Round Two

May. 18th, 2008 01:37 am
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[personal profile] taras_oleksei
Being clean was one of those luxuries that Taras hadn't taken for granted ever since he'd gotten out of Magadan.

He felt better after a hot shower, more clear-headed and relaxed, though now he was hungry. Still vaguely aroused, but not enough to have to do something about it immediately.

Taras turned the bathroom over to Anya and put on his pants, but didn't bother with the shirt.

He left Ilarion's suite, figuring he had time to get a sandwich. Anya would be in there for a while. Taras knew how girls were about those kinds of things.

The Isaev townhouse was quiet, but not empty. Not cold. Taras liked the feeling that other people else were around, even if they weren't in the same room. He walked down the main staircase to the ground floor, then went down the main hall toward the kitchens.

There was a low, muted light coming in the kitchens, welcoming. He stopped by the door and leaned in just enough to get a glimpse, casing it first, just to make sure.

He spotted Isaev across the room, behind a counter. Looked like he'd had the same idea as Taras and had come downstairs for a snack.

Taras smirked as he stepped in, always quiet.


His voice was pitched low, just enough to get Isaev's attention.

"You have something to eat in this place?"

Date: 2008-05-18 10:03 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"Of course," Lasha said, without meeting Taras's eyes directly.

His voice registered mild surprise. The kitchen was vast and cavernous, with a wall of exposed brick and dark beams of wood overhead. The rest of the walls were plastered over, whitely.

The scent of fresh bread lingered from the night's baking.

Lasha leaned against the marble counter with a tall glass of milk in his hand.

"Fuck-hungry, are we?" Ilarion's tone was breezy. "...Me too."

He took a drink of milk, gaze lowered.

"Lyudmila leaves a platter of cold cuts and cheeses in the icebox for these emergencies. My brother and I were both always hungry at this time of night. She learned to anticipate accordingly."

Ilarion paused, frowning.

He took another sip of milk.

"Have that, if you like. Or some of these tea cookies. Or suit yourself with something else. Eat anything you like. There are no rations here."

Ilarion glanced behind him at the baking oven housed within the brick wall.

"Bread should still be warm," he said, absently. "Lyudmila finishes the daily baking around quarter to midnight."

Date: 2008-05-18 11:14 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"I could go for a sandwich."

Taras' mouth watered at the thought of fresh-baked bread, cold cuts and cheese. Tea cookies, too. He walked around the counter to grab one from the plate next to Ilarion, pausing mid-reach as he noticed Ilarion's robe.

It was dark red, like his room, shiny like silk, and short, cut above the knee and tied at the waist with a belt. There was something about the way it draped over Isaev's body that emphasized the lean strength of him, masculine and fluid. The bare legs made him look like someone right out of the theatre. Julius Caesar, even.

Taras averted his eyes and looked back at the plate. He grabbed a cookie, stuffing it into his mouth. It just about melted, soft like sugar and butter. He grunted in appreciation.

"Lyudmila's a good cook," he commented, offhandedly.

He knew if she was working for the Isaevs, she was probably the best.

Taras busied himself with making a sandwich, cutting the warm, fragrant bread, carefully stacking on the cold cuts and cheese, finishing it off with mustard.

He cut it diagonally, and pushed one half toward Isaev.

"Here. For strength. It's not like we're..."

Taras paused, and shook his head slightly, still disbelieving.

"...done yet."

Date: 2008-05-18 11:45 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ilarion glanced down.

"No," he said, dryly. "It seems we're not."

It was not lost on him that in a moment they'd be sharing a lot more than a sandwich.

He picked it up with an elegant hand and took a rather savage bite.

It was good.

"You have a knack for proportions," remarked Isaev, licking his lower lip briefly. "Maybe you should have been a chef."

For strength, Oleksei had said.

It's not like we're...

Ilarion looked up, eyes dispassionate, carefully checked and held.

"We're not queer," he said, darkly.

Date: 2008-05-18 07:36 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras looked up, mongrel eyes wide, startled.

He nearly dropped his sandwich.

"What?" he whispered. Taras felt like someone had just punched him in the throat.

"Who said anything about..."

He trailed off, unable to say the word, but then his lip curled. "...Queer?"

"Fuck, Isaev, that's the furthest thing from queer. There's a woman involved. And it was her fucking idea. You know how they are."

Taras shook his head vehemently, and attacked his sandwich, biting off the entire end, though he chewed it down and swallowed before he spoke again. He fucking had manners.

"I need something to drink," he said, and set his sandwich down, turning away.

"Fucking stubborn," Taras said over his shoulder as he grabbed a glass. "They get an idea in their head and they just want it, but they don't think it through, how it affects other people."

Taras grabbed a bottle of milk from the icebox and poured.

"But she's right. It is her birthday. And we said..."

He gestured with the bottle, vaguely.

"Well. She's a little trooper. It won't hurt if we give her what we - "

Taras stopped himself, scowling.

"...can. What she wants."

Taras set the bottle back in the icebox, and shut the door, eyes narrowed, fixed on the dark wood. He was aware of Ilarion behind him, Ilarion in his short robe that displayed a generous slice of his smooth, angular chest. It reminded him of a martyred Roman, and rubbing off in the dark.

