Rituals

Feb. 26th, 2008 11:02 am
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Taras sat in the leather wing chair in Ilarion's office, paging through a file, waiting.

It was still dark outside, and the MVD building was quiet, save for the distant odd knocks of the radiators.

Taras had found he liked arriving early, unlocking the door, being in the office before anyone else got there. He stalked through building like a burglar, navigating dark halls lit only by the predawn glow that outlined each window he passed.

Isaev seemed to prefer coming into work early as well. The first time Isaev had arrived to find Taras already there he'd seemed almost startled, but had invited Taras into his office to review current files over hot tea.

Now, it had become Taras' habit to skip his office and go straight to Isaev's, leaving the overhead lights alone but turning on the desk lamp to illuminate the room in soft and subtle radiance.

It made the room a small inviting beacon in the dark building. Ilarion's office was always warmer than his, anyway, and had a better view.

He rubbed his jaw idly as he read. The livid black and purple bruises that had graced his jaw all week had finally faded to dull browns and yellows.

Their most current case was a homicide that had all the earmarks of a professional hit. Double tap to the back of the head, execution style. No witnesses, little evidence. The shooter had even picked up the spent bullet casings.

Taras nodded in to himself absently, in approval.

He tossed the file aside. The case wasn't worth their time, in his opinion. Isaev would probably concur.

There was a special section in the file room for cold cases. Taras had amused himself on a slow afternoon by looking up a few of his old hits, the ones he remembered well enough to pinpoint. All unsolved, all with brief, vague notes from the investigating officers, as if they hadn't been bothered to put much effort in, either.

Taras had stood there in front of the file cabinet, laughing quietly until Anya had come upon him and asked if everything was all right. He had told her that she smelled nice, and she had found something else to do.

He picked up the next file, pausing to glance out the window. It was still mostly dark, but Isaev would be arriving shortly, he knew.
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Date: 2008-02-26 10:57 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Unlike Nikanor, Ilarion had always kept his office locked.

Liadov found it enough to lock his desk and drawers and file cabinets. Lasha did not.

When he found the door ajar that first morning, his immediate impulse had been one of incredulity, followed by a surge of quiet adrenaline as he approached.

A burglary of secrets, an attempted hit, an interdepartmental break-in, a KGB raid- none of these things would have surprised him as much as finding Taras Oleksei sitting in his office in the pre-dawn hours, perusing the previous day's work.

"Did you pick the lock or break the code?" Isaev had asked flatly, and Oleksei had looked up, belatedly, clearly engrossed in his studies.

There had been an expression on his face like a determined schoolboy playing catch-up, allowed to skip ahead in school and struggling to master an advanced lesson.

Taras, a strange sight in his old chair.

Deja vu struck Lasha like a palm to the face, as well as a wholly contradictory sensation that this was not deja vu at all, but utterly alien. For a moment, the sense of both was as overpowering as a whore's perfume- then it faded, and Ilarion simply sat down behind his desk, pulled out an unfinished report and began making notes.

Now it was habitual to find Taras in his office, doing whatever it was the brute did left to his own raw and unexamined devices. Lasha did not ask. He still locked his office, but fully expected to find it open when he arrived just after dawn.

For a long time, 3 AM had been his work arrival time, and 5 AM his official waking hour. He would rise like clockwork- shower, dress and shave in a somnolent trance, never fully leaving the realm of sleep- and walk to the MVD building.

No one was ever there at such an ungodly time, although he occasionally passed the cleaning woman on her way home. Once inside, the stillness and silence was seductive. He would leave his own door locked, and go straight to Liadov's office. Lightly bound in his warm uniform he would lean back into the overstuffed leather embrace of Liadov's chair and close his eyes, pulling his cap over them slightly, dozing along to the clanks of the radiator and the intangible hum of silence.

And that's where Liadov would find him, two hours later, when he came in with the 4:45 morning train.

Now that Nika was in Moscow, he had stopped observing this ritual. There was no reason, either for stopping or continuing, in his rational estimation. And yet continuing would have been ultimately pointless.

Anathema.

He came in at 5:30, sometimes six. It mattered little, after all.

And there was Oleksei, like a new kind of clockwork. Reliable as he had been, though motivated by entirely different factors. Ambition and obsession were only kissing cousins.

And yet, perhaps there were similarities, in that they both served a deeper, unvoiced hunger.

This morning was no different.

"Comrade," he acknowledged, as he strolled in. He paused to take off his greatcoat, hanging it on a hook. "I trust you enjoyed the righteous sleep of the just."

Date: 2008-02-27 12:07 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
"Every night," Taras said, smirking as he looked up.

It wasn't quite true, though most nights, it was.

