#anatoly daredevil

[thingsasbarcodes]

Daredevil 1x01 - Into the Ring

[sword-day]

Talk it over with your brother.

DAREDEVIL 01.04 In the Blood

[sword-days]

DAREDEVIL anatoly ranskahov + worse

[jaberwockkee]

The Tragedy that is the Ranskahov brothers. They haunt my every dream like Silver Springs sung by Stevie Nicks

[frostedroyaltea]

Summer Days

The summer sun beat down on the back of Piotr’s neck and he wiped the gathering sweat away with the back of his hand. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and glared down at the inventory sheet he was holding. 

He had no idea why Anatoly and Vladimir decided they all needed to do inventory on a day like this. Especially stuffed in stuffy closets and warehouses that had no conditioning what’s so ever. Vladimir still refused to let them open the windows. Yes, opening and closing them was a pain, especially in the warehouse they were currently in. but it would be worth it, Piotr had argued to Vladimir who stubbornly refused to give in.

Piotr silently cursed his and Sergei’s big headedness as he signed he name at the bottom of the sheet when he finally got to the last item. Maybe he could convince Anatoly to make Vladimir see reason when he got there to make sure everything was running smoothly.  

He left the stuffy closet, accidentally shutting it too hard and slamming it. He ignored Vladimir’s “hey!” that came from the air conditioned office and stalked over to the rows and rows of shelves that were on his next sheet. He wished Aslan was here. Then they could complain about their boss together. 

He wiped his forehead again then rubbed his face with one hand, sighing. The heat seemed stuck in his lungs and the dust in the air coated his mouth and throat, practically choking him. Piotr glared down at the paper. The words were starting to blur together and he squinted to make sense of them. 

He rubbed his eyes with one hand to try to clear them. He dropped the papers to the ground to put a hand on the shelves to steady himself, suddenly feeling weak and nauseous. His ears were ringing, he couldn’t hear anything, and had no way to know if someone noticed. 

He opened his mouth today something, call for help, but nothing came out. His vision when black and he dropped. 

Piotr woke to several blurry faces above him and his head, embarrassingly, in someone’s lap. He blinked and his vision cleared. “Hey, hey,” Anatoly said. Piotr blinked. He wasn’t sure how long Anatoly had been here, how long he had been unconscious for. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” It took him a second to realize he was trembling. 

“What happened?” Piotr managed to ask.

“You passed out,” Anatoly said. “I saw you when I was walking in.” He took a cloth someone, Dmitri, handed to him and put it on Piotr’s forehead. “You were only out for a few seconds luckily.” He combed a hand through Piotr’s hair and Piotr leaned until the touch before he remembered where he was. “Vladimir called an ambulance,” Anatoly said, annoyance edging his voice. “He and Sergei are trying to figure out what they’re going to tell them.”

The paramedics, thankfully, did not ask any questions about the contents of the warehouse. That, however, did not mean they wouldn’t report them so Vladimir and Sergei said they’d be “taking care of it.” Anatoly told them not to hurt them. 

Piotr ended up not going to the hospital. The paramedics, thankfully, didn’t press him to. They just said to call or have someone drive him if he felt he needed to go. 

Anatoly finally allowed him to sit up when they left him and then insisted on helping him to the office. Once there he laid down on the couch they had for when Vladimir and Sergei worked long hours and nights. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. It was still too hot.      

[briefcasejuice]

missing anatoly ranskahov rn; the better ranskahov brother 🙏

[meet-again]

Back on track with episode five.

Immediatly why is wesley here? I'm so fucking sick of wesley. Creepy motherfucker.

[pastafossa]

So when I was getting an autograph from the guy, Gideon Emery, that played Anatoly in Daredevil, I chatted with him a bit about Daredevil and I told him his death scene was the best on the show, and definitely the most brutal, and as I walked away I found he'd signed the print, 'I'd get beaten up for you any day', and I'm just saying this works perfectly as a Daredevil themed Valentine and one day I'm making that for someone.

[1rsoldiersince2012]

Bound by Law (Matt Murdock x reader)

Words: 2584 (chapter 22)

Summary:

You and Matt met in the courtroom. Now, you may think that Matt was a knight in shining armour and defended you in the name of all United States laws, but that was not the case. Matt was totally destroying your client, and you wanted to tear him into pieces right then and right there, because with Murdock as your rival, your head is on the firm's plate with each case. Did Matt care? No, he only cared about bringing justice, he was a human-machine, driven by the need to bring righteousness no matter the cost. Or was he just that? What happens when you get involved in Fisk's business and Daredevil's lies against your will?

UPDATES EVERY other FRIDAY ?

Find my other accounts on ao3 and wattpad!

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1rSoldierSince2012

wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/1rsoldierSince2012

22. In the Blood

While you were lying in bed with a book, trying to distract yourself from what happened earlier, so painfully aware of Robert's presence next door, Matt found himself engaging in another conflict with the Russians. As well as has Wesley.

Although Fisk's business has been going on quite well recently, the Russians became a problem and Wesley's headache yet again. Simply because they were unable to contain the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Wesley confidently strides into the taxi workshop, looking up and down at the two men in the middle of the garage. "Oof, those look like they hurt." He mutters with no emotions of compassion or mercy. Only sheer disappointment.

"I've had worse." Anatoly answers with a thick Russian accent, making Wesley's ears bleed. Oh, how much he hated working with them, yet he had to admit that the Russians were a cheap brute force, but... They started slipping too much recently.

"I know how much your people delight in extolling the amount of pain they can endure, but maybe next time you could try ducking? Leland's finalized the paperwork. Prohaszka's holdings in Kitchen Cab have been acquired and transferred via third party to Veles Taxi. Your distribution infrastructure just doubled." Wesley spills quickly, maintaining the same relaxed tone the whole time. Tone that was intimidating everyone.

"Tell your employer we are grateful." Anatoly takes the papers from Wesley's hands and slips through some pages.

"Don't think he really cares at the moment. You were light again this week." Wesley looks at the two men in front of him, beat to a pulp, yet still cocky.

"There was a complication." Vladimir intervenes, saving Anatoly's ass from the deadly stare.

"One you assured us you were addressing." Wesley rolls his eyes slightly, crossing his arms.

Vladimir hurries to remind Wesley about his brother, "Do you know what he was asking? This fool who laid hands on my brother?"

Wesley refrains from rolling his eyes again, and just wants to get out of this filthy place as soon as possible, "not my concern."

"It should be. He was asking about your employer, by name." Anatoly steps in the chat again.

"All the more reason to settle this. You sneeze, we all catch a cold. Madame Gao and Mr. Nobu have expressed their disappointment." Wesley simply answers, watching how Anatoly's eyes got bigger upon the mentioning of Gao.