His jaw tightened.

"Anyway, it's not like anyone's getting fucked in the ass."

Date: 2008-05-18 11:29 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"What the fucking cock are you saying?"

Lasha's gaze clouded into a scowl at that, his lips pushing into a truculent moue.

"Getting fucked in the ass isn't queer," he bit out, like clapping.

He set down the sandwich, leveling his eyes at Oleksei, fuming quietly.

"Not if two men are salted from the earth at birth. Not if there's primo amore between them. Not if they meet as two gods."

Lasha was aware that his hand shuddered with passion as he spoke, even as every inch of his facade was still and calm, unshaken by the seismic tumult inside him. At memories that caused plates of tectonic earth to collide and thrust up, quaking.

"The First Love, of man for his own image. His polar mirror. Like Narcissus inverted upon another. Rarified, but not unknown, to have such elevated regard for another man."

He snorted.

"It transcends degeneracy, and furtive miscreancy in dark places, the tawdry politics of necessity in confinement, or compulsive perversion without emotion, wholly devoid of divine fire and primal love."

Date: 2008-05-19 12:28 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras' breath came harder with each word Isaev spoke, shoulders rising and tattoos flexing over tense muscle. His eyes flew back and forth, tracing woodgrain patterns across the icebox without seeing.

Ilarion made degeneracy sound like something noble, the struggle of two comrades fighting against the world.

It made something deep inside him hurt, aching like hunger. It reminded him of long days and nights during the Siege, when the only real thing he wanted was just something to eat, but every morsel he had only made the hunger worse. It reminded him of the Zone, being so cold that he craved the touch of a familiar hand, and the primal, instinctual rhythms of two bodies pressed together.

But the things that Isaev spoke about were much more than those things, more than Taras had known in his entire existence. It was like not knowing what caviar and creme fraiche were, and then being taken to dinner at the Noble Nest.

He felt a rage that twisted into something else entirely.

Taras felt like he was on the verge of asking a question wasn't sure he wanted to hear answered.

He felt like he was a second away from spinning around and grabbing Isaev by the throat, pushing him back against the counter, and ripping open his robe.

His hand tightened on his glass of milk, dangerously hard. Glass did not give, until it shattered.

He was silent too long. His ragged breath was clearly audible in the quiet kitchen. Taras was silently glad for the fact he hadn't been facing Ilarion.

Taras closed his eyes.

"Fuck you and the cock you rode in on, Isaev."

He exhaled, opening his eyes again, and taking a drink of milk.

Taras turned around then, and walked back to where he'd left his sandwich on the counter. He couldn't quite meet Isaev's gaze, but he started eating calmly, with a poise he didn't really feel.

He was hard again, a fact mostly disguised by his suit pants.

"Where'd you get that shit, out of a book?"

He chewed, and swallowed, then finally glanced over at Isaev, catching and holding his gaze.

"What was it, the Marquis de Sade?"

Date: 2008-05-19 04:51 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ilarion's lips twisted faintly as he picked apart his sandwich, redistributing the halves precisely with light, deft fingertips.

"Where did a lowborn guttersnipe like you learn to make a dirty capitalist American sandwich?"

Russians ate open faced sandwiches, as a general rule. Oleksei was full of surprises.

He took a bite, a vague sneer painting his features.

"Out of a book," he snorted, in contempt.

"...Go suck your father off."

Oleksei had seemed murderous, again, for a moment, at the idea that any one who called himself a man might let himself get fucked. It went against all Zone protocol, and against Taras's personal protocol.

Yet common sense had intervened. Oleksei knew full well his bread was buttered by the Ministry now, even if he liked it strictly butter side up.

He had schooled his fury into false calm, and maintained a casual demeanor, despite the fact that Lasha knew he thought his superior was a depraved reprobate who deserved a bloody pummeling. Self preservation.

Well done.

Swallow your disdain and rage, learn the fine art of hypocrisy, and you'll get somewhere in this life.

"The Marquis de Sade was a sick, twisted degenerate," he drawled, acidly. "He fucked men when there was no one else available. Those words were never written in a book. His or any other."

Lasha took a swallow of milk. It was cool and smooth against his tongue. Soothing.

"Those words," he said, "are mine. Like it or not."

Date: 2008-05-19 07:08 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras' eyes narrowed, and he stared at Ilarion hard, searching his arctic gaze for any sign of goading. Or perhaps Ilarion's words were all part of some Ministry interrogation trick, attempting to get Taras to admit to...


He didn't know. Taras' jaw worked for a few moments, independent of chewing.

"Fine," he finally said, letting his gaze drop away.

He ate, distractedly now, aware of Ilarion's presence next to him, more than ever. Bare chest and legs and the line of the silk robe. The scents of sex and masculinity. The edged timbre of Ilarion's voice, that rough and icy anger, the provocative words that kept running through Taras' head.

Taras shrugged with sudden violence, shoulders rolling like a draft horse shaking off flies.

Deliberately, he set down the rest of his sandwich, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What about Liadov?" he asked, voice low.

