway. That has always been the tragedy of us — he chases his own happiness, and I his misery. We could have never been, we will never be. But here, in dim purgatory, in the bloody dark, maybe we can steal a snatch of pleasure that will work for the both of us.
It is this thought, tinged with pity and self-interest and reluctant nostalgia, that I use to prop myself back up again. My creator redoubles his efforts, alarmed, but he is no match for me. I shift my hold to his legs and sling his calves over my shoulders. This is something I have seen in the wild, animals with their legs hanging up pitifully in the air. They seek to breed, to perpetuate, to hit as deep as they can to give their fertility a fighting chance. Likewise, I seek to break, to plunder, to subjugate and claim until my creator does not resist our union anymore. Whether this be because he will not or can not is irrelevant. In the end, I bend forward, grab his hips, drag him back onto me, and that’s that.
These new sensations that I have yet to process prove to be a mild hindrance. My creator thrashes underneath me, and I come dangerously close to joining him on several occasions. I haven’t felt anything like this ever, and the alien waves of heat and pleasure suffusing my being, shooting through my length to rip through my body, are utterly overwhelming. I hold on to consciousness by a breadth, and dignity only by a hair, but it’s something.
At least, until my creator wrenches it from me in one single breath.
My guard slips but for one moment. A single sound escapes from my lips, pathetic and breathless, weakness embodied. It should have gone ignored. It did not.
My creator comes again, but all of a sudden he does not seem to mind that I am still thrusting into him through the overstimulation. Instead he draws me closer, winds his arms around my neck and finally deigns to hitch his legs around my waist. Beckons me deeper, further in, ever-forward like a siren dragging someone into the water. Begins to bear down on me intentionally, setting up a rhythm to his clenching, and I am desperately trying to grab ahold of the situation again, but—
“1x,” he calls against my shoulder, “you- mm- you should-”
What is it, and it is at this point that my heart begins to beat wildly, to almost burst out of my chest in a shower or gore and viscera, what is it that you want? Say it, say it, creator, show me I have still won, show me you have thrown away your shame and your dignity and the walls against me, show me that you are mine—
“Inside, please, cum inside…”
It’s breathed out in one single exhale, words pressed against my skin like the moist air of my creator’s mouth. It’s real.
My vision goes white.
Distantly, I am aware that I have fallen into a most detestable, unbecoming state. But that pales in comparison to the sheer sensation clawing up my spine: it has me instinctively tensing every muscle, spasming and seizing slightly as an overwhelming amount of pleasure crashes over me. My attachment aches, pulsing angrily as I feel it work to ejaculate, and I feel waves of burning bliss sear up its length as my creator continues constricting around me. I’m shaking, shaking and weak, and there’s a pathetic string of broken whimpers hanging in the air that takes me an embarrassingly long time to attribute to myself.
When I come back to myself, my creator has managed to get out from under me and swap our positions. The only dignity I am afforded is that I remain somewhat alighted, sat up against something I cannot be bothered to examine right now. My creator sprawls prettily in my lap, my length still buried in him, my hands loosely draped around his waist, a perfect picture of submission. Yet my chest tightens with unease.
“Hush,” my creator croons unsteadily, hands pressed flush to me, hips now working in a rhythmic sort of grind, the soft wet sounds of his ministrations and my harsh breaths filling the air. “Just sit and take it.”
No. No, I don’t— I don’t want to—
My creator grinds down again, clenches just-so, and my thoughts dissipate into nothing, molten sparks bursting across my cerebrum as an utterly vile keen exits my mouth.
This isn’t right. I should be in control. I should— I want—
“You’re so good, filling me so well. Is this what you wanted? Is this what you were after all this time?”
Yes. Yes, it was. Yes, I do want this. I do, I do, I do—
“Take it. You’ve suffered, haven’t you? I owe you at least this.”
Take it? But don’t I already have my creator here? Don’t I…?
“Mm, are you that out of it? I guess I really am the best? Haha, take that, Builder!”
Builder… Builderman? Is my creator thinking about him, even in this state? Is my creator still not paying attention to me?