"We have not heard of this." Vladimir breaks the short silence.

"Hmm," Wesley hums throatily, "that's because we've been talking behind your back, about how the Russians can't seem to handle one man running around in a mask. I mean, if he had an iron suit or a magic hammer, maybe that would explain why you keep getting your asses handed to you-"

Vladimir starts walking off before the sentence is finished, with Anatoly following him. "We're done here."

"He's weakened your operation." Wesley drops, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Vladimir turns back on his heel and quickly returns to Wesley, trying to prove who's the man of this place by standing close to Wesley. "You think us weak?"

"This isn't personal, Vladimir. It's business. Distribution of Madame Gao's product has been affected, which in turn is causing delays in other ventures. This is not acceptable. Fortunately for all parties, my employer has agreed to help return you to solid footing."

"How?"

"By aiding you in certain duties deemed vital to the continuation of service-" Wesley smirks a little, while Vladimir turns to leave again.

"He wants to take over."

"We value the services you provide, but clearly," Wesley says louder, laughing under his breath, "you need help providing them. We'll all profit nicely under the new structure."

"How nicely?" Anatoly stops Vladimir with one hand.

The men exchange a row of words in Russian, making Wesley sick from the language again, although he regretted now that working with Russians, he had a language barrier. The feeling of being not superior in the situation was crushing to say the least. Vladimir finally turns to look at Wesley, "tell Mr. Fisk-"

"We don't say his name." Wesley cuts right away, instantly annoyed.

"Tell... Mr. Fisk..." Vladimir says again, this time more confidently, "that if he wants a pound of flesh... he can come here and carve it himself."

Wesley exhales through his nose loudly. "This is an offer, not an order. The choice of how we proceed is yours. Talk it over with your brother. We'll be in touch." Turning on his heel, he leaves the garage, returning to the black SUV, where Fisk was already waiting for him.

Vladimir and Anatoly continue arguing in the garage, finally deciding on sneaking into the hospital to get more information from Semyon.  Meanwhile, Wesley closes the doors and immediately takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes for a moment. Fisk patiently waits for him to say anything, intently following every movement of the man in front of him. Although he was the same man that he knew, there was something different about Wesley today. Something so small and simple that it was not visible to the eye of the cold-blooded maestro in the black suit.

"Anatoly may be the way in. He seems more amenable to the proposition, or at least not quite as...vitriolic as his brother." He finally says, not putting his glasses on yet. 

"Well, confrontations can be expensive. I'd prefer to handle this quietly. How are we on the timeline?" Fisk asks immediately.

"Within a reasonable margin. Assuming we can settle with the Russians quickly."

"We will. One way or another."

"What about the masked idiot?" Wesley clutches his glasses slightly, knowing that the force he applied might be enough for them to break. The fact that The Devil not only ruined their business, but also hurt you, was enough for him to finally snap and punish that idiot himself.

Fisk sighs slightly, "If the brothers can't handle him, I'll find another solution."

Car stops and Fisk immediately grabs the handle, blocking Wesley's arm from doing the same thing. " You stay with the car, I need to attend this alone." Fisk rasps, and gets out, leaving Wesley alone in the backseat, with some idiot behind the wheel.

Fisk has told him about his plans to ask Vanessa out to dinner. Of course, he was happy for his boss, but a little voice at the back of his head was laughing at him at times. Wesley remembered how cowardly he felt today when he kissed your cheek before leaving. That idiot Robert has spoiled everything. Wesley curses under his breath. He didn't even get a chance to pay the bill. Yet, the fact that he managed to kiss your cheek, to get even a little bit of physical contact was both calming and driving him insane. Of course, this was all a part of a big plan, the important dots on a huge map, but he couldn't stop that fire burning with jealously inside of him. When Robert asked you about sleeping at your place, Wesley felt the urge to take out his gun and just blow his brains out. A small, sudden sound snaps Wesley out of the trance that he was in. Looking down into his lap, he notices how he crushed his glasses, and the sharp pieces sticking into his palm made him bleed, proving that just like every other man, he was indeed vulnerable. With no panic evident on his face, only a slight frown, Wesley takes out a handkerchief from his pocket, calmly picking out the shards and wrapping what was left of his glasses into the soft material. The blood kept slowly oozing, yet James didn't hurry to wipe it. Something about that made the situation both poetic and ridiculous. 

Fisk returns rather quickly, not noticing the bloody hand of his most trusted man, and bragging about how successfully the conversation went. Wesley shoots a small, understanding smile, balling his bleeding palm into a tight fist. 

***  

Russians kept Matt busy. In fact, they kept everyone busy, turning themselves into the city's biggest headache in a matter of weeks. After Claire stitched Matt up last night, he got a burner phone for the sake of her safety, and yet the worst has happened again. The phone call that Claire managed to make before she was dragged out of her flat, made Matt feel the fire was catching up with him, thinking that because of his dumb decisions, an innocent woman might not make it till the dawn of the next morning. 

And while Matt goes on another rescue mission, putting criminals into their places, Foggy finds himself in Marci's bed again. Instead of drowning in a pile of case papers, he was drowning in the sea of white, over-perfumed sheets. Over and over again, he told himself that Marci was no good, and yet, he kept coming back to her like a moth keeps flying towards the flame.

Ironically, Matt was the one who encouraged Foggy to move on, and still, Matt himself kept the record of one-night hookups, up until they had a case against you. There was something so sinful, so strong about you that he, as a devoted Christian, was ready to commit that sin. Right now, there was no time to think about you, especially when he was beating the crap out of those Russians, but later, back in Claire's kitchen, when Matt was stitching her up, he felt the need to do anything to protect you from Wesley. Claire, still recovering from the shock, proved to Matt that the city needs protection, the city need him in that stupid mask, and you... You need him in that stupid mask as well. 

*** 

Matt returned home late. From the sounds of the city, he was guessing that it was around 2 AM. Exactly 10 hours until the court. And 7 hours until he sees you again. 6 hours until he goes to church. And 5 hours of actual sleep. If he will even manage to fall asleep. The stress of running around was catching up with him, Matt felt drained, but the emotions of people he saved, especially Claire were still raw, still getting under his skin and tearing his heart apart. How long will he be able to be sponge that takes in all of the pain and all of the emotions from others? When will Matt be able to not only give himself to others, but actually get something in return? Matt sighs loudly and lays on his back. The sheets felt like a thousand needles stabbing his back, but maybe it was because he felt like he was missing a part of himself, like he was living his whole life incomplete.