Taras was quiet for a moment, staring, but before Ilarion could break the silence, he glanced up, eyes narrow, wary, hard.

"He think like you do?"

Date: 2008-05-19 07:49 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ilarion stared.

"Liadov," he said, thickly, sliding his hand along the marble, back and forth, rubbing his palm hard against the cold stone.

It was like a right cross from a left-handed fighter. Utterly out of ether, and unexpected.

It hit the mark, and left one too. His jaw left hurting, and copper on his tongue.

"...and I are of a mind."

His voice had gone white.

Lasha felt his skin draw taut over the bones of his cheek as his brow rose.

"His problem is that he feels too much."

Date: 2008-05-19 05:03 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras frowned, heavy brow bristling like a dog about to growl.

From what he'd observed both firsthand, and from a distance, Liadov was a cold, unfeeling bastard. Ilarion had called it. Compulsive perversion without emotion. Complete lack of regard for a comrade.

He wondered how Ilarion could be comrades with someone like that, and he struggled to understand, finally shaking it off and deciding he didn't want to know.

After a moment, he resumed eating.

"Liadov's gone now," he said, flatly.

Taras glanced down, glowering at the floor.

Ilarion had spoken about him in the present tense, like the guy was still around.

He finished off his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Taras felt restless and unsettled, not quite in the mood to fuck, or at least, to head back upstairs to Anya.

Taras pushed the empty plate and glass to the side.

It was like dinner courses at a fancy restaurant, Taras decided. There was always something to eat or drink in between, to cleanse the palate.

Taras leaned forward against the counter, next to Ilarion, forearms resting against the cool marble.

"Women take forever in the bathroom."

Taras glanced sideways, to meet Isaev's eyes.

"She'll probably be a while still. Is there something to do? Music? Probably not enough time for chess."

Date: 2008-05-20 09:15 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Oleksei's words stabbed deeply, unexpected and pithy as they were.

Ilarion looked up slowly, shell-shocked. His eyes were lightless and hollow. He couldn't reclaim his pretense. Everything had tilted and the world hung crooked on a broken axis. Reality intruded, and left the walking wounded.

There was a finality to Oleksei's tone that stunned Lasha.

"Always was once a collection of befores," he managed, softly, mouth dry and unresponsive. "But never was never."

He looked away, overcome with emotion suddenly, and turned his back to Oleksei, resting his hand against the wall, where it gripped, devastated.

"I...what did you ask?"

Date: 2008-05-20 05:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras hesitated, staring at Ilarion, uncertain.

Isaev looked like he'd just been kneed in the balls. White-knuckled strain highlighted the grasp of his aristocratic hand, savagely clutching rough brick. The wide sleeve of Ilarion's robe had slipped down his forearm, displaying a taut and contoured tension of muscle.

Taras was there a moment later, shadowing Isaev's side.

He could tell this was something about Liadov again, fucking Nika the saint, who was more insidious than Taras had realized. Whatever Liadov had done, whatever hold he had over Isaev still, it made the muscles in Taras' jaw bunch and tighten.

Isaevs did not show weakness in public, and not in front of anyone, except, Taras realized, slowly, a trusted few.

That was what comrades were for.

Taras touched Isaev in a way he usually didn't, dropping his hand to rest lightly against ILarion's elbow. The silk robe was cool against his fingers, soft as anything he knew.

"I said let's get a real drink," he rumbled, low, and close.

He tugged at Isaev's arm.

"I think I saw some pepper vodka in the parlor cabinet. Let's go."

Date: 2008-05-20 06:17 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Lasha shook his head, violently, as if to dispel the clouds that darkened his brow.

"I'm all right," he said, automatically.

The tone was sonorous and low.

He turned, and his shoulders eased.

Oleksei was responsive in a way that actually startled Isaev, a proactive and tactile way, as if he knew nothing else than physical expression. It stood to reason. Taras dealt with life's demands through his hands- bend it, break it, push it away, seize it, restrain it, force it to submit. Take, punish, intimidate, refuse or reform.

Lasha didn't mind that. It was raw and functional, and minimized the emotional impact of the situation.

Knowing he had broken form irreparably over Liadov, Ilarion realized an explanation was required.

He hesitated for a moment, then inclined his head.

"Nikanor Grigoriivich meant a great deal to me. He was like a brother. a man with a missing limb..."

Lasha trailed off. He made a vague and fluid gesture with his hand.

"...phantom pains."

It was vaguely finished, but to say more would open not only Pandora's box, but every jar in her closet and cupboard.

Ilarion paused, frowning, thinking of the fortitude provided by strong drink, and reminded abruptly of the task that lay before them.

"Have you done this before?" he asked, shifting direction with the ease of a storm. "This...thing...that Anya wants from us?"

Date: 2008-05-20 08:30 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"No," Taras said, quickly, startled.

After a moment, he let his hand drop away.

He actually found that the idea repulsed him, in a sharp and visceral way, thinking about sharing a woman in that way with someone else, some former comrade, now faceless. Strangely, it was unlike the way he'd felt when Anya had initially brought it up. That had been mildly shocking, borderline unreasonable, but he hadn't been disgusted the way he was now.

