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TAKE AIM & GIVE ● APRIL 2026 EVENT
EVENT: TAKE AIM & GIVE
ᛗ
Won't You Wait For Me? — Week 1
( content warnings: Psychological horror, atmospheric dread, themes of isolation and abandonment, feelings of being watched, paranoia, supernatural influence and loss of control. )
New Vessels will awaken randomly across the city in the dead of night with their Nightmares and welcoming item— courtesy of Espera— In one piece of mind and body. You may even wake up next to the Veteran vessels you met within the Dreamscape. Gather yourself, extra clothes, a blanket or two, and enjoy the working heaters during this never ending winter. The strange animals won't hurt you if you don't hurt them. Nothing of value is worth noting, only that you are safe for now, if you choose the right place, and you should get some footing under you in the days to come. Luckily, you have others to help you get situated.
But Veterans will quickly begin to notice that for once in the many months they've been here, nothing is wrong. Nothing actually happens, even as the month's full moon pours pale blue into the sky and agitates our Lycans. Even as mildew becomes a sheet of frost in the morning. Even as the chill nips and makes its stay comfortable long past the amount of time winter should be had.
The nights pass without forcefully caused incident or . . . "Divine intervention", if you'd call it that. The Murmur hums low and distant, like a machine idling somewhere underground. No sudden dreams. No new Hosts clawing their way out of dark places. No anomalies worth reporting. Three is still gone. Two may blink a soft hello to you through the lights. Espera is quiet, unsettled. And One— One cannot be reached, and those who attempt it will find themselves facing a cold, cold wall.
It is . . . Quiet. Too quiet.
Established Tethers feel familiar again— warm, settled, almost comforting. The ache that usually comes with connection has dulled, replaced with a strange sense of ease. Some Vessels sleep better than they have in weeks. Others feel watched in the absence of Sleep's usual pressure, as though something has stepped back to get a better view of them all.
TOKEN EFFECTS
New Vessels will awaken randomly across the city in the dead of night with their Nightmares and welcoming item— courtesy of Espera— In one piece of mind and body. You may even wake up next to the Veteran vessels you met within the Dreamscape. Gather yourself, extra clothes, a blanket or two, and enjoy the working heaters during this never ending winter. The strange animals won't hurt you if you don't hurt them. Nothing of value is worth noting, only that you are safe for now, if you choose the right place, and you should get some footing under you in the days to come. Luckily, you have others to help you get situated.
But Veterans will quickly begin to notice that for once in the many months they've been here, nothing is wrong. Nothing actually happens, even as the month's full moon pours pale blue into the sky and agitates our Lycans. Even as mildew becomes a sheet of frost in the morning. Even as the chill nips and makes its stay comfortable long past the amount of time winter should be had.
The nights pass without forcefully caused incident or . . . "Divine intervention", if you'd call it that. The Murmur hums low and distant, like a machine idling somewhere underground. No sudden dreams. No new Hosts clawing their way out of dark places. No anomalies worth reporting. Three is still gone. Two may blink a soft hello to you through the lights. Espera is quiet, unsettled. And One— One cannot be reached, and those who attempt it will find themselves facing a cold, cold wall.
It is . . . Quiet. Too quiet.
Established Tethers feel familiar again— warm, settled, almost comforting. The ache that usually comes with connection has dulled, replaced with a strange sense of ease. Some Vessels sleep better than they have in weeks. Others feel watched in the absence of Sleep's usual pressure, as though something has stepped back to get a better view of them all.
TOKEN EFFECTS
• You have a persistent sense that something important is being withheld from you; could be affection, truth, or attention, and from just about anyone.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Heightened emotional awareness toward your tether(s), bordering on preoccupation.
• Moments of peace feel undeserved, as if they're borrowed time.
• Increased vulnerability to Sundowning symptoms at night: restlessness, fixation, difficulty grounding, etc.
• A temptation to cling to what is familiar rather than question why it feels wrong.