Sleep usually took him without fail within moments of his collapse into bed, after his workout, meal, and shower.

Taras slept deeply, though certain sounds would wake him, like the creak of a window shutter, or the rattle of a tested lock.

Those were the impulses that flowed from survival instinct, ones he did nothing to check. But since he slept alone in the brand-new flat provided to him by the Ministry, there were such sounds, accidental or otherwise, to rouse him.

The only thing that stirred his sleep now came from dreams, the kind that made him wake up aching and breathless, and those were still fairly infrequent, though he'd had more than usual, lately.

He closed the file and watched Ilarion walk around to the other side of his desk and sit down.

"Morning, comrade," he said, amicably, pausing to stretch back in his chair, making the leather creak.

"What about you? You seem well-rested."

Taras raised a brow.

"Ready to punish the wicked and corrupt?"

Date: 2008-02-27 08:28 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Isaev's lips tipped upward, obliquely amused.

He brandished his fountain pen, then uncapped it.

"Always. As well as anyone else who needs it."

The sun wouldn't rise for some time yet.

Anya knocked politely.

"Mr. Isaev."

"Anya?" he called, looking up. "It's all right. Oleksei and I are fully clothed."

She opened the door and gave him an unreadable glance as she entered, holding a lacquer tray with a silver tea service.

"I brought your tea," she said, almost reproachfully.

Lasha averted his smile.

"Thank you, Anya."

She paused on her way out, giving him a sidewise look, while avoiding Taras' eyes completely.

"Major Liadov was adamant that I was always to knock in the mornings, so as not to interrupt you both."

Ilarion felt the secretary's soft words like a femoral stab. He was certain he was bleeding out, that any moment they would see it spilling over his chair and into the plush rug.

But his blood was frozen, or so Nika would have said.

"That won't be necessary anymore."

The words were quiet, resolute.

Anya nodded.

"I didn't think so."

Date: 2008-02-27 09:22 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
"You're a sweetheart, Anya," Taras called after the woman, who simply closed the door as she departed.

Taras looked at Isaev a moment.

Isaev seemed distracted, toying with his pen with all the gravity of a man who was about to sign a death warrant, only Taras had seen him sign what amounted to the same on many an occasion, and he did it with far less frost in his regard. Ilarion had no particular vendetta against those he didn't know, no matter what they had done.

Taras approved of the sentiment, or lack thereof.

"Liadov," Taras said, casually.

He pushed himself out of his chair to help himself to some tea. It was all so proper, Taras thought, drinking tea out of fancy cups every morning. Funny, how easy it was to get used to nice things.

"I hear people talking about him. I see his name in old files."

Ilarion even talked about him obliquely, sometimes, Taras was fairly sure. This former colleague of his, never named.

He sat down again with his tea.

"Almost always, with your name on them too. Liadov and Isaev. Isaev and Liadov."

He leaned back, getting comfortable again. Taras let his gaze linger on Isaev's speculatively.

"I guess he used to be something, around here."

Date: 2008-02-27 10:15 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Ilarion paused, carefully gathering the million grains of thought that comprised his conscious desert.

Isaev and Liadov. Liadov and Isaev.

It hurt, to hear their names invoked adjacently, and he let the ache intensify with detached fascination, steeping in the pain, quietly amazed at its magnitude.

How was it possible to feel that much? It seemed inconceivable, in his experience. The only thing he had to compare to it was but a fragment- a hung moment in time, where his emotions surged and peaked in a heart-slicing blade of anguish, before he crushed them back down into his chest like a mangled nightingale- the moment he stood on the banks of the Fontanka canal and realized he was looking down at his own mother.

"Yes," he replied, steadily, as his heart thudded dully beneath his sternum, and his cold blood spun a living circuit. "He was something here. Now he's something in Leningrad."

Evasive words, but true. Evasive only because they understated the raw carnage of the violently turned earth in his soul.

"We often collaborated."

He paused, gaze searching the desk, resting on the pen in his hand. A gift. Engraved, inscribed, intimately given.

"Our talents complemented each other."

Thick as thieves, had been the maxim around the MVD.

Date: 2008-02-27 11:06 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras watched Ilarion a moment, gaze still intent, but Isaev didn't seem inclined to say more.

He thought that Ilarion was actively avoiding his eyes, even.

Taras found that strangely unsettling. Not like Isaev, the prince of the Ministry, to carry himself with less than perfect composure.

Whatever it was, Taras wasn't even sure he wanted to hear it, though maybe he was just imagining things.

He searched Isaev's face, frowning.

He was imagining things.

Taras shrugged.

"Just wondering."

In the pause that followed, Taras drank his tea.

"You know, I thought of something."

He waited until Isaev looked up again.