A small frown tugged at his brow, then faded.

They left the kitchen and walked down the main hall, toward the parlor where they'd been before. Taras did not walk far from Ilarion, keeping a closer distance than usual.

It was quiet. Taras considered, not only what Isaev had just asked him, but what he'd said before, about Liadov. It sounded to him like they'd been good comrades, which Taras could respect, but then Liadov had betrayed Isaev somehow, which Taras condemned.

He wondered if that was why Isaev had asked what he did, about sharing a woman.

Taras took the lead as they stepped into the parlor. He went to the liquor cabinet, rummaging through Isaev's iced stock as if he owned the place, producing the slim bottle he'd spotted earlier. He didn't usually like flavored liquor. It reminded him of the cheap swill he used to drink, the stuff with so many impurities in the distillation process that the flat, metallic flavor had to be covered up by some kind of syrup.

He made an exception for pepper vodka.

It was soft going down, with just the hint of insinuating spice, but finished with a pleasantly hard burn. Maybe an acquired taste, maybe not the sort of thing for everyday, but Taras had come to like it, served neat.

He poured two glasses, glancing briefly at Isaev, holding one out.

"Why do you ask? Have you?"

Date: 2008-05-20 10:20 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Isaev shrugged.

"I've done most things."

He took the vodka Taras offered without hesitation, and tossed it back with a tip of his head.

"But no, not that."

He paused, eyes narrowing, pensive.

"Not exactly that."

Lasha finished off the drink and felt calm descending over him.

"It's nothing," he declared, after a moment, with decisive inflection. "What is it, anyway, to fuck some blad at the same time. So our cocks touch. It's not about that, anyway. It's about watching her take both of us. Filling her to the hilt, knowing she's impaled with every inch we have to give."

He warmed to his topic, smirking.

"Yes. It's animal rutting without regard for social mores. The instinctive pursuit of pleasure over protocol."

Lasha turned to Taras, suddenly and held out his glass.

"In fact, it's masculinity in the extreme. We can do it."

Date: 2008-05-21 05:36 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"Damn straight."

Taras held out his glass in turn and rang it against Isaev's, splashing a little vodka over the top, then drew it back and knocked it down in one shot.

He snorted, lip curling.

"Of course we can do it. Who's going to say different? We fucked Anya over your desk while the rest of the office was having their tea and reading the morning reports."

Taras laughed, roughly, and paused to pour them more vodka.

"We didn't even think twice about it."

Taras' brows rose, conspiratorial and comradely.

"You know why?" he asked.

He liked seeing Isaev like this, both relaxed and focused, warmth in his voice, and no touch of frost. Like when they were younger, boys who got into trouble, and Lasha was always the one who stood back, smirking and instigating, playing at being the cold, distant prince, though Taras had known better. There was always a light alive behind Isaev's narrowed, furtive eyes.

"Because we're fucking entitled to whatever we want, because we can take it and we're too smart to abuse it. We don't have worry about the law, or the Zone, or what people think. Worrying about shit like that is..."

He paused, then smirked viciously.


It was Ilarion's word, and he pronounced it with care, even though he had heard Isaev say it enough times in context to understand the definition. He'd looked it up in the dictionary, just to be sure. It meant being concerned with things that didn't matter.

"Normal rules don't apply to us, Lasha. We're Isaev and Oleksei."

Taras leaned forward significantly, and held Ilarion's gaze, eyes two different shades of wicked.

"...we can do anything we want," he murmured, voice rolling and easy.

Date: 2008-05-21 06:19 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"...Nicely said."

Ilarion leaned forward, meeting Taras's gaze, intrigued, lips twisting.

"Da," he replied, through a smile that did not stir. "We can."

Oleksei's growing vocabulary charmed him oddly.

Wherever you put him, he just thrived, like the hardiest thorn. And like a thorned plant, he caught on things, pulled them into his barbs.

He learned.

"You know what, Oleksei?" Lasha said, smoothly. "..I like you."

Date: 2008-05-21 07:49 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras stared at Isaev, his expression unguarded, stripped plain for a moment, as if caught by a camera.

The slightest of uncertain frowns dented his brow, and he searched again for some sign of mocking, but there was nothing he saw but a faint illumination behind Isaev's eyes, something alive but trapped under ice. Something elusive, like a whisper against skin.

Taras glanced to the side, suddenly restless.

"You're not bad, Isaev," he muttered.

Taras drew in a breath then, shoulders rising and straightening.

"So what's the plan?"

His look returned, perpetual, amused, though now even more pugnacious.

"How are we going to fuck this blad, aside from...what we already know? I think we should just head in there and give it to her immediately, since she seems to want it so bad. Be careful what you wish for, and all that."

Date: 2008-05-21 08:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"Agreed," said Lasha coolly, eyes slatting. "She gets everything she bargained for, and some change."

He paused.

"Let's get her into the bed, under the covers, between us. That should warm her up."

Lasha smirked caustically.

"And from there, we can roll and twist into any permutation we desire."

He glanced at Taras's empty glass.