• Subtle physical discomfort when separated from your tether(s): pressure in the chest, static under the skin, etc.
• Protective instincts begin surfacing early, even without a clear threatin sight.
• A sense that your usefulness is being evaluated at all times.
• Dreams where your tether is distant, blurred, or just out of reach.
• Instinctive distrust of the quiet, even as others welcome it as the disguise of calm.
ᛗ
Take Aim On My For Once — Week 2
( content warnings: Psychological and emotional abuse, manipulation, depictions of toxic attachment and obsession, relationship deterioration and interpersonal conflict, themes of abandonment and self-isolation, worsening mental confusion, intrusive supernatural presence, feelings of being hunted or targeted, sustained emotional distress and destabilization. )
Well, that didn't last.
Tethers begin to hurt gradually and unmistakably. Conversations between your bonds may sour without warning. Comfort turns abrasive at the drop of a dime. Being close feels dangerously like standing in front of something loaded, with your friend's finger tightening on the trigger.
Sleep's presence presses closer through the Murmur at last, intimate and merciless. Her attention burns with precision, never warm and much less inviting— unless you know the invitations of a temptress. When She slips wordlessly between the empty spaces of your day to day, brushes upon your psych like a fish's tail flitting against your legs in the water, it is with intent. When She watches you, it is to study you.
One immediately, pathetically, really— takes the bait in his solitude. She purposely ignores him, giving you all minor scraps of attention, and he runs after Her anyway like a desperate pup. If this is how she loves— if love is meant to wound— then he will endure it. He withdraws from his black hole of self-punished isolation. Pushes away safety. Cuts himself further off from those who would soften the impact. Whatever remains of him turns toward Sleep alone, asking Her to aim true. Those who have felt the pain of real loneliness at least once in life will hear the echoing chamber of his serenade from time to time: How you love like weapons kill . . .
Unfortunately, One's song, feelings, emotions— warp the very reality you live and feel very day. Some Vessels feel the same pull, while others recoil. The strain finally reveals itself:
Established Tethers begin to misfire— Familiar bonds will grow volatile and emotions will echo too sharply. Comfort curdles into agitation, and being close to each other feels like pressing too near a wound that won't close. You're irritable, and your Tether is irritable right back. Established pairs will have negative effects on each other rather than positive during this week. The Murmur distorts around your connections, vibrating unevenly, as if something is interfering with the signal. Sundowning worsens where bonds are strongest, causing nighttime confusion to bloom faster, deeper, harder rather than slowing down. The closer you are to your Tethers, people who are supposed to be your ground, your pillars, your safe haven— the more it hurts.
The shot hasn't fired yet, but you can feel the crosshairs. As quickly as she can, Espera does what she does best, exhausted but resolute:
"You must . . . Find new Tethers. Just one will do. At least for now. Two will assist where I cannot."
Those who go outside and walk the city in search of a new bond will be aided by blinking lights— that will then lead you straight to someone else, in equal need.
TOKEN EFFECTS:
OFFERING EFFECTS:
Well, that didn't last.
Tethers begin to hurt gradually and unmistakably. Conversations between your bonds may sour without warning. Comfort turns abrasive at the drop of a dime. Being close feels dangerously like standing in front of something loaded, with your friend's finger tightening on the trigger.
Sleep's presence presses closer through the Murmur at last, intimate and merciless. Her attention burns with precision, never warm and much less inviting— unless you know the invitations of a temptress. When She slips wordlessly between the empty spaces of your day to day, brushes upon your psych like a fish's tail flitting against your legs in the water, it is with intent. When She watches you, it is to study you.
One immediately, pathetically, really— takes the bait in his solitude. She purposely ignores him, giving you all minor scraps of attention, and he runs after Her anyway like a desperate pup. If this is how she loves— if love is meant to wound— then he will endure it. He withdraws from his black hole of self-punished isolation. Pushes away safety. Cuts himself further off from those who would soften the impact. Whatever remains of him turns toward Sleep alone, asking Her to aim true. Those who have felt the pain of real loneliness at least once in life will hear the echoing chamber of his serenade from time to time: How you love like weapons kill . . .
