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Jan. 19th, 2009 02:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taras_olekseiTaras paused in front of Liadov's office.
He was on his way back from the gym, after a good, hard workout. He wore his black tank and a pair of loose pants, and had a towel draped around his neck.
He'd gotten some stares and sidelong glances in the gym, soldiers who eyed his tattoos. Taras supposed that the worst ones were covered, but even just his bare arms and shoulders were enough to hint at his criminal resume, especially the barbed wire around his biceps, and snake and dagger on his forearm. Those said enough.
Taras hadn't been intending show any overt sign that he'd been up north, not in front of civilized people, but after the scene between Lasha and Liadov in the mess hall that morning, he figured the soldiers needed to see that the Ministry employed more than fancy pricks whose idea of fighting was rubbing up against a wall and grabbing each other's arms. And besides, all that whispering had been a little queer.
He felt good. Energized, muscles thrumming with energy to spare. It had been a while since he'd had a proper workout. Not since before he'd arrived. He'd hit the weights and kettlebells, and done some calisthenics. Now he could have a shower and a snack, and call it a night.
Taras eyed Liadov's door.
The fucker was probably gone by now, off to mess, off to bed, whatever he did when he wasn't stalking through the halls and pounding on people's doors. Maybe at the pathologist's lab. But then again, Liadov worked some strange hours.
Taras couldn't hear anything in particular beyond the door. He stood there for a few more moments, wondering if he should just break in again, but there was no point if no one was inside. He was about to turn away when he heard a noise.
It was soft, but had the particular ring of struck glass. Taras frowned. He hesitated for another moment, then knocked on the door, not loud, but polite.
He was on his way back from the gym, after a good, hard workout. He wore his black tank and a pair of loose pants, and had a towel draped around his neck.
He'd gotten some stares and sidelong glances in the gym, soldiers who eyed his tattoos. Taras supposed that the worst ones were covered, but even just his bare arms and shoulders were enough to hint at his criminal resume, especially the barbed wire around his biceps, and snake and dagger on his forearm. Those said enough.
Taras hadn't been intending show any overt sign that he'd been up north, not in front of civilized people, but after the scene between Lasha and Liadov in the mess hall that morning, he figured the soldiers needed to see that the Ministry employed more than fancy pricks whose idea of fighting was rubbing up against a wall and grabbing each other's arms. And besides, all that whispering had been a little queer.
He felt good. Energized, muscles thrumming with energy to spare. It had been a while since he'd had a proper workout. Not since before he'd arrived. He'd hit the weights and kettlebells, and done some calisthenics. Now he could have a shower and a snack, and call it a night.
Taras eyed Liadov's door.
The fucker was probably gone by now, off to mess, off to bed, whatever he did when he wasn't stalking through the halls and pounding on people's doors. Maybe at the pathologist's lab. But then again, Liadov worked some strange hours.
Taras couldn't hear anything in particular beyond the door. He stood there for a few more moments, wondering if he should just break in again, but there was no point if no one was inside. He was about to turn away when he heard a noise.
It was soft, but had the particular ring of struck glass. Taras frowned. He hesitated for another moment, then knocked on the door, not loud, but polite.
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Date: 2009-01-26 12:32 am (UTC)Liadov's grip was strong and rough, and he manhandled Taras with an almost violent hunger, raw and savage in a way that Taras had not guessed Liadov could be capable of, perhaps because Taras could not imagine it of Isaev.
Taras knew he wrote them off as much the same, fancy elitist pricks who seemed to have a taste for dangerous men, men who knew what it was to live like beasts, for survival alone, when sex was not an indulgence, but a visceral need.
But that was how Liadov touched him now, with a need Taras knew intimately.
He was rough with Liadov in turn, in a way he somehow could not imagine touching Ilarion. He thrust up against Liadov, pinning him back against the wall, bringing his hands up to rake through Liadov's thick hair, lips catching Liadov's mouth and jaw hungrily.
Liadov gave as good as he got, matched him, the motion of his damp, heated loins against Taras' potent. Their cocks met and struck, rubbing the length of each other, grinding against the hollows between thigh and crotch. He could feel the scrape of Liadov's hair against his glans every time he thrust.
Taras shuddered, moving harder now, hips driving into Liadov's.
"I like it like this," he bit out. "It reminds me I'm alive."
He rasped hot breath against Liadov's ear.
"Nika," he whispered.