Date: 2008-05-21 04:59 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras set his glass down on the cabinet with a resolute thunk.

"Finished," he said, lip curling upward.

He felt his desire again, straining to be let off its chain, and he thought about Lasha, and Anya, and the giant monstrosity that was Isaev's bed.

Taras reached out and knocked his fist lightly against Ilarion's arm, holding his gaze for a moment.

"Let's go," he murmured.

They went down the hall again, and back up the stair. Anticipation tightened the muscles in Taras' stomach, stirred his arousal pleasantly. In his peripheral vision, he watched Isaev's short robe ripple around his thighs as they walked, laying flush against Ilarion's body one moment, outlining everything, then flowing and billowing in the next, like a curtain.

He was consciously quiet as they passed Isaev's sister's room again, stepping warily, though this time, he heard no sound from within.

At Isaev's room at the end of the hall, they paused.

He looked at Ilarion, and it was like they were boys again, of the same unrepentant criminal mind, up to no good.

Taras laughed, softly.

"Ready? Anya won't be able to tell if she's coming or going."

Date: 2008-05-21 06:40 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ilarion raised an eyebrow.

"After you," he said, feigning exaggerated politeness.

Then he flashed a dark smile.

Oleksei looked like he was getting a huge kick out of the whole operation. He had a kind of villainous enthusiasm that entertained Lasha immensely, like the henchman of a man with a pencil thin mustache, the one who was smarter than you gave him credit for.

The one the hero always underestimated, to his detriment.

Taras punched the door open without ceremony and they burst in, as if it were a raid.

"Ministerstvo Vnutrennikh Del," barked Lasha. "Ryuki hver!"

Anya was already in the bed, but she sat up, startled, gathering the covers around her chest.

Date: 2008-05-21 10:42 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras laughed, low and rough, as he saw Anya's face.

Her pale green eyes were wide and her full lips were parted, and she looked small and fragile, quivering in the red silk sea of Ilarion's bed.

It always unnerved people, to hear a laugh like that, made them freeze up, maybe because it was unexpected. Taras had found that even if it made someone pause for only a few seconds, it was worth it. Every hesitation was an advantage to be had.

Even in this situation, it would get Anya's heart racing, get her ready for what they would do to her.

Taras could feel his own elevated pulse, the bloodrush of adrenaline, mixing with lust. It felt less like the anticipation of sex to him and more like the thrill of committing a crime.

Ilarion closed the door behind them, and they moved in.

They circled around to either side of the bed. Anya looked between them, still clutching the covers, as if to hide herself from them.

That was funny, considering everything they'd already done, the way they'd been inside her not an hour before.

Taras unbuttoned his pants as he reached the platform, pushing them off his hips so he could climb into bed naked. On the other side, Ilarion was shedding his robe, letting it slip from his shoulders like snakeskin.

"Major?" Anya gasped, finally, voice breathless. "Captain?"

In answer, Taras chuckled.

Date: 2008-05-22 06:38 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Ilarion slid beneath the covers, feeling the brush of silk sheets on his flank.

"Anya," he announced, with insolent buoyancy.

He insinuated himself against her crudely, then tickled her in the ribs, making her yelp.

Lasha laughed, amused, pressing his lips against her hair.

"Oh, Anya," he sighed. "We're going to fuck you."

Taras had gotten into bed on her other side and now both of them loomed over her, propped up on an elbow, looking down as she lay on her back.

In the low light, the secretary's face was more exotic, and among his lavish pillows, she looked more wanton as well. More like the whore she wanted to be.

For the night, anyway. Lasha was amenable to such arrangements, and easily allowed their transience, never invoking them again. Such was the nature of hypocrisy.

"We're going to fuck you so hard," he whispered, coolly.

Date: 2008-05-22 08:25 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras watched Anya's face.

Her lips parted, and she seemed almost taken aback, staring at Ilarion for a few moments as if she expected him to be joking. The pale skin at her delicate throat shivered.

"Oh," she whispered, barely a sound. Her breathing was elevated, anticipatory, and her eyes flew to Taras.

Taras smirked and let his gaze move ruthlessly down her body.

"I think I want to hear you scream," he told her.

She shivered, and brought her hands to her body, touching her breasts, stroking her stomach, like a whore if he ever saw one.

He looked away from her then, and glanced at Isaev.

"Should we do it like before?"

His eyes were low-lidded, and his expression, hungry. Personally, he enjoyed seeing Isaev on his back underneath him, and anything else that touched in the process was just all part of the deal.

"Grind her good, between us?"

Date: 2008-05-22 08:54 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
In response, Ilarion pulled Anya toward him and rolled onto his back, letting her straddle his hips.

His lips smirked faintly at Taras's ravenous eyes. The idea clearly pleased the crooked bastard.

If he was honest, Lasha had enjoyed it as well, though it had been a brief encounter. It had left him throbbing with extraneous arousal, but now his frustrations were banished as he felt the slick kiss of Anya's vulva against the skin of his loins.

Anya moaned and slid against his cock, which was rigid and obstinate. Wanting to be inside her.

