#Agamemnon busmalis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ozimagines · 1 month ago

Text

Gets a little spicy. Be for-warned😂

Nikolai Stanislavsky and Ryan O’Reily in…

Détente (2/?)

Ryan awoke the next day in soiled sheets. Fuckin wet dreams were hard to ignore.

Cyril was all smiley in the morning.

“What?”

Cyril, not being the smartest guy in the world, giggled but didn’t say anything, having the sense enough to know when Ryan didn’t want to talk about something.

Ryan nodded to Nikolai at the breakfast line, giving him his food with a plop and reddening a little as he did so. No one had to know the sinful contents of the night before.

Ryan didn’t even know what to make of it. He was straight, right? Liked pussy?

Don’t tell him bisexuality or pansexuality is a thing.

Nikolai noticed the blush and wondered what it meant, a little self conscious.

Cyril smiled at him, so Nikolai smiled back.

“Good morning, Cyril.”

“Good morning, Mr. Nikolai.”

“You slept well?”

“Yeah, Ryan did too.”

Ryan smacked the back of his head lightly, which was his only acknowledgment of the comment.

Nikolai quirked a brow but didn’t say anything, just going to sit down with Rebadow, Busmalis, and Beecher.

Ryan found himself staring. The Nikolai in his dream was so suave, so sexy in a mature, European way. Ryan was almost jealous of his always calm demeanor.

When breakfast was served, he got his and Cyril’s meal and went to go sit down at the same table, sitting as close to Nikolai.

He was wearing that nice cologne or as he called it odekolon that smelled like peppery bergamot.

He shifted in his sweet to hide his semi.

“I’m getting closer to fucking Dr. Nathan.” Ryan announced, seeming to act the straightest when the gayest thoughts were circling in his head.

“Oh, really?” Stanislavsky asked with a smile. Ryan was so damn unsubtle.

“Yeah, tryna get my rocks off before the new year.” he boasted, ignoring Beecher’s rolling eyes.

“Where would you even go?”

“Ladies toilet, or the old conjugal rooms.” He mused.

“There were conjugal rooms built here?” Stanislavsky asked incredulously. Beecher filled him in on life before the bans.

“Far as we know, the rooms are still here. They haven’t added any renovations in that area.”

“I would have to see it to believe it.” Nikolai said with a chuckle. American prisons were honestly so fucking cushy.

Ryan noted it but moved on.

The day went in as usual, O’Reily paying a hack to give them space to rent out the phone from one of the storage closets.

Alvarez was their last one of the day.

“Adiós, te amo.” He handed the phone back and went to leave the closet.

“Wanna make a reservation for next time, Miggy?” O’Reily prodded, counting the bills in his hand.

“Let’s just see if my girl gets what I need, alright?”

“Doubt she’ll be able to send you her pussy via mail.” He remarked and Nikolai smirked besides himself.

So what, the mick was funny sometimes.

Alvarez rolled his eyes and went to leave again, throwing over his shoulder;

“Y’know, you two make a pretty cute couple.”

Nikolai scoffed but O’Reily got red with anger.

He rushed towards the door.

“Say that to my fucking face, Alvarez-“

“He just did.” Nikolai remarked, not getting really as worked up as Ryan, a little amused that it bothered the Irishman so much.

“Goin’ fag on me, Niko?”

“You’re a manipulative little shit but so easy to get a rise out of. It’s funny.”

“Fuck you.” He mumbled, but handed over Nikolai’s share to him. Nikolai smiled.

They walked down the hallway back to Em City, before Ryan got an idea and tapped Stanislavsky on the shoulder.

“Hey, Nicky, buddy? Come with me.”

O’Reily started to take a detour, guiding Nikolai, who followed but dubiously. He was almost certain that Ryan was going to make another grab for the phone.

Ryan opened a door down the hallway and guided Nikolai in.

There was a bed and a kitchenette, a small bathroom and a circular dining table. It looked like a 200 sq ft studio apartment. It wasn’t set up or anything, but it wasn’t bad. It was the most homey space either men had been in years.

“Святое дерьмо.” (Holy shit.) Nikolai took it all in, having not been in a space much bigger than a pod for so long now.

“Conjugal room. Believe me, it was really something in action.” Ryan remembered the last time he’d taken Shannon in there. Fuck, he missed the domestic shit.

“This is incredible.” He touched the side of the counter, dusty from its non-use. “Your wives, they would come and make you food?”