With only 5 hours of sleep Matt was dressed in his best suit, making his way towards the church. Father Lantom was sitting outside the church, wrapped up in a long black coat. The shy rays of sun illuminated his face, making him look like a saint. "Haven't seen you here in a while."

Matt feels startled, although he knew that Father always somehow saw him, even in the biggest crowd. "Well, I've been busy." Matt sits down next to him and inhales the cold weather, feeling somewhat relaxed when it fills his lungs.

"I know." Father turns to look at Matt, even more tired than he usually was. "The press loves this new mysterious figure."

"I don't think 'loves' is the word to use here, Father." Matt smiles shyly for a moment, but then his lips turn to thin line on their own.

"Love has many meanings, Matt." Father intently watches Matt for any kind of reaction, any twitch of muscles, yet he receives none. "Care to discuss what's on your heart over a cup of latte?"

"Yeah.. Sure." Matt gives up running away from those offers, not wanting to hurt the old man anymore. 

"Finally someone agreed, I've been wanting to try it since they brought the machine here." Father talks along the way, just to keep the mood of conversation going, before Matt returns to his old, quiet self. "You've got court today or do you go to work dressed like that now?"

The question throws Matt off a little, and he grins again. "Like what?"

"Ellegant." Father watches the cup filling up with steaming liquid.

"I threw on the first thing I touched."

"It was with that nicely folded handkerchief as well?" Father Lantom puts the cup in front of Matt and sits down too. Matt doesn't answer, meaning that the quick banter will be put to rest now. "Anything you'd like to say, Matthew?"

"I'd say that I'm a fool but you already knew that." Matt leans over the cup and inhales the sweet aroma, which is oddly so similar to your perfume that the thought makes him shake his head slightly.

"That goes without saying. Maybe you wanna talk about what happened in that fancy lawyer firm?" Father asks as carefully as possible, feeling the need to somehow crack the man in front of him.

"A friend of mine got hurt. That's it."

"Yet the press is saying that you're the one who hurt her."

"It was an accident, and I was an idiot." 

"Why did you go there?" Father presses, wanting to know the truth from Matt himself.

"Because..." I care. He wanted to let it out, to say those words, but something was just stuck in his throat, preventing him from doing so. "I couldn't let an innocent person get involved in a shady business."

"Did you succeed?"

"If by succeed you mean that she got shot, then no."

Father falls silent, thinking over his next words. The look on Matt's face was unreadable, something new and unusual to Lantom. "Does she know about you? The other you."

"No. No one knows. No one will know."

"And what shady business was she getting into?"

Matt scoffs a little, finally taking the cup into his hands, "her boss tried to fake the evidence. Whole case is a mess." Father opens his mouth for another question, but Matt beats him to the answer, "she started working for us yesterday."

"Oh. Now I see why the fancy costume is on display." Father laughs slightly, but gets serious as soon as he notices Matt's furrowed eyebrows. "You care about her, don't you? Enough to risk your identity getting revealed just to save her from bad decisions?"

Matt takes a sip of the drink, taking his time with the answer. But this silence says enough for Father. 

"Matt, you have to-"

"I care about everyone in this city, Father, and last night I risked a woman's life with the Russians. I can't let anyone close to me because they will end up getting hurt." Matt feels like he's back in Claire's apartment, listening to her heart ramming in her chest violently.

"Can't let anyone close to Matt Murdock or close to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"

"If they get close to one, the other becomes a threat."

"If it's really like that, Matthew, you've got a problem in... separating them. Don't let the Devil get the upper hand. Find your anchor, someone to keep you to your true self."

"Here I thought you were gonna bring God into the conversation." Matt scoffs again, finishing the latte.

"I'm afraid that God won't be much of a help, you have to sort it out yourself before it's too late. Open up yourself to others, Matthew, don't take away other people's darkness, thinking that it won't affect you too." Father finishes, from the movements of Matt guessing that he'll be soon leaving.

"Yeah, thanks for the drink, Father." Matt gets up with a slight struggle, which earns him a a reproachful look. 

"Don't get lost, child." Father calls one last time before Matt loudly closes the doors of the church. 

[angelaiswriting]

Escape | Sergei (Daredevil)

[credits for the base video]

✏️ Pairing: Sergei x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: in the aftermath of the Hell's Kitchen bombings, you find yourself on the run to safety with Sergei and Vladimir.

✏️ A/N: I haven't written a word since last December. I also did not rewatch Daredevil, I just wanted to get out of my slump, so I hope the vague (lol why tf do I even worry) details about what happened to Vlad and the Russians aren't that far off. This is just some self-indulgent porn with plot while I try to decide whether this is my last fic on here or not. If this side of the fandom still exists... enjoy! 💌

✏️ Warnings: pre-established relationship, Vlad and Sergei being bffs, fluff (imo), kind of an angsty (?) ending for Vlad but he's alive and physically fine! 18+ ONLY (mentions of violence, death, blood, injuries, feeling stalked/observed/tailed; oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob?, p in v sex, coming inside, brief cockwarming, mentions of people hearing you have sex and of voyeurism)

✏️ Word-count: 16,982

ESCAPE

It’s like an out-of-body experience, and you feel like you are the only fixed point in this whirlwind of details.

The smell of smoke and blood that sticks to your lover like some ugly sticker.

The rain drizzling outside.

Hushed Russian in and out of the bedroom, the utility-closet-turned-into-vault room, the living room.

The stench of your own fear.

He’s shoving random essentials into a duffel bag, Sergei. Underwear from your side of the drawer. Your toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, while their glass holder shatters on the floor. Your laptop. Your gun―the one he taught you how to shoot but that you never really had to use before. Money from the safe. Your documents―the real and the counterfeit ones.

Yours yours yours.

It takes you forever to realize everything he’s shoving into that bag belongs to you. That’s when the panic kicks in, and suddenly you’re back inside your body, standing half-dressed in the middle of the living room, barely registering anything Sergei is saying.

The apartment stops spinning when he shakes you by the shoulders and grabs a hold of your face.

He’s bleeding from his left eyebrow, and you can see where he tried to clean himself without success. There’s a spot on his right cheek where the skin is simply no more.

“Listen to me!” He’s not really screaming, but it still feels like he is, and you flinch. The raw desperation in his voice, in the tremor of his hands almost makes you gag. “Milaya, please.”

“What the hell happened to you?” you manage to ask through the thick stupor paralyzing your mind.

Your heart is so loud in your chest, so unbelievably heavy, it’s so hard to hear what he’s saying; to give meaning to his words, his actions.

Why’s he kneeling on the floor, helping you put on your pants like you were a child?

Why’s he so dirty? Blood on his skin and clothes alike. You have the nagging feeling that it’s all his, this time―

“You need to leave.”

