Bandages
Your muse walks in on mine in the bathtub. My muse is covered in wounds. Send me "Bandages" for my muses reaction to yours pulling them out of the tub and beginning to bandage their wounds. // accepting.
istanbul. it had seemed so exciting at first for their second mission as a team, and yet -- when there is the slightest pressure of touch he finds himself flinching away with a sharp inhale. wild eyes, glassy eyes, don’t quite register the fact that ilya is present, that he is the one touching the deep bruises and knife wounds.
“don’t -- !”
napoleon can taste the beginning of a plea on his tongue. hot and fervent as though anything less would ensure that he wound up a victim for the whims of his captors. but there was no more than ilya staring down at him uncertain before pulling him from the murky waters swirling with blood and filth.
a shaking sob is choked out on his breath.
don’t touch me !!
but ilya merely places him on the bed and eases his arms away from his body one at a time. napoleon is biting his lip, grimacing each time a fresh cut is wiped clean and bandaged. he’s almost grateful that the other man doesn’t ask him questions or do much more than touch him with steady reassuring pressure as he tried to help.
the tears though, he doesn’t realize there are tears running down his face until he’s startled out of his thoughts by a hand to his cheek. oh. oh. turning his head away, bandaged fingers push aside ilya’s fingers and his brows knit together.
don’t touch me i’m disgusting and filthy and--
there are stern hands dragging him closer, pulling him upright and exposing him from where he’s curled up on the bed. warm lips catch him off guard and his mouth steals his breath, hands uselessly fumbling on the sheets. don’t. don’t. no please don’t. ilya brushes the kisses away and leaves a new kind of pain over the fresh wounds with his canines.
a hiccuping breath is choked out.
thank god ilya doesn’t judge him for how he caves in, falling uselessly against the other man’s shoulder. no, he does not cry but god help him how he weeps silently into the front of ilya’s shirt. fingers twist possessively into fabric.
“okay,” he breathes out, “okay, just -- just make me forget everything.”