"I think you should start fucking your secretary."

Date: 2008-02-27 11:53 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Ilarion blinked, raising his head, a Caesar bewildered.

"...pardon me, Oleksei? I could have sworn you were speaking Greek, just now."

All thoughts of Nika vanished, as Lasha tried to wrap his mind around Taras' words.

"Did you say you think I should fuck...my secretary?"

He paused, raising an eyebrow.

"The woman who brings my tea?"

He laughed, suddenly, with the clean ring of bright glass.

"To what purpose?"

Date: 2008-02-28 04:58 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras snorted, smirking.

"What do you mean, to what purpose?"

He set his tea cup down, looking at Ilarion pointedly, eyebrows raised.

"That's not something I should have to tell you, is it? She's a nice girl. You like nice girls."

Taras shrugged expressively, shoulders rolling under his gray MVD uniform. He regarded Isaev from across his desk.

Isaev looked dubious, almost incredulous, like he'd never heard of such a thing as a man fucking his secretary. Taras was from the low-rent district, and he'd heard of that.

"Think about it, Lasha. You could get laid anytime you want. Right here in your office, if you wanted to. You could get a blowjob sitting behind your desk."

Taras leaned forward in the plush leather chair, a narrowed intensity in his odd-lot eyes, gaze fixed on Ilarion, direct, and compelling.

"Or over here, In this chair, even. More comfortable. You can't say that doesn't appeal."

Taras laughed once, rough, low.

"Anyway, you look like you could use a good fuck-"

He caught himself, hesitating briefly, almost unnoticeably, blinking, then recovering a second later.

"...right?" he finished.

Date: 2008-02-28 09:43 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Ilarion stared for a moment, rapt and taken aback, then his mouth found a smile.

"Sounds to me like you want to fuck-"

A slight pause.

"-her."

Lasha regarded Oleksei with something like amusement.

"I don't really like girls, nice, or otherwise."

He shrugged, glancing at his manicure.

"Women are for looking at, for conversation, for dinner and theatre companions. Whores are for fucking."

He glanced at the tea service Anya had brought in, thoughtfully garnished with slices of lemon and cubes of sugar.

"Nika always said she was the best secretary he'd ever had."

Isaev frowned.

The best secretary he'd ever had.

Had Nika had her?

Suspicious as his nature was, Ilarion did not believe it. Their relationship was one of deep and platonic symbiosis, like the relationship between a priest and a devoted nun.

Who knew what thoughts the nun might harbor in her mind and beneath her habit- but she knew what was expected and she knew her place.

Anya was afraid of Oleksei. Lasha could read that much at a glance. Apprehensive of his presence, guarding herself from his low-ranging gaze.

Lasha smirked slightly.

Taras wouldn't bother caring about his goodwill and erotic sanity purely for the altruism of it.

No, if Taras was broaching a suggestion on the grounds that would benefit Lasha, there had to be an aspect that benefitted Taras as well.

"She's afraid of you, isn't she. Like any good girl. And like any bad man, that just intrigues you. You wish she would look at you like those whores- but then you know you wouldn't want her if she did. You want to defile her, make her look you in the eye and take your body inside hers- because you're a bad man."

Ilarion looked up, twirling his pen absently. His smile was brimstone and treacle.

"Let me see if I've read you right. You want me to seduce her with my authority- order her to bend over the desk. You want me to fuck her, blitz her- and when she's swooning and doing her duty like a good girl, she'll lose all her fear. She'll just want to be mounted, bred. Then you can get your prick up in her. That's what you want, don't you."

He laughed, quietly, sitting back, feeling his loins stiffen slightly at his own words.

"You'll be her Prince Charming, barbarian or not. Because every woman wants a beast when she's on her back."

Or her stomach. Or on her side. Or against a wall.

Now that the idea had entered his mind, Ilarion was almost tempted to do it. He knew he could order her, and she might likely oblige, whether she wanted to or not. But that was not power. That was authority.

Authority was merely trappings of tinsel conferred by the state. Useful, but ultimately justified only from without. Power was internal and personal, a more rarified metal.

Power lay in not only making her submit, but making her complicit. Ilarion knew that game well. He could whisper to her, caress her. Make her want it so much that she would take any cock in the building.

And Anya...sweetheart Anya. How deep did her work ethic run?

Lasha frowned, pausing solemnly.

"...But she's not my secretary, comrade."

She wasn't your wife, either.

Surely Nika couldn't be any angrier at him.


Date: 2008-02-28 11:36 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
"Then whose is she?"

Taras frowned, doubtful, his brow heavy, drawn low. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Does it matter, whose secretary she used to be? That's in the past. She's yours, now."