Unfortunately, One's song, feelings, emotions— warp the very reality you live and feel very day. Some Vessels feel the same pull, while others recoil. The strain finally reveals itself:
Established Tethers begin to misfire— Familiar bonds will grow volatile and emotions will echo too sharply. Comfort curdles into agitation, and being close to each other feels like pressing too near a wound that won't close. You're irritable, and your Tether is irritable right back. Established pairs will have negative effects on each other rather than positive during this week. The Murmur distorts around your connections, vibrating unevenly, as if something is interfering with the signal. Sundowning worsens where bonds are strongest, causing nighttime confusion to bloom faster, deeper, harder rather than slowing down. The closer you are to your Tethers, people who are supposed to be your ground, your pillars, your safe haven— the more it hurts.
The shot hasn't fired yet, but you can feel the crosshairs. As quickly as she can, Espera does what she does best, exhausted but resolute:
Those who go outside and walk the city in search of a new bond will be aided by blinking lights— that will then lead you straight to someone else, in equal need.
TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Emotional pain from your tether(s) will register as proof of connection rather than the warning that it truly is.
• Increased tolerance for emotional harm if it means staying close.
• Intrusive thoughts that frame suffering as something you must endure to be worthy.
• Sundowning escalates faster when near your tether(s).
• Desire to isolate from others who question the health of your bond.
OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Compulsion to remain present even when it hurts. Retreat feels like failure on your part.
• Self-destructive protective behaviors: taking on emotional or physical harm meant for your tether.
• Heightened aggression or defensiveness toward perceived threats to the bond.
• Difficulty recognizing when care has turned into damage.
• Instinct to endure rather than escape, mirroring One's withdrawal.
ᛗ
Give Me All That You Can Give
( content warnings: Manipulative and coercive intimacy, themes of emotional dependency and possession, loss of autonomy and personal boundaries, obsessive attachment, supernatural influence. )
Rounding the month's third week, the pain between Tethers stops abruptly, cleanly, like a weighted thread snapped at the grip. Tethers no longer wound, but they do not loosen either. Instead, they tighten, drawing Vessels closer into something dense and consuming. Sleep's presence floods the Murmur, no longer distant, but intimate in a way that leaves no room for you to breathe in the slightest.
One reflects back to her like radar bouncing off wall. Their voices overlap in the dark of your dreams, devotion echoing devotion, and occassionally, should your heart be open, they duet. Love stops hurting because it no longer needs to. Instead, it takes. And takes, and takes.
Protection becomes instinct to some, while attention becomes fixation for others. Needs may be spoken aloud and without shame, and expected to be met. One and Sleep's cruelty mirrors closeness taken too far upon you, with their care sharpened into unhealthy possession.
No one is alone this week, but that does not mean you are safe.
TOKEN EFFECTS
Rounding the month's third week, the pain between Tethers stops abruptly, cleanly, like a weighted thread snapped at the grip. Tethers no longer wound, but they do not loosen either. Instead, they tighten, drawing Vessels closer into something dense and consuming. Sleep's presence floods the Murmur, no longer distant, but intimate in a way that leaves no room for you to breathe in the slightest.
One reflects back to her like radar bouncing off wall. Their voices overlap in the dark of your dreams, devotion echoing devotion, and occassionally, should your heart be open, they duet. Love stops hurting because it no longer needs to. Instead, it takes. And takes, and takes.
Protection becomes instinct to some, while attention becomes fixation for others. Needs may be spoken aloud and without shame, and expected to be met. One and Sleep's cruelty mirrors closeness taken too far upon you, with their care sharpened into unhealthy possession.
No one is alone this week, but that does not mean you are safe.
TOKEN EFFECTS
• Growing expectation that your needs should come first within the bond.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Difficulty tolerating distance, silence, or unmet demands.