“And fuck you into next Tuesday, yuuup.” Ryan finished, a self satisfied smile. Nikolai nodded, moving the clear tarp covering the table and seeing the wood chatoyancy.

“Like I said; incredible.” He took a step forward, but caught his foot on the clear tarp, falling forward and crashing into Ryan.

Ryan let out a soft “ufff” and fell backwards onto the bed, arms out and holding Nikolai, legs spread and Niko falling between them.

When they realized their position, they scrambled off the other, cheeks heating up and eyes averting.

“Jesus Christ, Niko, walk much?” Ryan said with a forced chuckle, still staring at Stanislavsky’s shoes.

“Heh… ass.” Nikolai laughed softly, not making eye contact as well.

They filtered out awkwardly, walking back to Em City.

“Thanks for showing me, O’Reily.”

“No problem, man.”

They regarded O’Reily’s paid hack and awkwardly split.

Nikolai sat up that night, playing with his chain, thinking about the moment with O’Reily in the conjugal room. The trip into his body and the way the other man held him on the way down.

Something they both noticed, both of them, but refused to acknowledge was the semis they felt pressed against the other.

Ryan didn’t acknowledge it, so Nikolai didn’t. Nikolai didn’t acknowledge it so Ryan didn’t.

Nikolai palmed at himself, chest expanding with each breath, and thoughts driven to the Irishman, not sure whether or not to view him in love or in war.

It was this ambiguity that drove him to distraction. Not a friend, not an enemy, but burning with an uneasy passion.

Détente.

Nikolai had such vivid dreams… he wondered how he could induce them again, they brought him so much pleasant peace.

Next morning at breakfast, they continued the cycle; Ryan getting their food ready and joining them once everyone was served.

He’d barely slept all night, the memory of Stanislavsky’s heavy body pressed against his, that slightly off kilter look in his eyes as he came down.

“Hiya, gents.” O’Reily greeted, eating his breakfast yogurt. Nikolai noticed it was peach today, which he touted as odd.

“They ran out of cherry?”

“Yeah.” Ryan said, not clocking that Nikolai knew his favorite yogurt flavor.

“That’s amazing, Stanislavsky.” Busmalis mused, and Rebadow smiled thoughtfully.

“Only about 4% of the population has it.”

“Less for chromesthesia.” Beecher said, the others left to wonder how the hell he knew so much about every little thing.

“This is more audio-tactile synesthesia. Less than 1%.” Nikolai informed, poking at his scrambled eggs which were more cheese than eggs.

“The fuck are you talking about?” Ryan asked with a bite. Beecher rolled his eyes.

“Nikolai’s got synesthesia.” He said, deadpanned. Ryan revolted.

“Is it contagious?”

The four men laughed and Ryan felt very self conscious.

“It’s not that kind of a condition. It’s where people associate senses with other senses. Like some people see colors in letters and numbers. Some people can taste letters. Some people see colors in music.”

“I associate music with temperatures and people.” Nikolai finished. “Everyone has a sound that reminds me of them, and I hear it every time we’re together.”

“Wow. What’s mine?” Busmalis asked excitedly. Nikolai smiled back.

“‘Flight of the Bumblebee’ from ‘The Tale of Tsar Saltan’ opera in 1899, by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.”

“Holy cow, what’s that?” Busmalis said both sentiments in the same breath and it made the others laugh.

“And mine?” Rebadow asked.

“Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy.”

“Okay, what’s mine?” Beecher asked next.

“Pachbel, Canon in D.”

“I don’t know any of these.” Ryan remarked.

“Classical music is much more revered in Russia than America.” He explained. “It’s the music I grew up with.”

“Wow,” Cyril was blown away by the whole conversation. “So you hear music when you see me?”

“Yes; yours is Rhapsody in Blue, by Gershwin.” At Cyril’s confused look, he started humming it, to give him an idea. Cyril remarked that it sounded like a song in a cartoon he’d seen.

“Fantastic.” He stated, confidently. Ryan corrected him.

“Fantasia.”

“Is it loud when we’re all together?” Cyril asked genuinely. Rebadow and Beecher chuckled.

“A little,” Nikolai admitted. “But being able to perceive the world through music is the only world I know. I can’t imagine it any other way.”

“Real poetic there, Nikky.” Ryan plopped down across from him. “Well? What’s mine? La Cucaracha?”