Taras held up his arm, pulling back the sleeve of his uniform, not far enough to expose his tattoos, but rather just his wristwatch.

It was oblong, squared off at the ends, with a silver case and heavy black leather strap. Poljot written across the face in tiny Cyrillic.

"You think I went into a store and bought this, comrade? Never mind that the man I took it from doesn't need to tell time anymore. It was his. Now it's mine."

He shrugged, offhand.

"You can have her, or not. I just thought I should point it out. You get opportunities that you have the luxury not to take."

He thought about Ilarion's accusation, about wanting to fuck Anya, wanting her to want him. It wasn't like that, he thought, but left off before he thought about what it was like.

"I figure you should have the first shot, but if you really don't want her, I might help myself. I don't know. Doesn't matter to me if I fuck a nice girl, or a whore, except that whores know how to take it."

Most of them, anyway. There had been one, right after he'd gotten out of the Zone, that he'd used too roughly. Taras hadn't meant to hurt her, but he'd just let things get out of hand.

He'd felt bad, afterward, but that was little consolation for the woman.

Taras fixed his gaze on Ilarion, eyes feral and intent, the always-hungry stare of a misbred mongrel.

"Just tell me one thing. If I did...would you want a cut of the action?"

Date: 2008-02-29 01:29 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Lasha blinked slowly, putting the point of his pen against his lips.

"Depends," he said.

He wasn't entirely sure what Taras intended to suggest, nor what part defined "action", and what kind of cut he might desire.

He studied Oleksei, his focused, gritty demeanor and demanding gaze.

"You look good when you're covetous," he remarked, after a moment. "It suits you."

Ilarion tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, lips blooming into a jagged smile.

"But your brand of comeliness is lost on women, comrade."

He sighed, letting the pen tap lightly on the padded leather of the desk blotter.

"Do you really think good citizen Anya will trust you? Allow you, a tattooed criminal she fears in her bones, to do what she wouldn't even allow a boyfriend to do?"

Lasha's eyes narrowed, dryly.

"Unless you were simply planning to rape her."

He didn't let the statement linger, but centered his gaze on Taras' once more.

"She needs an excuse to let a dangerous criminal touch her. She needs justification, someone to tell her it's all right, and take the decision out of her hands."

Lasha's lip curved.

"I can do that, comrade. I'm a very important man, after all."

Then he paused, steepling his fingers slowly.

"...What did you have in mind?"

Date: 2008-02-29 08:35 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras grimaced, distaste narrowing his features, curling his lip.

"I have four sisters, Isaev. I wasn't planning on raping her."

Taras felt the need to address the point, even though he didn't think Isaev had meant it.

But then again, maybe he had. Some people thought just because a man had been in the Zone, and was willing to kill for money, there was no telling how far he'd go. The idea of forcing a woman had no appeal. Taras might do a lot of things, but that wasn't one of them.

He frowned, sighing.

"I'm not interested in forcing her to do anything. All I'm saying is that there's an opportunity there, especially for someone like you. That's why I thought that you should start fucking her. You could make her want it. I was liking the idea of knowing you were fucking in here, behind closed doors. Happening to walk in right afterward."

He could imagine it, flushed faces and quickened breath, clothes in disarray. The smell of sex and sweat.

Taras let his head rest against the back in the chair, made the leather creak with the slow shift of his weight. He drew his eyes half-closed, kept them low-lidded.

His voice dropped lower, his words more deliberate.

"Or I could sit right here in this chair, comrade, and watch you fuck her."

Taras held Isaev's gaze a long and considering moment, then shrugged.

"And then...see where things went from there."

Date: 2008-02-29 11:03 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Ilarion returned Oleksei's regard, then coughed out a soft, dark laugh.

"There's no reason for any able bodied man to sit idly by, comrade. Not when he can pitch in."

He reached slowly for his intercom button.

"What's the old axiom about idle hands?" he added, coolly, hesitating.

Lasha was beginning to think Oleksei was game for anything.

Gameness was a desirable quality in his opinion- it made an accomplice of a colleague.

His finger stroked the call button, once, decisively.

Anya's response was prompt and accomodating.

"Yes, Major?"

"Yes, Miss Korogova. Could you come into my office?"

Ilarion smile did not penetrate his voice.

"...There's a new position I need you to assume."


Date: 2008-03-01 05:18 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras laughed once, surprised, though he masked it by clearing his throat.

He was certain that it had been loud enough to carry over the intercom.

There was a pause.

"Yes, Major," Anya said again, slightly less prompt than before. The intercom clicked off.

Taras looked at Ilarion a moment, his gaze slow and admiring.