―that tonight’s not one of his usual ones. It doesn’t feel like he’s just come back from a fight one bit. For a moment you wonder if this had been caused by some misunderstanding between him and Vladimir, after―

“Take the car and go as far as you can.”

―after Anatoly died―got killed―his murder still feels so surreal, an open, gaping wound.

“You have to leave the country―”

Why is it you you you? Why’s he only talking about you?

What the fuck is going on?

It’s weird, to be stuck in a body much slower than your mind. Your grasp on reality becomes looser, until―

He’s not coming with you.

It’s like holding on to curtains, too frail to withstand the full body weight of a person.

“I’m not leaving you.”

The mere thought of doing so has you nauseous. Your stomach twists and turns, and you feel the exact moment you start breaking out in cold sweat.

This isn’t how an eventual escape plan was ever supposed to go. You were supposed to leave together, to remain together through thick and thin. Swim or drown, whatever that would be, but do it together.

“Take this.” He’s not listening to you. Instead, he shoves that duffel bag in your hands as he kneels down again, already grabbing you by the ankle to slide your right foot into your shoe.

The sight of him on his knees in front of you, dressing you, getting you ready to get out of here, chills you to the bone. There’s this freezing, sticky fear spreading everywhere inside you―bones, flesh, soul. Like you’re never going to see him ever again if you let him go now. Like it’s always going to be you―singular―if you walk out of the door without him by your side.

“Find a way out of the country.”

You think you’re not strong enough to fight off this nausea, this dread.

He’s still not listening. You barely are, too, in his defense.

“I’m not going into hiding without you!”

You’re immobile as he rushes around. He fetches weapons, ammo cartridges, the receiver unit you’ve been using to check their GPS beacons after Anatoly got killed.

“There’s no time for this!” The desperation in his voice thickens, but it’s the look in his eyes that freezes you for a moment longer. There’s a light in them you have never seen before. If you were already suspicious about the situation before, you are even more now. This man is a thousand light years from the Sergei you know.

He’s shoving you backward before you can fully recover from your stupor, but then you’re fighting back against his hands for the first time in your life.

“No!” And you’re so loud, and trembling so hard, that for a heartbeat he stumbles. There’s actual terror in his eyes when you sandwich his cheeks between your hands. “Don’t send me away,” you beg. There’s no time for any of this―you might know nothing about the situation you’re in right now, but you know the urgency behind Sergei’s words and actions must have a reason. “Come with me,” you continue, but he’s quick at cutting you off.

You read it in his eyes, in the way his expression hardens―he’s going to hurt you so that he can successfully drive you away unless you manage to stop him first.

“I don’t have time for your stubbornness!” He pushes past you and you feel yourself move the way you’d watch someone else do it. Your hand is wrapped around his elbow before he can make his way out of the door.

“Whatever this is, we can face it together,” you plead.

You made each other that promise when you made your relationship official. It’s supposed to be you and he together against the world, and not… whatever card he is trying to pull. And if it’s scary, then the better: you would protect him and he would protect you. If it’s some issue between him and the guy, then they already know that you’re a package deal.

“Everyone else is dead.” He turns around but he still doesn’t look at you. He looks past you, at that empty spot on the cupboard where you’ve always wanted to place a framed picture of the two of you together. “The garage is gone, they bombed us. Vova…” He swallows. It’s like it physically pains him, to voice these things out loud, and you’re sure it does. He’s spent such a long time with them… Hell, even your blood freezes in your veins―it thickens, it makes you sick. “I can’t have you die as well. Fuck, I can’t.”

That’s when his gaze meets yours, and that’s also when you get the final confirmation that he’s deadly serious. Not that you had doubts before―Sergei has never been a hurricane in your life, let alone in your apartment, always so eerily calm instead―it cements the fear in your body, and locks your muscles up.

“So what? You stay behind and die by yourself?” You scoff, doing your best to swallow your fear for his own sake. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He tries to retort―you see how his lips part, how the look in his eyes darkens. You’ve never seen him this pale, almost gray, and you were there, when he almost bled his way into the grave three years ago.

“There’s no bloody time for this!” He’s stern, running out of time more than you even know. More than you could even guess. There’s still blood trickling down his face―down his eyebrow, where it’s finally starting to coagulate, and down his cheek, where it definitely must hurt like hell.

“We have thirty seconds,” you insist, pulling him into your arms and locking your hold around him.

He hisses. You take that as a sign he must be injured somewhere underneath his clothes.

You think you can feel his heartbeat against your chest more than you do hear your own in your ears with how this is making you.

The gun in his shoulder holster is pressed up against the inside of your arm, freezing cold.

Twenty-five more seconds.

You wonder how much more it’s going to hurt when he finally slows down and his mind has the time to catch up with the situation, with what happened tonight. You can barely even wrap your head around what Sergei said earlier, about how everyone’s gone―

seventeen seconds

―and so close after Anatoly’s death. No one took it well, but especially Vladimir has been another kind of angry, a whole new breed of caged animal.

“Stay by my side,” you whisper against the dirty skin of his uninjured cheek. “I’ll stay by yours.”

“Milaya…” His voice trembles and then cracks, and you know he still has enough energy to fight you on this.

Those thirty seconds ran out five seconds ago.

“We can fight this together.” You hug him tighter for a second, two at most―you’re losing your ability to keep track of time.

A series of beeps comes from the tracking device in the back pocket of Sergei’s jeans, then. He freezes in your arms for another second, almost burned by the unexpected sound. You see it on his face when he pulls back―how he had already lost hope and how it’s back now, all of a sudden, punching him in the stomach and twisting.

Vladimir.

Who else would be so obnoxiously loud and annoying while pressing the emergency button on his GPS beacon?

You’d kiss every inch of his stupid face―if not for your own relief, then for that you see wash over your lover’s features. Something lights up in his eyes, and you can almost feel his new determination to survive when he meets your gaze.

You smile. “Grab your bag, I’ll get the keys.”

*

You don’t stop driving for the next three days, you and Sergei taking turns behind the wheel while Vladimir moans at every hole in the road from the backseat.

You’re no nurse, but you gave it your best when you stopped at dawn, after leaving New York behind, the first and last time you stopped for more than five minutes.

“I’m so sorry,” you grimace, looking into the rearview mirror when the car bumps yet again on the uneven road.

He swims in and out of consciousness, Vladimir, while Sergei tries to get some sleep in the passenger’s seat. You were supposed to switch one hour ago, but you didn’t have the heart to wake him up. You can drive a bit longer, you know you can.

“It’s alright, Kukolka.” Vladimir’s hushed Russian unsettles you more than his failed attempt at a reassuring smile.