• Emotional comfort derived from your tether's sacrifice.
• Increased confidence when obeyed or prioritized.
• Rationalization of control as intimacy: this is just how we care for each other.
• Obsessive vigilance: tracking moods, movements, threats, real or imagined.
• Territorial behavior toward others interacting with your tether.
• Willingness to sacrifice sleep, safety, or selfhood to remain useful.
• Anxiety when not needed; relief only when depended upon.
• Difficulty distinguishing your own desires from your tether's
.
ᛗ
I Won't Fight Fair
( content warnings: Snakes, intense stalking and predatory behavior, vivid hallucinations and psychological breakdown, intrusive body horror and parasitic infestation, loss of bodily autonomy, graphic implications of illness and bleeding, supernatural possession, severe mental distress and destabilization, themes of obsession, emotional exhaustion, and abandonment. )
Something is watching you by the tail end of the waxing crescent.
A Host moves through the edges of the city, seen in reflections, dreams, empty tunnels and storefronts. Corners, windows, and alleyways. While it never seems to attack you in its stalking stages, its presence alone is enough to unravel nerves already stretched thin by earlier devotion and demand. The sense of being observed does not come with footsteps or breath. It arrives in reflections that linger too long. In slithering silhouettes that do not move when you do. In scaley serpents pouring through the mouths of familiar faces before snapping back into place.
A manifestation has entered the network. The Murmur carries its presence poorly, as if whatever this Host has become does not belong fully to Sleep, nor to the world that remains. Yet, those who feel its attention describe the same progression: The certainty of being singled out, the maddening inability to prove it, and the slow understanding that distance does not help.
The Basilisk stalks its chosen Vessel across nights and waking hours alike. Appearing only at the edges of vision, behind glass, at the far end of alleys, or standing impossibly still beneath broken lights. When ignored, it draws closer. When acknowledged, it stills, and grows your paranoia. It seems to feed on your awareness.
The longer it watches, the weaker its target becomes. Rest drains poorly from those already hollowed by obsession and demand. Sundowning deepens catastrophically. After horridly vivid hallucinations of the Basilisk catching you in the nasty form of friends and loved ones, blood follows you through nosebleeds, blackened veins, and a cold setting into the bones no matter how close the heaters warm.
When it finally closes true distance on the sixth day of stalking, it does not tear or bite with violence— at least not first. It makes you spiral before it forcibly enters your body, through the mouth— Until you, too, spew over with slithering creatures burrowing into your skulls, and making their parasitic home. It will crumble into sand when the waxing gibbous is at its prime, leaving the city damp with dissatisfaction. The only way to escape it? Pass it on to another Vessel through any kind of physical harm. A cut, a punch— anything to make them bleed.
Only then will the Basilisk leave you be. If you survive the end of the week, all Basilisks will dissapate into dust.
One is exhausted. Hollowed out. Whatever he gave, whatever he surrendered, did not fill the space it left behind. Sleep is close, closer than ever . . . And still so unreachable. When the pressure finally lifts, it leaves him standing alone, emptied by devotion that was never returned in kind.
Tethers completely stabilize, but there's a bad taste in your mouth for the days to come.
TOKEN EFFECTS
OFFERING EFFECTS
GENERAL EFFECTS (ANY WEEK)
Something is watching you by the tail end of the waxing crescent.
A Host moves through the edges of the city, seen in reflections, dreams, empty tunnels and storefronts. Corners, windows, and alleyways. While it never seems to attack you in its stalking stages, its presence alone is enough to unravel nerves already stretched thin by earlier devotion and demand. The sense of being observed does not come with footsteps or breath. It arrives in reflections that linger too long. In slithering silhouettes that do not move when you do. In scaley serpents pouring through the mouths of familiar faces before snapping back into place.
A manifestation has entered the network. The Murmur carries its presence poorly, as if whatever this Host has become does not belong fully to Sleep, nor to the world that remains. Yet, those who feel its attention describe the same progression: The certainty of being singled out, the maddening inability to prove it, and the slow understanding that distance does not help.