He'd fully expected that it would go down like a robbery, that Isaev would think on his proposal a couple days, and spend another few feeling Anya out. Maybe a week of casing the store before he made his move, but no. Isaev wanted to go in now, hard and fast, in balaclavas down and weapons drawn.

It made Taras' pulse quicken. He tugged at his collar, loosening it.

Taras could hear the ring of Anya's heels approaching the door.

He kept his voice low, a murmur.

"I have to say, comrade, when you decide to do something...you don't mess around, do you?"

Date: 2008-03-01 06:39 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Lasha smiled, and said nothing, but tilted an eyebrow slightly.

The doors opened a moment later and Anya stepped in, offering a diffident smile. She hesitated with her hand on the door.

"Close them, Miss Korogova. Then lock them. We wouldn't want to be disturbed."

"Of course, Major."

She nodded readily, and did as he asked. Her eyes flicked toward Oleksei, sitting in the leather wing chair with an insolent smirk carved across his broad slavic face like some obscene satyric demigod. And her eyes quickly shifted away.

"Is it the Novikov investigation?" Anya asked, pleasantly. "Are you ready to make your report?"

She had a pad of paper and a pencil, prepared for dictation.

Ilarion shook his head.

"We can finish that later, Anya dorogaya. Taras, would you like some more tea?"

"I'll get it," she said quickly.

She wore a red, boat-necked long-sleeved blouse with twice-looped pearls and a curve-conscious black pencil skirt that just dusted her knees. Her stockings were black and backseamed.

Anya's hair was seal-dark, like Turkish coffee. She wore it in an updo- a carefully sculptural french twist. Her lipstick was red.

Lasha looked her over dispassionately, aware that she was pretty and how unremarkable he found that- wondering what made her any different from Nina Liadova. Nika might as well have married this one as that one, or any other.

He watched the rounded curve of her ass bending forward as she poured more chai for the leering MVD Captain, avoiding his gaze and offering only a diffident almost-smile.



Date: 2008-03-01 08:16 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras watched Anya pour his tea.

"You look very nice today, Anya," he murmured to her, low and intimate, though loud enough to carry.

Color rose to her cheeks, but to her credit, she did not so much as spill a drop, and in fact thoughtfully poured his tea just right, not so much as to easily overflow the rim, not so little as to cool off too quickly.

She straightened, not commenting, and he smiled.

"Thank you, Anya."

"Of course, Captain," she said briskly, recovered now.

He blew on his tea, and took a sip as she turned away.

Taras caught Ilarion's gaze, his two-toned eyes flickering, amused. He wondered how Anya couldn't know what she'd gotten herself into, couldn't be able to sense it somehow, what they had in mind for her. But it seemed she didn't. Taras thought that Isaev probably never once gave her a stray look, or had a wandering eye.

"Tea, Major Isaev?" she asked, politely.

Isaev hadn't touched his, but of course she would ask anyway, Taras thought. Efficient.

Date: 2008-03-01 11:01 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
"No, thank you all the same," Lasha said.

She set down the teapot one more and folded her hands expectantly.

He sat for a moment, letting the silence steep, then he rose from his chair.

"Anya," he said, quietly, "I need to ask you something. Your answer is very important."

"Of course," she said, at once, her mouth parting slightly in apprehension. "I'll answer as well as I can. It's all for the good of the Ministry."

Ilarion laughed, ironically.

"Indeed," he murmured, shooting an oblique glance at Taras.

He drew closer, and she regarded him with clear, light green eyes.

Ilarion smiled slowly, and suddenly realized there was no need to force warmth into the expression.

Those eyes.

His hand found her cheek, the motion almost organic, cupping it tenderly. Her skin was smooth and flushed beneath his palm.

She faltered, unsure how to respond, but didn't startle or blanch back, so he stroked her cheekbone with his thumb.

"Anya," he whispered, "I need to ask you something about Nika."

Her eyelashes fluttered, compassion and confusion flooding and warring in her gaze.

"Yes?" she asked haltingly.

Her hand found his arm, the instinct to comfort him a surprise. The knowledge that she knew somewhere, somehow that he needed comforting...a shock he pushed aside with measured violence.

Ilarion leaned in close, and she was looking up at him, her breath light and shallow.

"Did Nika ever do this?"

He bent his head, and kissed her.

She didn't resist, but he could feel her stunned response, the way her lips cleaved beneath his own and her body stiffened, then melted tentatively like Spring thaw.

When he pulled his mouth away from hers, she drew a sudden inward breath, and shook her head.

"No," she shuddered. "No he. No....he. Never."

Her eyes immediately shot to his face, then to Oleksei, then back to him.

Ilarion's hand slid backward, fingers grazing through her hair in a gently raking caress.

"No?" he asked, softly. "But you're a goddess, Anya. How could he resist?"