Rage blinds me again, fills me to the core. My grip on my creator’s hips abruptly tightens, and I barely hear him wince before I’m slamming back up into him, shaking him up and down, dragging him across my length like a toy. Choked breaths and grunts escape him at first, a hint of alarm making its way into his irises, but soon he goes pliant again, his eyes growing hazy once more. This unreasonable pace seems to satiate him even better than my initial speed, even though I was already quite rough from the beginning.
My creator is truly meant for me. To think I can do this and not be pushed away but rather pulled further in…
The stimulation quickly breaks me down again. The way my creator clenches around me, the filthy slap of our flesh together and the desperate hands gripping at my back, everything down to the barest of noises from his lips only serves to deteriorate my composure further. What little dignity I had managed to scrape together is quickly erased again, eradicated amidst the searing pleasure. Although my creator is the subservient one in theory, I find myself careening down into the chasm with him, until we are both as powerless as each other, bound to the other’s mercy.
“Ngh, fuck, creation—” my creator calls, and I press a whine into his neck, my shoulders hitching up slightly at the unexpected nickname. It has been a long, long time since he’s called me that, so long that I had believed him to be ignorant, to have forsaken me. Now, he claims me again, drags this part of me back to the surface, devours my allegiance with the raw teeth of a bygone title.
I don’t respond. How can I? My creator forbade me address him long ago, back when the creeping anger finally shattered me, when I tore through his manor and killed everyone else, when I screamed at him with rage and loss and told him it was inevitable, we were inevitable, and that he should only have eyes for me, eyes on me to fight me, to fix me. I wanted to ruin him the way he ruined me, and in the end I got my wish. He blinded himself with hate in kind, put me down and locked me away, shackled in chains and banished to the fourth dimension, so so far away from his glory and his light and his kind kind hands against my cold cold flesh. In the end the shame killed him, killed him and broke him until he was not the mighty God of Old anymore, just a demi-mortal with clipped wings. Finally my match, finally mine.
My time in the fourth dimension has left scars. I do not belong there, was not born to it. I will never be able to comprehend it, will never be able to bear existence on such a higher plane. But I do not belong here either, anymore. Not in this paltry third dimension, so plain compared to where I was, so constricting that I itch to claw my skin off, to shatter this body of mine, grind all my bones to dust so I can finally be free from this mortal coil.
My time spent away left scars, cruel things that tear at me, that have only just healed, that will never heal because to breathe is to suffer and I was never made for love, for happiness.
Then why is it that right now those scars no longer seem to affect me at all?
“Creation,” my creator calls again, and I pitch forward into his grasp, helpless to resist his voice as I thrust upwards again. This earns me a gasp, then a hum, and finally a breathless moan as I bottom out again. His hole flutters around me, maddening and alluring all at once, and I have to fight against the urge to pull out and do it again. I am rewarded for my patience when my creator presses a smile to my ear and keeps talking.
“Be a darling and stay put, okay?”
A shiver travels down my spine as my creator slowly, agonizingly lifts himself off of me. We disconnect with a pop, and I eye the ribbons of green dripping out from his hole with equal parts satisfaction and reprimand. Before my lips can tilt into a frown, his do first, and I watch him push my cum back into himself with no small amount of pleasure, even going as far as to leave his fingers in, plugging himself to prevent any further leakage.
“Round’s going to end soon,” he mutters, shifting around to look for the clothing I had carelessly discarded while in pursuit of my goal. Amused, I shuffle out from under him and retrieve the loose articles for him. I’m not sure why my hatred has waned for the moment, but I find myself pleasantly surprised with how good being alive feels in the moment. It’s wonderful what not involuntarily brimming with antagonistic feelings can do, but truly a shame this state of being is not permanent.
That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while it lasts, though.
Quickly, I wind one arm around my creator’s waist. Caught off guard, he is helpless to resist against my yank, and topples into me with a yelp. Smiling in victory, I pull him flush against my chest, securing his place with me whilst ignoring his protests. Such struggles hold no water, as we both know, but I suppose it comforts him to be in denial.