The Basilisk stalks its chosen Vessel across nights and waking hours alike. Appearing only at the edges of vision, behind glass, at the far end of alleys, or standing impossibly still beneath broken lights. When ignored, it draws closer. When acknowledged, it stills, and grows your paranoia. It seems to feed on your awareness.
The longer it watches, the weaker its target becomes. Rest drains poorly from those already hollowed by obsession and demand. Sundowning deepens catastrophically. After horridly vivid hallucinations of the Basilisk catching you in the nasty form of friends and loved ones, blood follows you through nosebleeds, blackened veins, and a cold setting into the bones no matter how close the heaters warm.
When it finally closes true distance on the sixth day of stalking, it does not tear or bite with violence— at least not first. It makes you spiral before it forcibly enters your body, through the mouth— Until you, too, spew over with slithering creatures burrowing into your skulls, and making their parasitic home. It will crumble into sand when the waxing gibbous is at its prime, leaving the city damp with dissatisfaction. The only way to escape it? Pass it on to another Vessel through any kind of physical harm. A cut, a punch— anything to make them bleed.
Only then will the Basilisk leave you be. If you survive the end of the week, all Basilisks will dissapate into dust.
One is exhausted. Hollowed out. Whatever he gave, whatever he surrendered, did not fill the space it left behind. Sleep is close, closer than ever . . . And still so unreachable. When the pressure finally lifts, it leaves him standing alone, emptied by devotion that was never returned in kind.
Tethers completely stabilize, but there's a bad taste in your mouth for the days to come.
TOKEN EFFECTS
• Emotional whiplash as devotion peaks and begins to withdraw.
• Guilt over what you demanded once the pressure lifts.
• Fear of abandonment or loss of control as balance returns.
• Difficulty trusting affection that doesn't require sacrifice.
• Lingering paranoia from the Basilisk.
OFFERING EFFECTS
• Burnout: physical exhaustion, emotional numbness, or delayed resentment.
• Shame or confusion over how far you were willing to go.
• Hypervigilance persists even after the threat fades.
• Difficulty releasing control without feeling unsafe.
• Sense of having given everything and being left empty-handed.
GENERAL EFFECTS (ANY WEEK)
• Characters may have dreams involving weapons, open hands, or eyes in the dark.
• The Murmur feels louder when alone than when surrounded.
• Difficulty articulating where love and affection ends and harm begins— both may bleed into each other.
• Residual emotional fatigue even after the month concludes.
no subject
But that is not your only talent, yes?
( Freddie promised to show him a few things — Victor hasn't forgotten. A shiver courses through him as he's guided toward the bed, his knees folding against the edge and lowering himself onto delicately. He produces a small bottle from within one of his pockets, laying it down on the mattress beside him before allowing Freddie to resume his ministrations. )
no subject
[ Freddie chuckles—first at the insinuation, and then because he's caught off-guard by the degree to which Victor has prepared himself here. He does know what he wants—indulgently, he wonders as he undoes the buckle of Victor's belt, knee pressing into the edge of the mattress between his legs, whether his partner has ever attempted the sort of stimulation he's come here seeking—whether he's fingered himself to completion, or used some sort of tool to achieve the same result by the same route with a little more finesse. They did have dildoes back then. And he's a doctor. Freddie imagines they didn't teach guys that it feels good in Victorian medical schools, but surely he's already aware, probably got a chance to observe for himself during exams if nothing else.
But this seems to be from his doctor's bag, an anachronism that would probably work fine but can certainly be outdone by modern innovation (and ample scrounging of drugstores). He wraps his hand around the glass and gently sets it further off to the side as the other slides down Victor's open pants and palms at his shaft through his undergarments. ]
We have something better now. Made for the purpose. You don't need to worry about that, Doctor.
no subject
I didn't— want to come empty-handed.