Date: 2008-03-02 01:15 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras' mouth fell open.

He shut it, hurriedly, but he stared, quietly stunned and lightly dazed, like he'd just been punched in the head.

While he'd had no doubt that Ilarion could seduce Anya, somehow he hadn't thought it would be like this.

Taras remembered the Evropeiskaya.

Isaev had been darkly beguiling, a devil whispering in the whores' ears, at once distant and compelling, denying satisfaction at the same time he promised it on frosted honey lips.

Taras thought it would be much the same with Anya, teasing the girl with indecent words, touching her in places that bordered on trespass, making her blush and tremble.

But he hadn't thought Ilarion would kiss her.

There was almost something genuine about the way Isaev touched Anya, the way he stroked her hair with a gentleness Taras couldn't fathom. But before Taras had brought it up, Isaev had never considered a liaison with Anya. Fuck her to what purpose, Ilarion had said, as if the act itself wasn't enough.

Taras sat back in his chair, and exhaled softly.

He let his arms fall against the armrests, clutching, as if holding on had somehow become difficult.

He didn't think he'd been wrong, that Ilarion was secretly harboring a deep affection for Anya. Taras didn't think a man could fall that hard in an instant.

That left only one possibility - that Isaev was just that good, and he could drop the icy veneer any time he wanted, letting warmth and tenderness and show though as if they were his second nature.

But they weren't, Taras knew, though what he saw looked close enough to make him feel like doubting.

Who was Ilarion Isaev, if not a cold and distant man, who nevertheless was driven by dark passions?

Taras meant to leer and make low, suggestive comments, to instigate and goad, doing his part to seduce Anya by inciting Ilarion.

Instead he found that his words fell still on lips that were paused and parted, though after a moment he managed to reclaim his voice.

"Kiss her again, comrade," he murmured on breath so soft, he wasn't sure if he was audible.

Date: 2008-03-03 07:25 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Anya's eyes widened at Oleksei's susurration, and now Lasha could really see their color. It was like peridot, and lucid. Familiar, even as the feel of her was strange and alien.

On some visceral, electrical level, Taras' words were like a conduit to his Id, and Ilarion made no distinction between suggestion and impulse.

The secretary glanced up, and her apprehension was almost expectation. Her mouth looked receptive and flushed, beckoning to the lowest level of his masculinity.

Her green eyes and Ministry pedigree beckoned to something entirely more primal.

Curling his hand under her pearls, Ilarion dove in to catch her lips again, as if he were plunging underwater. He'd always been a strong swimmer, sleek and sure between the waves like a knife between the ribs, and in love with the sensuality of the water as it parted for his body.

And like breaking the sea, he breached the faltering seal of her lips and curved his tongue inside her mouth, tasting the unknown, claiming her territory as his own.

Reclaiming the part of him that she held apart, integrating it with the things he concealed in his breast.

"And this," he whispered, dulcet and dark, his gloved hand toying with the cascading bow at her throat, opening it deftly. "Did Liadov ever do this?"

Buttons, slipping open effortlessly, aided by the gossamer silk fabric, exposing the curve of her breast.

Cupping it in an ardent hand, feeling her nipple peak and freeze beneath the delicate lace of her balconette brassiere.

"No," she breathed, eyes fluttering. "No.."

Her blouse fell open fully as he pressed into her, edging her back against his broad, polished desk, sliding down her arms to drape across her lower back in a swag of graceful charmeuse.

"Or this?" he murmured, his tone roughing softly like suede.

His head fell at once to her breasts, kissing between the rise and over the mounded tops, ravaging her with his mouth's caress.

"No," she cried, the sound muffled by her heightened response.

His lips burned a path upward, over her throat, the horticulture of lust, leaving scorched and sensitive earth in its wake, trembling and yearning to be tilled, plowed and planted.

Anya's head fell back, and Ilarion mercilessly freed her hair, sent it tumbling down around her shoulders in a tousled bedroom cloud.

He leaned forward, shoving the sheaf of soft-rough hair aside, easing his lips against her ear.

"Did he ever take you, Anya?"

Her body trembled and she fell back beneath him.

"Did Nika make love to you on his desk? This desk?"

As he eased her onto the mahogany surface, he heard Oleksei's breath mount, heavy and slow.

His senses were flooded, inundated. He thought he caught the scent of unknown musk, and his pulse pounded in time to Taras' animal respirations.

"Did he mount you, slide himself inside you?"

Anya's eyes were liquid and overcome, and every breath was a shudder against his chest. She could only shake her head, closing them tightly.

Date: 2008-03-03 09:07 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Leather creaked under Taras' grip.