Nikolai turned red and stood with his tray.

“Scheherazade, by Korsakov.” He said tersely, excusing himself.

“I’ve never heard that one.” Beecher admitted.

Ryan furrowed his brow. The fuck was that?

The got together later to discuss the phone business. They’d made a pretty penny already but were trying to see if they could extract information on their callers for extra leverage.

“What was that, earlier?” Ryan asked suddenly. Nikolai pretended not to know what he meant. Ryan said not to insult his intelligence.

“Such that it is.” Stanislavsky snarked.

“Never heard the one you said for me. I’d at least heard of the others.”

“I don’t decide, O’Reily, I hear what I hear.”

“What did I tell you, Niko? Can’t shit a shitter.” He held his arms open. “C’mon, you know I’m gonna find out eventually. No one keeps shit from me for long.”

“Why do you care?” Stanislavsky shit back, face and voice heated.

“I don’t like being lied to.”

“You have no proof I’m lying beside your own fucked up head.”

“Niko, just fuckin’ tell me, don’t make me beat it out of you. Somethin’ about my sound made you uncomfortable so just tell me. It’s probably not even-“

“You will misinterpret.” Nikolai snapped. His face burned after he said it.

“The fuck is my sound?”

Nikolai sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Dvořák.” He relented.

“Never heard of that one either.”

“That’s the composer, genius.”

Ryan blushed.

“I knew that.” He thought. “So which song?”

“Opus 11.”

“…why would I misinterpret that?”

He sighed again, placing his head in his hands.

“Opus 11 is titled: Романс для фортепиано и скрипки.”

“…which means?”

Another sigh.

“Romance for a Piano and Violin. It’s known as Romance.”

“Oh.” Was all Ryan could manage to say, trying hard to not misinterpret as he was told not to. He thought for a second.

“So which one am I?”

“I just told you.”

“No, I mean…” he swallowed, pretending like he was just postulating. “Am I the piano or violin?”

Nikolai was taken aback.

“Look, I ain’t gonna go telling people you think of a song called ‘Romance’ when you think of me, so you can chill. I’m not jonesing for anyone to know that.” He turned over a coin in his hand, heads to tails to heads to tails. “I’m just curious. Which one am I in that scenario?”

Nikolai pretended to think as if he hadn’t thought about it every night since he’d met Ryan.

“Violin.”

“Why?”

Nikolai stared at him, deadpanned.

“Lots of questions from someone who doesn’t give a shit.”

“Fuck you.” He got up, and stepped to Nikolai. “Tell me, don’t tell me, won’t change a fuckin’ thing. This ass ain’t up for grabs.”

“No one wants your ass, O’Reily.” Nikolai said, then got a deliciously wicked thought. “Except for Adebisi.”

Ryan was pushing him back into the wall in an instant, hands at Nikolai’s throat.

“I’m not a fucking fruit, asshole!”

“Could have fooled me.” Nikolai shot back, pushing Ryan’s hands away and pressing into him. “Get your hands off me!”

“Thought this is what you wanted, faggot? How’s your little ‘Romance’ now?”

He was fighting Nikolai with all his force, who in turn was fighting back with all of his. They tussled, grabbing at the other’s hands and body, eyes deadlocked and wild.

Ryan didn’t know what came over him. Honestly you could ask him ten billion times and he couldn’t tell you why he did what he did. He was that unaware of his own mind.

Something in Nikolai’s eyes stirred something in him. Something about those brown eyes, so intensely locked with his, plus the furious beating of their hearts aligning as they fought, were too much to witness and not do something about it.

Ryan, ever the impulsive man, lurched forward and locked lips with Stanislavsky.

Nikolai’s eyes got wide and frightened, possibly more than if Ryan had just slit his throat. He didn’t fight it, though, letting Ryan grab his hair roughly and yank his head back so he could tongue him down.

Ryan was wild, crazy, and out of control. He kissed Nikolai like some hormonal teenager making out in a car after Prom.

Like they were necking in a Chevy by a lake, pawing at his body and swapping saliva with his enemy.

But he wasn’t an enemy, was he?

He was something else. Not an ally. Not a foe. Not a stranger. Not a lover.

Détente.

Stanislavsky raised his hands to the sides of Ryan’s face, grasping desperately at his new paramour.

They smacked their kisses loudly, sloppy passion exciting the both of them, pressing their erections to the other’s thigh.