( He explains, hips grinding up into his lover's hand, breathless and wanting, while his fingers curl tight into Freddie's shirt. )
Show me. I wish to know them.
( Greedy, in the way that he wishes to devour every bit of passion and intimacy Freddie will give him. To learn about him — what he likes, what he doesn't — just as he would an academic subject, through study and practice. )
no subject
He withdraws the hand—he doesn't want to get him too stimulated before the main event—and gently slides the legs of Victor's trousers down his legs, mindful of the ability of the prosthetic leg's metal workings to potentially snag the fabric, and stops to leave Victor to his own devices once they've been lowered to his ankles. He looks up into his eyes for a moment from where he kneels on the floor before he rises again, having the strong feeling that the vision of him in repose at the other's feet might hold some erotic appeal of its own.
His hand comes to rest on the bare skin of Victor's upper thigh, just above the crest of the cuff made in hard cognac leather, and he watches him carefully for both verbal and nonverbal response as he poses the next question with the guarded hopes that he's asking it correctly and not making the whole thing awkward or uncomfortable. ]
On or off? I don't mind. Whatever's more comfortable for you.
cw amputation description
But Freddie has been kind to him, and whatever discomfort he might have felt upon seeing it, it did not last. It's sweet, just like most of Freddie's tendencies, how desperate he is not to offend or make Victor feel lesser for his deformity. Victor reaches for the leather straps and begins the process of untying them, lifting his feet out of his trousers and offering the prosthesis to Freddie for him to set aside. )
Like this. I trust you.
( He feels more vulnerable now than ever, bare in another man's bed, in his house with his mobility out of reach. His hand presses against Freddie's cheek, like a master petting his dog, believing in his loyalty. )
no subject
Fuck, that's a moment of gravity that he wasn't expecting (but probably should have as soon as he asked such a deeply intimate question). The truth of it is self-evident, even in the fact that after undoing the prosthesis Victor hands this extension of his body to him instead of ensuring that it's set down properly himself. Freddie knows, even just from the conversations he's had in VA waiting rooms and general military-adjacent exposure, how priceless the weighty substitute leg he now holds is: custom-made, fitted to match Victor's shoes, the leather cup molded and sized to a single man's residual limb. Something like that cost as much as a new car back in his own world if the VA wasn't paying for it. And it's irreplaceable here, unless someone like Arthur were to learn to make some kind of alternative over a period of months.
Victor reaches down, cups his cheek. It feels weirdly intimate, a line that shouldn't be crossed, but they more-or-less crossed it as soon as Victor shut the door behind him. He hasn't let people kiss him when he knows it's inevitable he'll see them again. Not on the mouth, at least. Not in that sort of convincing pantomime of a kiss that means something, which he has allowed multiple times since the evening began.
Freddie pauses for a moment to stand the prosthesis against the corner where the leg of the bedside table meets the mattress, handling it with the respect it deserves—then, that taken care of, pushes him back a little on the mattress and finally joins him there, straddling Victor's narrow hips with his weight on his knees and casting him a coy smile as he undoes his belt buckle. ]
Because I'm cute or because I'm trustworthy?
[ A tease, a small deflection without dismissal or refusal to acknowledge what Victor's said. The trust he's made it clear he's placing in him, in more than one way. ]
no subject
But, like Freddie, he doesn't try to let it show. After a brief moment of hesitation, Victor smiles in a way that brightens his face, eyes crinkling at the edges, but doesn't quite reach them. )
Because you're kind.
( And then, with his expression fading, he adds, )
Don't overthink it. It is just for the night, yes?
no subject
Don't overthink it. Victor sees right through him, painfully obvious—doesn't flirt back, remarks on the observation instead of just letting it slide. But he reiterates his understanding of the mutual agreement underscoring this whole thing. He was just being nice, not making this weird. That swts him more at ease. ]
Who said I was overthinking? [ He leans down, one hand on the mattress to support himself as he presses a light kiss to the sharp corner of the man's jawline at the same time as the other reaches back to stroke him. Tenderness. That's what does it for him. ] We're going to have a great evening.
no subject
( He eases somewhat, skin prickling at the kiss and the brush of Freddie's hand against his skin. Victor doesn't return it, though — after giving Freddie instructions to disrobe, he cannot afford to distract the man further. Or create more uncertainty for him, which would be worse.