“As soon as we’re out of the country, I’ll find someone to check you out,” but you’re not even sure he’s heard you.

It’s right there in the back of your throat―the bile, the nausea this situation causes you. Out of worry, that is―after seeing Anatoly’s corpse, the way he was killed, you’re not sure the sight of anything else could get you as sick as that did. But Vladimir has lost more blood and it makes you comfortable to calculate, and you’re not sure how much longer he can hold on before absolutely having to get actual medical help.

Sergei stirs in his seat then, and this time he’s the one groaning. You worry about him, too, of course. You’ve done your best to patch him up, to clean his wounds, but you worry there might be more inside his body, where you can’t physically see.

You hand him your bottle of water when he moves―purposefully, this time―and you realize he’s awake.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” He’s looking at you, you see it from the corner of your eye, and then he turns in his seat to check on Vladimir.

You don’t answer him. “I’m stopping at the next gas station for food,” you announce instead. Sergei packed this car with meds months ago, but food was never a priority. You thought you’d have a long life in Hell’s Kitchen, after all. “We’ll be at the meeting point by tomorrow night.”

Next to you, he hums. You see his arm move from your peripheral vision before you feel the wrapped-up palm of his hand on the left side of your neck. The movement of his thumb as he caresses your skin soothes you, and suddenly you’re not as tense anymore. You didn’t even know how much you needed the reassurance of his physical touch until you finally had it.

“That’s not what I asked.” His lips are so close to your ear that the unexpected caress of his tired voice makes you shiver in your seat. Then, he’s pulling your sun visor down. “How long has it been since you should’ve woken me up?” he asks again.

He’s sitting back in his seat now, but his hand is still on the side of your neck. It almost makes you cry, how absolutely normal and domestic this feels, if you don’t focus on how wounded he is or on the man on the backseat, fighting to stay on this side of consciousness.

Then, it hits you. You and Sergei have never gone on a car trip before, despite it being on your wish list of things to do as a couple.

“Not that long,” you lie, but it takes you a second too long, and he reads you way better than he’s ever read his best friend in the back of the car. Still, he doesn’t outright call you out on it. Instead, he says, “Pull over.” The tone of his voice doesn’t leave room for discussions, but you’re nothing if not stubborn.

“You’ll take over after I stop.”

“Yes, and I’m saying you’re stopping the car now.”

You don’t reply this time, nor do you slow down. You simply turn your head for a moment, the road ahead of you empty for miles, and fix him with a glance.

“Stop bothering her, Yurchenko,” comes a voice from the back.

You quickly glance up at the rearview mirror and find Vladimir trying to sit up straight, still as pale as he was this morning, but not as much as he had been when you dragged him out of the tunnels of the New York City sewage system.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“Jesus Christ, not again,” Sergei mutters under his breath. You almost physically feel him roll his eyes, and for a moment, his fingertips press a little harder into the side of your neck. “Fuck, you’re annoying even with a foot in your grave.”

“Yeah? And you drive over all the bad parts of the road,” rebukes Vladimir. “Do you do that on purpose? At least she is nice, and she apologizes.”

That last addition earns you an unamused look from Sergei. You catch glimpses of it the few times in a row you quickly glance in his direction.

You shrug. “What? He’s in pain.”

“I am, too. Never heard you do the same to me.”

Vladimir opens his mouth before you can reply yourself. “That’s because you’re always asleep when you’re not driving.”

A chuckle escapes your lips. It all feels normal, for a moment. This is just your usual Friday night out, sitting in a booth, sandwiched between Sergei and Vladimir to act as a shield to their (almost) constant bickering. Anatoly would joke about you being the third wheel in their relationship, back when you and Sergei had first started dating, five years ago. They always bicker so childishly, but then they’d also go into the deepest pit of hell for each other.

You wonder if this is their way to cope with what happened, with what brought you to drive away towards an abandoned hangar to leave the country.

“Maybe you should drive then!”

Vladimir is already trying to sit up right between both of your seats when you slap Sergei’s thigh.

“Just so he can drive us into a ditch?” You scoff. “Over my dead body. Now be quiet, the both of you, until we get to that gas station or I’ll drop you both off here in buttfuck nowhere.”

They both know you wouldn’t actually follow through with your threat, but they still have enough decency to do as you say.

The next two hours are spent in peace, or as peaceful as that silence can feel. You’re not even sure your idea of turning on the radio was a good one, because it makes the otherwise lack of conversation incredibly surreal. You barely have the guts to glance to your right, even when Sergei places his left hand on your thigh. You dare not ask what he’s thinking about, or where his mind is compared to his body, not even when a quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms that Vladimir has fallen asleep once again.

You pull up in the eerily empty parking lot of a gas station less than two hours later, not long after dusk.

“I’ll take care of the food,” you say, fetching some of the cash Sergei hid in the armrest between the front seats. “You drag Vlad to the restroom.”

“Grab chips?” It’s so weirdly normal, again, the way he asks it, the way he looks at you when you turn toward him. If it weren’t for the band-aids and faint bruises on his face, you would even fall for this illusion of normalcy.

You nod with a smile on your face. And before you can push the door open, you feel him lean over to your side and then he’s kissing you. Every thought, every worry in your brain gets obliterated in less than a heartbeat. His hands on each side of your neck pull you closer into him―and to a time and place that don’t belong to the here-and-now.

He’s pulling away before you can even fully recover from the unexpected kiss. There’s a smirk on his face that is just so absolutely Sergei, in a way, that you chuckle.

“Be careful.” His words are a warning, but there’s a look in his eyes and a tone to his voice that have you under the impression that he’s pleading you.

Sergei rarely ever begs.

You nod, and then you lean forward to peck his lips. “You, too.”

“Feels a bit like I’m third-wheeling you two lovebirds.”

The car is back to being silent when both you and Sergei turn to look at your friend. That devil sure is hard to die, you gotta give him that.

“Let me know if you need help burying his corpse when I’m back,” you throw in while looking at your man before getting out of the car.

The night air is chilly, but the light of the full moon in a black sky full of twinkling stars doesn’t make it feel as scary as your first night in hiding felt.

Even the small convenience store is quiet when you step inside―unsurprisingly so. That does feel a little like you’re in a movie, with some robber just waiting to walk in, gun in hand. The weight of your own weapon against your ribcage is comforting enough, however, and after pulling your scarf a little higher over your mouth and nose, you pick up a shopping basket.

You get some sandwich bread and pickled vegetables, some beef jerky to shut Vladimir up with when he gets a little more sour and annoying, some food to last you for a couple of days more in case things don’t go according to plan, and, obviously, Sergei’s favorite chips.