His hands convulsed on the armrests of his chair as he leaned forward slightly, almost as if he meant to push himself up and onto his feet, but he didn't.

Instead, he just sat poised, like a tiger ready to leap.

His eyes were wide, and he watched every move Ilarion made. Isaev's body was taut and vibrant under his uniform, aggressive and potently masculine.

Anya yielded to him without struggle, but Taras could imagine how quick and fluid Isaev's reactions would be when inspired to more than indolence, how much strength resided in that sleekly muscled frame.

Isaev's voice brushed low, as rough as calluses against skin.

Taras was aching, unbearably hard.

Nika, Nika, always this Nika. Nika Liadov. Ilarion invoked his name like it was a dirty word.

Taras watched, nearly writhing, clenching his hands to keep them from going anywhere else. To keep himself in the chair.

He could feel his heart thrum in his chest like a hungry live thing.

"Do it, comrade," he rasped, his voice ragged and dark.

Taras' body shuddered, vibrating under the tension of his broad shoulders.

"...do it the way Nika would do it."

Date: 2008-03-03 09:48 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
"Nika wouldn't do it," intoned Ilarion, on the edges of his breath. "...But I'm not his brand of saint."

She lay back prone on the desk, chest rising and falling, breasts bared in the low light of the lamps.

"Am I, Miss Korogova."

Lasha's palm traced down the midline of her stomach, as he kissed the trembling flesh, letting the tip of his tongue circle the indentation of her navel. He grasped her hips gently in his leather-clad hands, sliding them down to her knees and then pushing her skirt up over her thighs with a flourish, so that it rode high around her loins, exposing her stockings and demure cream lace garter belt...

And Anya didn't wear panties.

How unexpected.

Lasha laughed softly, broaching her exposed sex with a single slow stroke of his index finger, bisecting her flushed labia and finding her slick to the touch.

A heated viscousity that bespoke physical invitation.

He smiled, pleased at her response- wet in the tropic as an Indian monsoon, degenerate beyond his wildest expectations.

"I was going to kiss your lips, Anya...long and hard," he said, spreading her thighs wide with his hands, and rubbing the fluid carelessly along them. Seasoning both flesh and leather. "But there's no need to prime the pump, now, is there."

Anya exhaled, arching her back against the wood.

"No," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

"What was that, dorogaya? I'm not sure I heard you."

"No, Major," she moaned, and hesitated. After a moment, her hands found her own breasts and she caressed them slowly, shuddering.

Her motions were feverishly wanton but her eyes remained averted.

Ilarion smiled icily, keeping his eyes on her face.

"Liking what you see, Oleksei?" he intoned, slowly unzipping his uniform fly.

He pulled out his cock, broad and stiffened, with a slight upward arc. It felt hot, and good in his grasp, the foreskin stretched taut and immobile, the velvety skin of his glans kissed with rare mother of pearl.

Date: 2008-03-03 07:16 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras' gaze shifted downward, lingering for a moment on Isaev's prick.

It was thick and on the large side for his build. Oleksei had seen a lot of pricks in the Zone, and Isaev's was nothing to be ashamed of.

"Something like that," he muttered, and ached with the need to touch himself.

It was starting to get painful, sitting balanced forward as he was, cock trapped in the confines of his uniform pants, pulsing and rigid.

Taras pushed himself out of the chair and to the desk in one fluid motion, sudden and almost-violent.

Anya drew in a breath as she sensed his approach, and her eyes flew open.

She regarded him over the top of her head with a wide and startled gaze, face flushed and mouth parted.

He looked down at her, eyes raking over the wanton spread of her body draped across Ilarion's broad desk, her open blouse and shuddering breasts, the skirt bunched around her hips and her exposed sex.

She trembled as he looked at her, and Taras murmured "shhh," guttural and rough, the closest thing he knew to reassurance.

Anya closed her eyes.

He raised his gaze to regard Ilarion over the spread of woman between them, caught his eyes and held them. Taras reached out and brought his hands to Anya's shoulders, cupping them in his gloved hands, holding her down as carefully as he knew how, firmly, but far more gently than he would touch a whore.

He leaned forward to press his groin against the edge of the desk, the pressure making the throb in his loins at once worse and better.

Taras shifted his weight, pivoting his hips slightly, grinding.

The motion was slow and obscene, and his eyes did not leave Ilarion's face.

"Do it," he whispered, voice a rasp, nearly hoarse and goading. "Take her, Isaev."

Date: 2008-03-04 08:48 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
You're a sick fuck, Oleksei.

Ilarion couldn't help smiling, although it was a sharklike gesture, hardly related to sunny goodwill.

Anya moaned and caught a gasp as Taras' words fell on her burning ears like hard rain.