Ilarion reached down and angled his prick upward with a careless hand, letting her continue to rub along the length of him. He entertained it for a moment, then all at once, the smallest shift from his loins and Anya impaled herself smoothly on his cock, gasping at the unexpected breach of her body.

"Da," bit out Ilarion, wincing in pleasure. "That's what I want."

His hands ran up and down her back in slow, firm strokes.

Hesitating, his eyes shifted to Oleksei.

"Comrade," he murmured. "Mount her. Fuck her."

Lasha paused, smiling wickedly.

"Share her with me."

Date: 2008-05-22 06:44 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"You're a good comrade," Taras rumbled, smirking.

He surged forward like a bull, moving immediately to resume his position, poised above both of them.

Taras pressed his hips against Anya's rounded little ass. She was rocking on top of Isaev, and the motion made Taras' prick bump and rub indiscriminately, against her, against Ilarion's balls, and the base of his hard cock. Each accidental contact with unexpected flesh made Taras grunt in a ragged breath.

He wanted to grind against them both, skinblind to who he was touching. It was all the same if they were going to be sharing Anya anyway.

For some reason he suddenly thought about Liadov, and what they'd done in the dark, touching and rubbing, and worst of all, talking about what they wanted, like fucking degenerates. That was worse than this, but he hadn't really hesitated then, just took what he wanted and damned the consequences.

He wondered if it was worse with a stranger or with a comrade, but then he growled, frustrated. It was entirely too much thinking in the middle of fucking.

Taras reached down, seeking Anya's opening, but his fingertips first found something else, the firm root of Isaev's cock, slick with Anya's fluids.

He froze on the verge of ripping his hand away, or moving it down to curl his fingers around Isaev's balls.

Eventually he did neither, instead moving it up to find Anya, and where he needed to go.

There was no way he could avoid touching Isaev at the same time, so he didn't think about it, gritting his teeth.

Taras halted Anya's motion with a firm hand on her hip, then pushed into her, grunting as he encountered increased pressure and tightness, making his penetration slower by necessity.

Anya shuddered under him, moaning, but he moved in, pausing a few times to breathe heavily, and give each of them time to adjust.

He pressed until he was deep and flush, the lengths of his and Isaev's cocks pressed together, sheathed by Anya's heat.

"Good," he whispered, closing his eyes.

Date: 2008-05-22 11:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Such terrible pleasure.

Ilarion's mouth slipped open, and he exhaled the breath he had caught.

His hands curved over Anya's buttocks, and he felt the soft, bristling press of what must have been...


Dense netherhair, like briar against the backs of his hands. Behind it, the heated flat of skin, the low flex of loins.

Lasha felt him push in harder, instinctively seeking more.

Oleksei's cock pulsed against his own, and the pause was killing. Ache bloomed below.

Ilarion's motion was limited by Anya atop him, and the awkwardness of thrusting from below meant Oleksei was the obvious pacesetter, but he was hardly rendered incapable.

He gathered his stomach muscles, and pulled out slightly, then pushed back inside her, shuddering.

Oleksei's warm cock provided stiff resistance, and Lasha's brow knitted hard as he felt their flesh rub inescapably, pleasure intense as the agony of bone on bone.

He did it again, with more vigor.


It was almost too much, like a taste sweet enough to hurt the tongue.

"I can feel everything," he muttered, feverish.

Date: 2008-05-23 07:47 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras murmured low in inarticulate pleasure.

He thrust and gave and thrust again, starting to get a feel for the pace. Being in bed was something of a novelty, almost as much as being with two people, but the erotic charge of a cock sliding firmly against his was something he knew.

"You feel good," he breathed, shuddering, then his eyes flew open, his muscles seizing and throwing off the rhythm.

"Anya," he added, belatedly, between rough breaths. "You feel good, Anya."

Under him, Anya moaned in response.

"Good girl," Taras muttered.

Taras fell back into it, thrusting with particular vehemence. He realized it wasn't Anya's rhythm at all, but rather Isaev's, that he had naturally attuned to, synced with the ebb and flow of Ilarion's muscles.

Taras gritted his teeth. One muscle in particular.

But then again, there wasn't much Anya could do, crushed between them like this, other than yield to their thrusts, particularly Taras', since he had the leverage. But under her, Ilarion was game, arching upward in a way that ground them together.

It wasn't much different than what Taras had done with Liadov in Red Square. It wasn't much different than the things that happened in the Zone, but he didn't want to think about either, not now, not when the world seemed especially vibrant.

He realized he could feel the outline of Ilarion's hands pressing against his groin, knuckles pressing every time Taras thrust.

A thought rose up unbidden, and Taras wondered what it would feel like to have Isaev grab his ass.

He shuddered, groaning, gritting his teeth.

"Fuck her like that," he growled, low on harsh breath. "Fuck her hard, Isaev."

Date: 2008-05-23 09:27 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Lasha's breath was rough and ragged, and he heard the same in Taras's voice.

More syncronicity, when there was already far too much to bear or justify.

It was indecent, doing this at all, much less with a criminal as your second.

Anya was moaning like a fucking ghost, caged between their nude bodies, riding and writhing.

