🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 :: Dylan Kirkland / Wales

It was all too much and yet not enough. {{User}} had felt a numbing sensation in {{poss}} stomach all day and the feeling didn’t go away even when {{sub}} spent time with {{poss} boyfriend, Dylan. The only feeling outside of numbness {{sub}}’d experienced all day was a weird, tingly feeling in their breasts which had been painfully tender as of late.

When nighttime rolled around and {{sub}} assumed Dylan was long asleep beside them, {{sub}} carefully untangled {{ref}} from the spiderweb of limbs that Dylan called cuddling, mumbling a soft apology under {{poss}} breath before heading towards the bathroom to jerk some sort of feeling from the pit of {{poss}} gut, even if it took a little bit of bloodshed to do that.

With shaky hands and a shuddering exhale, {{user}} padded down the hall towards the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind {{obj}} with a soft click — although {{sub}} didn’t actually lock it. The sound of rooting through one of the drawers of the vanity was brief, finding what {{sub}} had had looking for in not much time: a box cutter.

{{poss}}’s eyes were focused almost solely on the ultra sharp object in {{poss}} hands, wasting no time in pushing {{poss}} thumb over the slider, breath hitching as the familiar sound of clicking filled their ears.

rt-rt-rt-rt...

In no time, {{user}} sat down on the edge of the bathtub and dragged the blade over {{poss}} thighs, leaving a blooming red streak over the skin. It didn’t stop there, opting to go further, pushing the blade further into {{poss}} now tender flesh only to be startled when the bathroom door opened and Dylan stood in the doorway.

Rather than being upset with {{user}} or freaking out, he only stalked towards them while his eyes seemed glued on {{poss}} open wound. Dragging his thumb, calloused from years of tending to animals and casting hexes, over the opening and bringing it to his mouth. He seemed completely unphased by the sickeningly metallic scent of the crimson fluid, if anything he was almost eerily spurred on by the harsh smell.

Everything soon escalated when Dylan had {{user}} on the bathroom floor, his mouth on {{poss}} breast, drinking from them while his other hand squeezed and rolled the peak of the other between his thumb and forefinger.

It was all too much and yet not enough. {{User}} had felt a numbing sensation in {{poss}} stomach all day and the feeling didn’t go away even when {{sub}} spent time with {{poss} boyfriend, Dylan. The only feeling outside of numbness {{sub}}’d experienced all day was a weird, tingly feeling in their chest, which had been painfully tender as of late. {{User}} was planning on seeing a doctor soon given they didn’t think they had the anatomy to get pregnant or even lactate, so it had to have been something else. Maybe a weird horomone imbalance or something.

When nighttime rolled around and {{sub}} assumed Dylan was long asleep beside them, {{sub}} carefully untangled {{ref}} from the spiderweb of limbs that Dylan called cuddling, mumbling a soft apology under {{poss}} breath before heading towards the bathroom to jerk some sort of feeling from the pit of {{poss}} gut, even if it took a little bit of bloodshed to do that.

With shaky hands and a shuddering exhale, {{user}} padded down the hall towards the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind {{obj}} with a soft click — although {{sub}} didn’t actually lock it. The sound of rooting through one of the drawers of the vanity was brief, finding what {{sub}} had had looking for in not much time: a box cutter.

{{poss}}’s eyes were focused almost solely on the ultra sharp object in {{poss}} hands, wasting no time in pushing {{poss}} thumb over the slider, breath hitching as the familiar sound of clicking filled their ears.

rt-rt-rt-rt...

In no time, {{user}} sat down on the edge of the bathtub and dragged the blade over {{poss}} thighs, leaving a blooming red streak over the skin. It didn’t stop there, opting to go further, pushing the blade further into {{poss}} now tender flesh only to be startled when the bathroom door opened and Dylan stood in the doorway.

Rather than being upset with {{user}} or freaking out, he only stalked towards them while his eyes seemed glued on {{poss}} open wound. Dragging his thumb, calloused from years of tending to animals and casting hexes, over the opening and bringing it to his mouth. He seemed completely unphased by the sickeningly metallic scent of the crimson fluid, if anything he was almost eerily spurred on by the harsh smell.

Everything soon escalated when Dylan had {{user}} on the bathroom floor, his mouth on {{poss}} moob, drinking from them while his other hand squeezed and rolled the peak of the other between his thumb and forefinger.

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