At the counter, when you pay for the food and the gas to pull from the pump in front of which you parked, the farthest away from the mini-mart, the clerk tries to make small talk. He looks young, like he might still be in his first years of college if the books on the stool next to him are anything to go by, but there’s something in the way he looks at you that unsettles you. Even on a bad day (and today isn’t exactly a great day), you’re sure you would be able to take him down barehanded, but there’s something today… You feel it in the air, smell it like a bloodhound, and it makes you stand on edge, pulled as tight as a bowstring.

“Cold, isn’t it?” smiles the boy. The neon light above him catches on his lip piercing and it drags a shiver down your spine.

You do your best not to turn around in case this isn’t just inside your head. Instead, you smile back politely, replying with a single, emphasized, “Freezing.”

In the second he looks away to ring up the three jugs of water you put on the counter, you quickly glance to your left, where a display with sunglasses stands. You don’t see any movement on the mirror lenses of one of the pairs on display.

“Are you getting one of those as well?”

You wonder if it’s just something in your head, this feeling. Some play of your mind, after having spent so much time keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure no one was tailing you. You wonder whether no one really has. Whether it’s normal. Whether whoever organized that attack really thinks every target has died, whether now you’re just being paranoid.

“No, thanks. Just looking.”

Why’s this dude so fucking slow at putting your stuff into the plastic bag? Why’s he staring at you the way he is?

“Crazy, huh?” he asks, smiling again. For the second time, he gives you goosebumps.

Hurry the fuck up, you beg in your mind.

“What is?”

“Those bombings in Hell’s Kitchen.” The dude nods toward the television, mounted on the wall to your right. There’s still a service covering the attack you’re running away from. “New York’s really going crazy, man. I wonder what happened.”

You nod. “Crazy indeed.”

Your fingers itch to touch your gun and make sure it’s still there―it is, you know it without looking, but it’s still an urge that you can’t really shake off.

You shift your weight onto your other leg.

“You not from ‘round here, are you?”

The beef jerky is finally in the bag. Only the chips have remained now.

You shake your head. “I’m from further south,” you lie. “Going north to visit family.”

You’d kiss his forehead when he finally puts those fucking chips inside the bag.

He nods and smiles like you’re saying the most interesting shit he’s ever heard in his lifetime. “Say, need a hand carrying this stuff to the car?” he asks when he’s finally giving you the rest of your money after you pay for both groceries and gas. “I can help you pump.”

The look in his eyes when he says that, when he smirks at his own choice of words, makes your stomach turn upside down.

You’re positive you can carry everything yourself―two jugs of water in one hand, the third and the bag of food in the other. You’ve had to carry far heavier things in your life than groceries for two days.

“Nah, I’m fine.” You hope he catches the drift by the tone of your voice―pleasant but still blistering nonetheless―but he’s already pulling up the reclinable part of the counter to step out.

“It’s fine, it’s a chill evening anyway. Got nothing else to do.”

You’re too scared to make a scene. What if you do and the people who wanted your people dead find you? You might have told Sergei you’d die with him, but not now. There are still quite a few years of your life you want to spend by his side.

The boy tries to get a hold of your shopping bag when some movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention. Your heartbeat skyrockets, and your brain threatens to go into survival mode. You’re mentally mapping possible ways out and obstacles on your path before you can even consciously realize you’re doing it.

The bell above the door jingles when the door opens, and you’re this close to dropping everything to grab your gun and take shelter behind one of the shelves.

“Babe?” Sergei’s voice crashes everything to a halt. He’s standing there like some fucking Prince Charming, face hidden behind a combo of black scarf and beanie―his best attempt at hiding just what a bad shape his face has been reduced to. “Got everything?”

It’s just when you reply, “Yes,” and start making your way toward him, all the while holding back that sigh of relief, that you realize what he’s just called you. He never calls you “baby” or any variation of it―neither in English nor in Russian―and you never do the same. Over time, it has become a code word of yours.

Better get the hell outta here.

He’s right behind you when you leave after saying the weirdest goodbye to the cashier boy. Sergei takes the jugs of water from your grasp and doesn’t question you when you speedwalk to the car.

“I have this really weird feeling about this place,” you say, shoving everything on the backseat next to a confused, but highly alert Vladimir.

“D’you think they’re looking for us?” Sergei asks as he starts pumping gas. You notice how he’s keeping an eye on the store you just left, and when you glance in that direction, you notice the boy has left the confines of the counter and is now standing outside, by the double doors, idly smoking a cigarette.

Why would anyone here even know you?

And why would anyone back in Hell’s Kitchen have pictures of Sergei and Vladimir for an eventual manhunt?

How would they even know someone survived the attack? Would they really look for the corpses?

The boy waves at you. You awkwardly wave back. It’s something straight out of a movie, almost like you’re surrounded beyond the borders of this light island of a gas station.

The hairs on the back of your neck are standing straight, and you hug yourself against the chill of the evening breeze―although you’re actually touching your gun, finally making sure it’s still where you put it.

You haven’t forgotten how Sergei hasn’t told you the reason why he called you ‘babe’ earlier. You haven’t forgotten about that. Just like you haven’t forgotten you also need to pee, but you’re sure you can hold it in a little longer. You’d honestly rather bite your own hand off than walk out to where the toilets are here, especially with how that boy is still staring at you.

Neither you nor Sergei say a word for the next half an hour, not even when Vladimir complains about “fucking stupid American bread” and your “poor choices for food” (when he’d really been surviving off of vodka, cigarettes, and fast-food take-outs before you entered the picture and he became an almost constant fixed addition at your kitchen table.)

“Saw anything weird in that shop?” Sergei’s jaw is clenched tight when you turn to look at him, and his hold on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. It’s enough to shut Vladimir up.

You wonder what he means by that.

“Not really, but I had the weirdest feeling. I kept on checking my back on some sunglasses on the counter.” You recall how much that unsettled you back there, but you don’t tell him that. “That dude almost insisted on taking me back to the car and ‘helping me pump’.”

He clenches his teeth that tad bit harder, and you almost worry he’s going to grind them to the gums.

“Serzh?” you call, lightly touching the stubble on his cheek, tracing the edge of the band-aid on his wound.

“There were four bikes on the back, a few feet from the toilets.” He glances in your direction first and then in the rearview mirror. As you turn to check the empty road behind you, shrouded in darkness, he continues, “I didn’t see anyone in that store with you and that dude, though.”

“Bikes were well taken care of, too,” adds Vladimir.

It makes your stomach sink, but at least now you know you weren’t just being paranoid.

“We heard some noises outside while we were pissing, like someone trying to be quiet.”

“Do you think they’re already after you?” you wonder out loud, and then more to yourself, “and this far away?”