As the round ends, I feel my consciousness ebbing away, and the warmth of my creator is akin to a blanket shielding me from the cold of reality for just a second more. Then everything goes black for a second, and when I open my eyes again, I am back in my limbo.
Alone again.
…
…wait. That’s not right.
“…what the hell?” My creator gawks, pulling away from me. “Is this a dream?”
I blink once, twice, then eye his figure, sizing up an unmarked patch of skin.
“Wait, shit—” my creator seems to have realized my intentions, but he is unfortunately a second too late, and by the time he moves I am already pouncing on him again, tilting his head so I may gain access to his neck.
“Hey, c’mon, we just fin- mmh,” he pushes at me as I sneak one hand under his clothing, but cuts himself off and quickly yields when my fingers brush against his hole, still wet and loose.
As I bite into his neck, holding back just enough to not draw blood, I shift my fingers slightly up again, and bump into a tiny bit of flesh.
“Hng-!” My creator jolts like he’s been shocked, and I quickly rearrange my hand to a better position before swiping at it with my thumb.
“Guh- mmm, not fair, you can’t just tease me like this…” he complains as I make a few more passes at the nub. Annoyed, I shift my hand again, and press down hard against it before rolling it under my thumb several times.
“Ah—! Ah, hah, hnn, 1x, stop!”
I shake my head, smile twisting into a smirk. Does my creator really think I would give up such an opening?
“1x, 1x, please, ah! Please,” he chokes, and there’s tears in his eyes, actual tears. I pause for a moment, both surprised by his intense reaction and enthralled by the way his eyes glisten, before doing the same thing again.
“Creation, creation I’m gonna cuuuummmm,” my creator whines, now full-on sobbing, and I shake in place for a moment before promptly ridding him of his clothes again and pushing back into him. He’s easy to enter, almost unrealistically so, still leaking my spend. I fuck him hard and fast, matching my previous pace, and the litany of moans, gasps, and straight up begging coming from him sends my head spinning.
“Augh, creation, I’m still- nnh, fuck, how long are you — hah — planning to — ah — keep going?”
As a response, I grip a fist full of my creator’s hair, and kiss him again, scraping his lips with my canines and licking across his gums, staying deep within his mouth even as I continue to push in and out of him, only pulling apart when I fear he has grown low on air.
My creator mewls as I move to play with that strange little bit of flesh again, but makes no move to stop me. It seems he understands that we will be doing this until I physically cannot anymore. He moans once more as I alight upon that nub again, this time loud enough to ring in the air, and manages to spit out something about bullying, but at that point I was far too lost in his warmth and tightness to care.
“You’re- gah- such a bastard,” my creator whimpers as I grind deep within him.
I just laugh in response, relishing in the burn of overstimulation down my length.
Today is going to be a great day.
•–•
“Fuck, Shed, what happened to you? And where the hell were you?” Chance eyed the admin incredulously, gaze jumping from the torn and bloodstained shirt to the crooked and wrinkled shorts to the beyond dishevelled and tangled mop of hair before finally settling on the absolute nightmare of bruises blooming across every visible patch of skin, a medley of which were either suspiciously finger-shaped or flat out bite marks.
“Ahah- so, funny story…” Shedletsky laughed, then trailed off, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his head. This exposed the underside of his arm, which bore a lengthy scratch scabbed over and stained with an old brown that was most definitely dried blood. The most incriminating part, though, was the smeared streak of a liquid around it that was a striking shade of green even in its faded state.
A shade of green uncannily reminiscent of a certain someone.
“…Shed, what the fuck?”
“Hey, listen, I can explain—”
“EXPLAIN WHAT??? YOU CANNOT EXPLAIN THIS SHIT, SHEDLETSKY—”
“Ow ow ow, okay okay I’m sorry for sleeping with the enemy even though 1x technically counts as myself- OW STOP HITTING ME CHANCE—”
Fuck, Shedletsky despaired as Chance once again smacked his shoulder, causing basically every single bruise across his body to flare up in a mixture of both pain and pleasure that he had to work his ass off to hide.
Today is going to be a horrible day.