They counterpointed one another in a steady hitching, ever increasing rhythm. Ilarion envisioned a workers' forge, where blacksmiths traded blows on an anvil, careful not to disrupt their rhythm, out of fear for their lives.

Dangerous work, back then.

This was dangerous too, but the payoff was considerably better.

Lasha clenched his jaw and emitted a soft snarl of forbearance at the friction and stricture. Their pricks ground together like pistons in a narrow chamber, unrelenting.

He could feel every contour, could almost have claimed he felt actual veins. Catching of the rim of his glans against Oleksei's was particularly staggering, and sparks danced behind his lids.

"Are you getting what you need?" he hissed, seizing Anya's hair gently in a convulsive palm.

Anya nodded, breathless, without opening her eyes.

She was enjoying the ride.

Date: 2008-05-23 07:21 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"Yeah," Taras murmured, arching into Anya, and against Isaev.

He felt extraordinarily good, like he did during a workout, only better, his entire body flushed with pure pleasure and adrenaline.

It felt different than the expression of his physical need, usually localized in his throbbing cock. That could be satisfied by his hand, or a whore, or a degenerate in the dark, but this struck and sated something deeper inside him.

Taras thought about what Isaev said earlier, though his attention came and went.

One moment, he could recall Ilarion's words, things about divine fire, and men meeting as gods.

In the next, he only knew sensation. Friction, heat, the particular texture of Isaev's skin against his thighs. The musky tang of masculine sweat. The roughness of Ilarion's breath. A slap of flesh. Other sounds, intimate and wet.

It was no longer a question of what was wrong or depraved.

There were no more questions.

Taras pressed harder, feeling their bodies give in unison. Closer, broad chest covering Anya's slim back, arms braced on the bed for leverage.

He propelled himself almost effortlessly now, the roll and thrust of his body steady, and unrelenting.

Taras could feel Anya shaking underneath him, her muscles quivering, vibrating with strain.

He could feel the iron length of Isaev's cock, grinding perfectly against him.

Heat rose in his groin, and he shuddered, growling like an animal.

In the next moment, Anya cried out, bucking, her body pulsing and convulsing with violent heat around them.

Date: 2008-05-24 12:27 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Lasha gritted his teeth, but it wasn't from the strain.

There was no doubt about what was happening when Anya came. When she began thrashing, she took over all kineticism, and all Ilarion and Oleksei could do was brace themselves against the force of her nature and offer up their bodies for her use.

Taras's broad hand was curled like iron around the bedpost above his head. The nails were squared, pressed flat like a worker's. Yet manicured.

Her muscles tamped down, and they were gripped powerfully by her seizure. His prick was crushed flush against Oleksei's, and his eyes closed as his jaw tilted up involuntarily.

His mind whited out, basking in the sensation.

If he were with Liadov, he would be clasping him close as a brother, surrendering to everything, offering everything.

He would have a reason for this sweet, obscene rapture.

Lasha snarled inarticulately as his orgasm spiraled up, uncertain what to do in the crux of the feeling, conflicted, overwhemled.

He needed more, just a little bit more.

A rough and guttural moan ripped from his chest, and he mindlessly reached around Anya, to pull Oleksei closer, hands closing firmly over the muscular globes of his ass, feeling him go stiff. Uncertain, or aroused? Who could know?

Lasha didn't care. He was about to get his. He came hard with a shudder and a shaking of his whole form.

Date: 2008-05-24 06:59 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras' eyes flew open and went wide.

His orgasm hit hard and deep, with the force of a mortar. His body surged, and he shot off violently inside Anya, painting Ilarion with heat.

He felt in awe, and in utter disbelief, at how it had felt to have Ilarion grab him. The idle thought had even crossed his mind moments before, but the fantasy had done nothing to prepare him. Not for the reality of Isaev's ungloved hands clutching the hard muscle of his ass.

Taras felt like something inside him had crumbled like brick walls, a vital part of him now reduced to rubble.

He choked out an incredulous noise, and halfway through it turned into a laugh. Taras crushed it out like a cigarette, leaning forward suddenly to let his weight slump against Anya, pressing his face against her back.

His muscles trembled, as if on the verge of cramps, and he braced himself, fighting to still the tremors that threatened to ruin him.

Anya was still shaking, and he could feel Isaev's shudder underneath him. Neither of them was in any position to notice how the force of his orgasm had laid him bare, but even so, Taras fought to recover first.

He felt like he'd been naive before, when he'd been worried about what he'd done in the Zone, but that was only physical need, blowing off tension with the help of a comrade. Even outside of the Zone, it still made a certain kind of sense to want something so uncomplicated.

But this...

This felt like something different, and infinitely more depraved.

Taras had yearned for Ilarion to touch him, but when that contact had come, it felt like he'd just unwittingly sealed some infernal pact. It had something to do with Ilarion, no doubt, and his aristocratic perversions. Somehow he had corrupted Taras with his talk of divine fire and -

It went beyond degeneracy in ways Taras couldn't comprehend, though he knew were wholly and utterly wrong.

Taras moved numb lips against Anya's back, blindly seeking comfort.