“Say my name…” Ryan commanded, yanking on Nikolai’s hair so his throat was exposed and kissing it passionately.

“Mmmm… O’Reily…” Nikolai breathed and O’Reily growled.

“Ryan… say Ryan…”

“Ugh… Ryan…”

Nikolai’s hands went down to grab onto Ryan’s dick, squeezing it through the fabric. Making half rubbing, half jerking motions.

“That’s it, baby, don’t stop. Ugh… fuck… Nikky…”

Ryan, at the spontaneity of it all, and the fact he’d not done any real loving since before Howell, after about three minutes of stroking and drooling from Nikolai, came in his pants with a satisfying grunt and a strong bite on Nikolai’s lower lip that bruised it.

He heaved breath after breath on the Russian’s face, each time hitching a little as he adjusted his softening cock in his pants.

“Fuck…” he’d said out of pleasure, before realizing exactly what he’d done. “Oh, fuck.”

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, devastating his pride. His face burned. He looked directly into Nikolai’s eyes and the other man knew instantly that he was panicking.

The great Ryan O’Reily had cum to a man’s touch.

“Oh, fuck!” He kicked at the wall and recoiled in pain.

Nikolai thought for a moment. He was still rock fucking hard, touching himself softly to cool his aching dick.

“Ry- O’Reily.”

“Fuck me, man, fuck!” Ryan’s heart was racing. Nikolai could tell anyone he wanted now. Ryan was up for grabs. Fair game.

“O’Reily?”

“What? Huh?” Ryan turned to Nikolai, eyes searching him over and chest tightening in the anticipation of the taunting to come.

Nikolai chose his next words carefully.

“Sorry for taking advantage-“

“Fuck you, man, you didn’t-“

“You’re too high right now.” Nikolai finished, not making any sudden movements. “I should have known. Forgive me.”

Ryan paused, squinting his eyes at his former enemy and business partner.

“What?”

“You’re clearly high.” Nikolai offered again, holding his hands up in front of him. “It wasn’t right of me to take advantage while you’re, how do you put it, fucked up.”

Ryan was slow to the point.

“I don’t…”

“Because you’d have to be high to let me touch you. That’s the only reason you’d let me. You may not even remember this in a few hours.”

It was now obvious what Nikolai was doing. He was helping Ryan save face; give him an excuse for the passionate rendezvous. He didn’t make any movements. Didn’t touch Ryan’s shoulder even, just kept reiterating that Ryan was too high to know what was going on.

“Yeah… yeah, man, I gotta lay off the tits.” Ryan’s heart rate lowered again, his whole body with a kind of trembling ache.

Nikolai smiled slightly. He was worried he’d have to be even more overt with Ryan, who now seemed to get the message.

“I… uh… sorry, Nikolai, I was shitfaced.” Ryan lied through his teeth, knowing the other man didn’t believe him for a second but was being too kind and genial to call him on what had happened.

“That’s why we won’t speak of this again.”

“Yeah… thanks… for understanding.” Ryan ran a shaky hand over his head, fingers threading through his hair.

“Not a problem.” Nikolai sort of looked down and gestured for Ryan to leave. Ryan gave a questioning look and Nikolai rolled his eyes and gestured to his still half hard prick, and Ryan knew he was supposed to give the man a little privacy now.

“Right, sorry.” Ryan turned to leave, not having to be asked twice to forget what just happened. He stopped at the doorframe, though, casting one more glance at the starry eyed Russian.

“Violin, huh?”

“Yes, violin.” Stanislavsky said, a little deflated that he had to pretend that the best kiss of his life was just some coked out fantasy. Ryan nodded his head.

“You’re… it makes sense, though. You being the piano. You’re mature and classy and shit.”

Nikolai chuckled.

“Much obliged.”

Ryan nodded his head again and left, a now alone Nikolai going to undo his pants and finish himself off.

Christ on a motherfucking cracker, what in the hell had just occurred?

And why did it feel so fucking good?

Nikolai closed his eyes, and for the first time just let his mind be totally set on Ryan, that slippery, sleek, violin of a man, playing him like a Stradivarius. He imagined Ryan’s cocky mouth filled with his manhood, the soft suckling and gagging sounds playing a symphony in his mind.

He kept hearing it over and over again;

“Say my name…” the fantasy said.

“Ryan…” he whispered under his breath.

He was gonna have to think of some excuse for his bruised lip before he got back to Em City.