Lasha's ache intensified from general to local, and now his cock was no longer simply willing, but restless to be driven home, embraced in that slick sheath. However, his gaze strayed reliably upward, repeatedly drawn to Oleksei's and intoxicated by the mirrored lust he saw there.

He guided himself inward, rubbing the head of his prick against her, teasing the interior lips in leisurely strokes.

"Anya," he murmured, indulgently, "Oh Anya, you don't even know."

The sight of Taras' thick and rough-knuckled hands bracing her shoulders was affecting him in ways he hadn't anticipated. The sight of brutish, tattooed Taras insolently rubbing his groin against his desk was profligate in the extreme, gritty and arresting, wholly at odds with their morning tea and Anya's soft skin and delicate underthings.

"But you'll learn," he whispered. "We'll see to that, won't we?"

Lasha leaned forward, kissing Anya and shoving his breadth inside her, clean as a freestyle stroke.

She cried out, clutching at his back, fists pressed into the muscle.

Ilarion closed his eyes for a moment, steeping in bliss unhindered, and then he began to ride her sprawled body with slow, rhythmic, elliptical thrusts- shoving and grinding like erotic machinery, building her reaction with repetitive brushes of his hard stomach against her clitoris.

Almost at once, she began keening and purring, so like a woman that he nearly gritted his teeth.

"Perhaps, comrade, you'd like to occupy her mouth."

Date: 2008-03-04 08:45 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] taras-oleksei.livejournal.com
Taras grunted, inarticulate, throat thick with animal lust.

Anya's naked shoulders rocked against Taras' hands with Ilarion's every thrust, the motion hard and kinetic, gratifyingly solid.

She shuddered, moaning.

Taras took his hands away and reached to unfasten his fly.

One of the buttons gave him trouble at first, and he jerked at it, feeling like ripping it out.

"What do you say, Anya?" he rasped, undoing the button at last. "Would you like that?"

She gasped between parted lips, no words.

Taras took out his cock, which was flushed thick and felt like hot iron. With his other hand, he cupped the back of Anya's head.

He would have pulled on a whore's hair, but he was less rough with Anya, turning her head to the side with the pressure of his fingers. Taras rested his thighs against the desk, leaning up and on the balls of his feet, guiding his prick close to her mouth.

Taras could feel her tremble against his hand, and her eyes and mouth widened.

"Suck it," he murmured.

He lifted his gaze to Ilarion's for a long and searing moment, until he felt Anya's lips brush his cock.

Taras looked down again, watching her through half-slitted eyes. Her mouth swayed in time with Ilarion's thrusts, lips brushing against him, but she started licking, almost tentatively at first, then with more vigor. When she closed her lips around the head, he let out a low groan.

"Good," he growled, coaxing her motion with his hand, but there was almost no need. The lift and shock of Ilarion's thrusts moved her mouth around Taras' cock, her lips sliding and sucking. It was not deep and almost-rough, the way he liked it best, or even the attentive, professional way whores did it, but there was still something about it that reminded him of the Zone. The strained and awkward position, the suddenness of it, the rawness. Taras closed his eyes and just let his instincts suffuse him with the coarsest sort of gratification.

Ilarion's breath sounded loud and close, nearly in his ear.

There were times when Ilarion thrust so hard that Anya's lips lost him, but on the return she sought Taras again, mouth hungry and seeking.

He raised his head again, panting, seeking Isaev's eyes.

"When you finish, comrade - "

His breath caught, ragged and rough.

"I want her after you."

Date: 2008-03-05 08:45 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ilarion-isaev.livejournal.com
Ilarion smiled tightly.

"Well then," he intoned, through breathless lips, "I'll leave her nice and slick for you."

Anya's contortions grew ever more fevered around him and he hissed appreciatively, leaning in, putting the weight of his body onto her mons and directing every thrust to grind her where she lived.

His cock's slight upward lilt seemed to please women and men alike, curving as it did into sensitive internal territories, and he exploited his physiology now, coolly, jack-knifing the motion of his hips.

A low moan broke and trickled from Anya's lips like blood, and she began fucking back, riding Ilarion's cock and devouring Oleksei's like a woman possessed, her hand curled around his heavy balls.

Lasha could see his comrade's prick in waves, bulging outward against the delicate skin of her throat with each deep swallow.

He could feel her thighs shaking with undispelled myotonia, her shallow, rapid breathing. The muscles inside her seemed to be drawing tight in a storm-eye paralysis.

She mewed wantonly around the flesh that filled her mouth, and Lasha knew she was on the edge of giving in to nature's dirty little trick.

"Da, milaya," he whispered harshly. "I want you to come while his cock his in your mouth. And don't stop sucking him off."
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