She stirred after a few moments, and Taras realized that his cock still rested inside Anya, and against Ilarion.

Anya let out a slight moan, stirring.

"Captain," she whispered. "'re heavy."

Taras realized he had collapsed atop them both, overcome.

"Sorry," he muttered, and eased his weight upward and back. His cock slid down the length of Ilarion's one last time, then he came free, gasping.

Date: 2008-05-24 07:38 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Lasha was breathing hard as he disengaged from Anya's body.

Like he'd gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight. Which in a manner, he had.

With both he and Taras withdrawn, the dam broke, and pearled fluid trickled out, tepid drops hitting his thigh like liquid silk.

He was incredulous at how much there was, the sheer volume, but then he remembered his partner in crime. Another contributor, as it were. Of course Oleksei had ejaculated.

And he realized something else at the same time.

The liquid that streaked a slow trail around his inner thigh like a tear was neither his nor Oleksei's, but the mingled milk of their loins.

Lasha's eyes closed, briefly, as he chased his breath, softly, slowly respiring.

He felt like he was back in the Krimea, warm and languid. Like when he'd been swimming laps in the Black Sea, and thrust his exhausted body up onto the white sand, draping himself over the dunes naked and spent to regain his strength.

It was moments like that when he would find Andrei standing over him, haloed from behind by sunlight like a god, skin bronzed to buttermilk and dewy with heat.

Another warm, wanton body to pull down onto the sands and embrace without reservations.

His own brother.

Surely this mild perversion couldn't even hold a match to that, much less a candle.

"...I can't believe how well that worked," he intoned, after a moment.

Date: 2008-05-24 09:52 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
"Yeah," Taras said slowly, sitting back.

Neither could he, actually, just the logistics of it, fitting two cocks inside the same place in one girl. Taras wondered if they had a magazine for that, though he had the lingering suspicion if they did, not everyone would really be into it.

Taras ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He could use another shower.

Anya lay bonelessly against Ilarion's body, still panting, head tucked against his chest. She looked like she had no intention of moving anytime soon.

Taras' gaze moved to Ilarion, who was sprawled on his back and relaxed in a way Taras rarely saw him. Usually, Ilarion's posture was like a neatly-pressed and perfectly tailored uniform, formal without being too stiff. Sometimes when they were alone together in Isaev's corner office, usually after hours, enjoying a drink, that was when Ilarion would relax and lean back in his chair.

Nevertheless, Taras had never gotten to see Isaev sprawl before, except that time when he'd been completely drunk.

It looked nice, Taras thought, vaguely. Relaxing.

He realized that Ilarion was lying exactly in the middle of the bed, and Anya was atop him, though more to his right.

Taras looked at that for a few moments, then moved to stretch out on his back to Ilarion's left, not too close, but not too far away, either.

He stared up at the gathered canopy for a few moments, eyeing the pattern of folded fabric overhead.

"You have a good birthday?" he asked, glancing over at Anya.

In response, she let out a murmur of quiet assent, sighing softly.

Date: 2008-05-24 11:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Lasha's eyes opened slowly at the weight of Oleksei, settling on the overstuffed mattress beside him.

Not touching, now.

But not far away. He could feel the imperceptible energy field around him, the "territorial bubble" of his person.

"It's a shame, Anya, that your birthday only comes once a year," he drawled, smirking vaguely in Taras' direction.

Ilarion didn't mind the secretary clinging to him like a koala bear. She was warm and female, and soothing in her way, like the defenseless weight of a papoose.

But beside him, Oleksei was none of those things. Except perhaps warm.

Ilarion thought Taras might be quite warm, at close range. Metabolism like a train.

Lasha carved the thoughts out of his mind with a deft hand, and flicked them over the fence. Like a cat, they would be back the very next day, he knew, but it was troubling to do nothing at all.

He hesitated, glancing at Taras obliquely as he pulled the covers up and over Anya's back and his own nudity.

There was plenty of room underneath, for all of them. He had not been wrong.

"Hit the lamp, Oleksei. Maybe we can get some sleep."

Date: 2008-05-24 10:53 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Taras grunted, and rose up again, rolling to his knees. The nightstand was far enough away that he had to crawl.

The light flicked off with a soft click, and then the room was dark.

Taras settled down and got under the covers, back where he'd been, more or less.

He could hear Ilarion and Anya's breathing. It was easy to tell them apart. Anya's breath came lighter and more regular, while Isaev's seemed more definite, like a breeze. The sheets rustled slightly, now and then, with the brush of silk against skin as they shifted.

Taras listened to those sounds. He had missed them, the soft, near-subconscious reminders that someone else was near.

Falling asleep in the Zone was easier if a comrade was nearby. Safer, if some prick came to cut your throat in the middle of the night with a shiv made from a sharpened spoon.

Ilarion's shoulder was not far from his, Taras could tell, though their hips were further apart.

He shifted, getting more comfortable.

Taras closed his eyes. Even though he felt pleasantly warm and relaxed, Taras thought he wouldn't mind if it took him a while to fall asleep.

"Good night," he said quietly.

August 2010

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