Notes

he is a vulture, feeding on the grotesque and macabre, sating himself with the flesh of whatever remains of what once lived.

wound cleaning and will sleepwalking


he is not apt at this, but they seem to be satisfied with the heavy press of him on their soft insides. he remembers what the warmth of a lover feels like, though it had only been once, and it had been with a man. his skin had been calloused and rough, though theirs is soft and smooth. their heartbeat flutters fast beneath his fingertips, limbs trembling slightly from the stretch. 'arrêter,' they whisper, fingers so gentle it is almost teasing as they trail them up his forearms.

they remain like that for some time, feeling the slow relax of their quiet muscles. he shakes like some feral dog, hands clumsy on their fair skin, the strain of his patience wears thin. "mitt hjerte," he whispers.

"Do you want to move?" they sound guilty, "You can, whenever you wish."

their back arches in the throes, but they remain silent, only gasping softly when he presses back in. the pace drives him mad, but they do not press back against him in search of pleasure, nor do they moan at all. he worries he is hurting them, he is almost feels too big for their smaller frame, covering their body completely and strong arms holding nearly too tight. the thought makes him snap his hips up sharply by accident, they go rigid, letting out a small whimper as they reel.

he slows, but does not stop, pressing wet kisses to their neck in apology, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Their voice is soft, yet it shakes significantly, "No." They repeat it when he brushes against a sensitive spot inside them, this time more elongated and slurred, "N-no."