“I doubt it.” Sergei shakes his head. His right hand leaves the steering wheel and grabs a hold of your left thigh, giving it what feels like his attempt at a reassuring squeeze. “But I think there were people there that were up to no good. I found someone’s golden necklace on the floor by the trash.”

Vladimir mutters something against ‘pieces of shit preying on women,’ but then he’s digging into the sandwich he’s managed to make with food he despises so much and he shuts up.

Sergei briefly glances at him through the rearview mirror before giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “You still remember how to shoot that gun, da?”

“We went to the shooting range just two weeks ago!” you complain. “Of course, I do.”

“It’s different when you’re shooting real people.”

Vladimir interjects. “I’ve always told you to let her come along to our business stuff.”

Sergei curses behind gritted teeth, nerves ready to go off. “I’m not punching you just because you’re still my boss but if you were anyone else right now, I’d be taking you out of your misery.”

“Don’t fight, you two,” you sigh, turning back and pinching Vlad’s inner thigh until he winces in pain. “I’d fight to survive,” you then reassure Sergei. “Either with a gun, a knife, or my hands.”

You see him visibly relax. It’s almost like he’s finally breathing normally now. The knuckles of his left hand aren’t white anymore on the steering wheel, and the hand on your thigh is more like a comforting weight now than him trying to anchor himself.

“And you were there,” you add, after taking the two sandwiches Vladimir’s handing you. One for you, one for Sergei. “I always trust you to get to me on time.”

He looks at you for a moment longer, the road ahead of you straight and completely empty, before he takes a bite of his dinner.

There’s a lot more behind your words than you do say out loud. Like when he got back home to you, a few nights ago, ready to send you―and only you―to safety. Or like tonight, when he opened the door of that store and looked and felt just like a savior to you, Ariadne’s thread leading you to safety.

*

Thirty hours later, you’re in Cuba.

The flight from the meeting point to a remote location on the outskirts of Cuban civilization was relatively calm, even with the delay that caused the pilots to show up six hours later than agreed upon. The drive to the house of the man who’s helping you, however, ends up being a bit more tense. Between Vladimir’s constant moaning and grunting and Sergei fighting to stay awake, you were on high alert, all your nerves pulled almost to their limits.

The guy’s villa is nice, though. Surrounded by thick, tall walls. Entrances guarded by his men. The perimeter of the whole property is studded with security cameras―you have no doubt every square foot inside the house is constantly filmed as well. It’s what reassures you for the first time ever since Sergei woke you up at such an ungodly hour five days ago. It’s not even because of your own safety that you feel yourself finally breathe and your tense muscles loosen up―it’s for the reassurance Sergei is safe, here, finally. Vladimir as well, but truth be told, after all the complaining he’s done after getting rescued, you’d kick him in his shins yourself if you had the chance to.

“I knew I’d see you again,” Homer smiles, kissing the back of your hand as Sergei shoots daggers from his eyes―he’s still not over the fact that this sleazy man tried to court you while you were already taken.

Homer is not the guy’s real name, of course. Not even the Ranskahov brothers ever knew it, no one does. He would have told you if you had slept with him, and you’re still pissed at how annoyed Vlad had been when he found out you had, in fact, turned down the offer―you also haven’t forgotten how Sergei had almost raised hell in the face of both offenses.

Still, Homer was your best bet at a last-minute alliance―Vladimir and his men still did help him get out of the Stated unscathed, so there’s always been this favor card Homer had to pay back. The fact that you make him hard in his pants is just a precious added bonus that gives you brighter hope at the prospect of also leaving the American continent alive.

“Thank you for having our back.” Seeing Vladimir openly struggle to keep his balance as he moves forward to stand in front of his unexpected ally surprises you.

“You helped me when no one else did. It’s just fair I pay back your generosity,” comes the reply.

You let Sergei pull you back by one of your hips until you are standing side by side with him.

Homer chuckles at that and sends a wink in your direction. “I got the message three years ago,” he reassures Sergei. “The princess is taken. I won’t make a move unless she does first.”

“She won’t.”

There are not many instances you’ve witnessed where Sergei has been possessive of you, but this guy has always been an exception. You can only hope neither your man’s possessiveness nor Homer’s fascination with you will pose a threat to your survival.

Things seem to go well, however. The man of the house lends you his personal medical team to have a look at both Sergei and Vladimir while you get to enjoy a stroll in Homer’s greenhouse after being denied access to the rooms of the house dedicated to the clinic.

It unsettles you a bit and robs you of the chance to enjoy your own private botanical tour among colorful flowers of every kind. If anything, Homer keeps his hands and comments to himself―although you’re not so sure about where his gaze wanders when you’re not looking at him―and he limits himself to a retelling of what each flower is called and what their characteristics are.

Two of his armed men follow you close by, but whether it’s because you’re seen as a possible threat or that’s just another day in this house for them, you cannot tell. Still, you feel watched―every single one of your moves is being recorded, and you can’t quite tell how comfortable you are with that.

Honestly speaking, you feel quite safe here, but you wouldn’t step into the fire and guarantee the same for the two men you’ve come here with. Homer might still want you, after all, and now that Vladimir’s group has pretty much been exterminated, two Russians don’t pose that much of a threat anymore. The fact that they used to be far more powerful than Homer himself doesn’t even matter because they’re not that powerful now. They’re closer to defeat than they are to victory, and a smart person thirsty for power would definitely take advantage of that.

With that realization, the humid air of the greenhouse thickens. You feel it weigh down on your shoulders as Homer shows you some hibiscus plants, apparently his pride and joy.

“Ah, here are my favorites!” he exclaims. “What do you think? I import special fertilizer just for them.”

You smile, but inside your body, a million and one thoughts are eating away at your stomach, each worse than the last. “They’re quite the beauty,” you find yourself honestly agreeing.

This had better be your paranoia getting the best of you. Because while Homer would get nothing by killing what’s left of your friends, he would also get nothing by helping them. And in a world where letting them live could potentially get him something back in the future, you prefer to try and give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Still, they don’t quite compare to your beauty.” He places a flower behind your ear, one he cut with the shiny scissors he managed to fetch while you were lost in thought, and smiles at you.

“We’re finally in agreement.” It’s the second time in less than forty-eight hours that Sergei’s voice reaches you like a beacon of light.

Homer turns in his direction as well and you don’t miss that flash of disappointment speed across the look in his eyes.

Your anxieties find some peace. He’s still alive, there’s nothing to worry about―for the time being, at least. The band-aid on his right cheek has been changed, and the appearance of his face looks much cleaner now, including the cut on his eyebrow you stitched up after leaving New York City.