So he leans back, staring up at Freddie from his vantage point with a lecherous expression. Eyes roaming, taking in one last sight of the other man in his uniform before it's gone. )
no subject
And then, within a few moments, he's fully undressed, his bare skin exposed to the cool air he knows will feel a lot warmer shortly, everything he looks away from when he performs the same ritual alone now exposed to Victor's stare, his evaluation, his judgment—the outward curve to his sides and the swell of his belly, the thickness to his arms, the trace fullness to his chest that honestly doesn't bother him as much as everything else. The thick, girly thighs that don't fill out his dress pants the way they were meant to.
But he feels alright with all of that in this moment. Comfortable. At peace. The body he inhabits right now is the one Victor finds desirable, not some memory of the last ten years on active duty. Victor has no concept of the before, of how much he's let himself go; the Freddie he knows and wants has always looked like this.
He simply exists as he takes his cap off and sets that, too, to the side, with as much care as the suit jacket. He'll grab a rubber from the drawer in a moment—a hard-won item, scrounged across a number of drugstores and bedside tables that don't belong to him, something most of the people here don't bother with even outside of the dreams they're occasionally plunged into—but for the time being, he plans on giving Victor a moment to admire, giving himself a moment to be admired.
Freddie smiles as he looks down at him, playful, earnest. ]
There. Now we're even.
no subject
And eager—
( He purrs in that deep, self-satisfied voice, lips curling into a smirk as his eyes trail down Freddie's body, from his chest down to the fullness of his cock, his meaty thighs straddling Victor's hips. He places a hand over the swell of Freddie's stomach, admiring and appreciative. )
I like you like this.
( Naked, at Victor's beck and call. Something he could very easily and thoroughly get used to, if he was feeling particularly greedy. )
no subject
Freddie smirks, playfulness veiling some of the deep gratification as he gives Victor's naked form beneath his own a pointed once over. ]
You're not such a sore sight yourself, Doctor. In fact, I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to hold myself back here, having you all to himself like this.
[ Waiting to be fucked. Ready for him.
Freddie twists for a moment, half lifting himself to reach into the drawer of the bedside table and produce one of those precious, hard-won condoms from a melange of different brands and expiration dates. The common denominator: they're at least all still in their packages, and they're some degree of protection against the risks he's not willing to blindly trust that Sleep has ruled out.
He quickly returns to his perch on Victor's lap, the stiffness of his erection so close to brushing Victor's own without ever making contact, and opens it—naturally, he struggles like an idiot while this beautiful man watches him, even with the easy-tear edging, and has to open it with his teeth.
That done, putting it on is a practiced, routine move, one that takes him a matter of moments. He tosses the wrapper to the side. ]
Nothing personal, of course. And don't worry, I'm clean.
[ It's a preference, a hygiene thing. Victor's a doctor. He should understand. ]
no subject
He tries to keep those feelings from spilling into their tether, though, not wishing to spook the man as he'd done a few times earlier. He distracts himself instead with the sight of Freddie preparing himself, body leaning over him and causing an involuntary shiver to course through Victor's frame. God— it may not take much at all for him to finish, touch-starved as he is and desperate for this particular man. )
I wasn't worried. And I want you to be comfortable, most of all.
( Rubber contraceptives are not an altogether new thing to him — they existed, though not in the same sleek manner as the one Freddie's using. He's diligent, at least, which is more than Victor can say for the men of his time. Victor, of course, practiced isolation, abstaining altogether from any unnecessary human interaction and intimacy. It made it easier for him to think, and to focus on his more important goal: creating life, conquering death.
Victor trails his finger along Freddie's thigh, looking down then up with a warm expression. )