“However, she’s much more than just a pretty face,” he continues, sternly. If Vlad were here now, he would chew his head off, but you welcome his words.

Your fingers entwine with his when he finally reaches your side, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. You feel a bit too exposed without your gun, so it’s great to finally be reunited with the man you love.

“How’s Vlad?” you ask, looking up into his eyes and exploiting the excuse to finally lock Homer out of your mind for a minute.

“Getting treated and stitched up. He has a couple of broken bones, too. Maybe that’s why he was crankier than usual,” he smirks, his Russian ringing amused.

You slap his arm, and from the corner of your eye, you notice the way Homer is looking at the two of you. Trying to decipher what that might mean is something you’d rather not do, at least not in front of him, so you allow Sergei to be the first to speak up again.

“We’d really better get going now, if it’s okay with you,” he says, eyeing what he realizes to be a new nuisance in the life he shares with you. “Neither of us has had a chance to shower since last week.”

You don’t really reek yet, but now that you’re reminded of the fact, you do start to feel uncomfortable in your own clothes.

Homer doesn’t complain, nor does he try to hold you back. Instead, he smiles understandingly and makes chit-chat as he leads you to your rooms. Plural. Separate rooms, that’s what you’re given. Granted, they’re next to each other, but they’re two separate rooms nonetheless. It rubs Sergei the wrong way.

You’d also really not sleep alone in this mansion, especially when it belongs to a man who seems to still be set on pursuing you if not romantically, at least physically.

“No need for all these rooms, we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” You know Sergei’s more than good at lying. He’s an expert at what he does―no wonder why, after Anatoly, he’s always been Vladimir’s right hand. Still, it surprises you, how calm he is right now, his way with words when you’re sure the boxer in him is itching to come out and fight. “One for Vlad and one for the two of us―” he continues, raising your joined hands― “will be more than enough.”

Sergei almost starts talking shit about your host when you make your way inside the room, after fetching your bags. However, having known him and his antics for so long, you’re much quicker than he has the time to be, and you silence him with a kiss.

God.

Fuck.

Maybe this is it.

This is the moment you realize you can finally catch your breath for a while. Slow down, stop glancing into the rearview mirror.

It feels like you haven’t kissed in forever. Like you’ve been apart for so long, even despite the extremely long car drive you’ve been on. Without your endless worries and the fear of someone tailing you, it’s almost like you can finally get close again. Vladimir Ranskahov out of the picture―love him to pieces on a good day as you may―definitely helps.

Sergei kisses you back with the same intensity, like he’s parched and trying to drink you in, and when he pulls you in closer to him by your butt cheeks, you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck.

“I saw cameras everywhere in this house,” you whisper into the band-aid on his cheek when he moves his kisses from your lips to your neck. “Are you sure we can trust him?” Your voice remains low, barely above a whisper; you wonder whether the guest rooms have been bugged as well.

Sergei sighs into your skin, and his fingertips dig into your hips for a moment. “I don’t,” he says, hushed Russian into your cheek when he kisses it. “I want you a billion kilometers away from him.”

He picks up the hibiscus flower Homer placed behind your ear and, being careful not to pull on your hair, pulls it off of you.

“I’m going to fucking kill him if he dares to touch you again.” He doesn’t whisper―maybe fear isn’t tickling his stomach as it does yours―and you can only hope neither Homer nor his men know the Russian language beyond a da, privet, spasibo. Do svidaniya, too, if we want to be generous.

Still, you don’t think openly insulting the man in his own lair is a smart idea.

“Nothing happened,” you try to reassure him instead of voicing your concerns, cupping his good cheek as he crushes that flower in his fist. “You know he’s not the one I want.”

“I trust you, I just don’t trust him,” he insists. He closes his eyes with a sigh. “I think he’s made it clear enough that he just. doesn’t. care.” He enunciates the last three words slowly, emphatically, with petulance in his voice that’s usually so very characteristic of Vladimir when he complains. Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas, you guess.

“We can simply ignore him,” you press on, bunching up the hem of his shirt in your fists. “We’ll leave as soon as Vlad’s fit to do it safely.”

A groan. “Fuck Vova.”

“I’d rather fuck you,” you bite back, tongue in cheek, a finger tracing the skin of his abdomen above the hem of his jeans. “After we take a shower,” you add when he gives you his best oh-I-will-fuck-you-alright face. “And then, you’ll tell me exactly what happened that night.”

You figure it’s a good compromise: you both get to have some fun, take your mind off of things, and then you’ll finally get your answers.

Why you had to leave.

Who attacked Vladimir and his men.

If everyone really is dead.

What the fuck is going on.

And what the fuck will happen now.

The shower is far bigger than any other you’ve ever seen in person, least of all used. You step in first while Sergei undresses, and you let the water cascade down your face.

A contented sigh leaves your lips.

You already know you will write down this shower in your book as the best so far.

The gentle stream of water is a much-needed, warm caress on your face and shoulders, even down your back, after it started aching one day into your desperate drive to safety. The tension in your muscles starts trickling down toward the drain, and the sensation of being absolutely filthy eases up a bit. You feel like you could even postpone lunch―all you’re in the mood for right now is this shower, some Sergei, a side dish of the answers you’ve been waiting for, and then a long nap as sweet as dessert.

Behind you, Sergei whistles appreciatively, no doubt enjoying the view of your naked body.

It makes you chuckle. How normal this feels now doesn’t weigh down on you the way that same feeling did back in the car.

You grin as you turn around, hands rubbing up your face to flick away the water raining down on you. Your cheeky comeback withers on your tongue and turns into a gasp when your eyes land on him. It’s not because he’s already hardening between his legs, but rather because he is absolutely covered in bruises.

He never mentioned being that hurt before. You’ve seen him numerous times after his fights, and his body has never looked like that―so hurt, so bruised with a pain that must run much deeper than skin level. You have heard him groan here and there―at this point probably when he couldn’t stand it anymore―but never would you have thought him to be this hurt.

“Oh, my god, Serzh…”

You can barely understand how he’s moving without flinching.

“I’m alright,” he reassures you softly when he reaches you. He grabs you by your hands and places them on his chest. His heartbeat is right beneath your fingertips and his bruises. Your right thumb caresses up and down his skin as you take in the sight before you.

You try not to let your lip quiver.

His strength and abilities are no secret to you but seeing him hurt is always a pang in your guts. Today the sensation cuts deeper, it twists and turns, stings even.

“I’m alright,” he repeats, taking your face in his hands and kissing you.

It serves as a good distraction, if anything. When you close your eyes, the mental photocopy of his marred body slowly fades away, until all you feel is his body flush against your front.

He takes one extra step forward with you in his arms and then he turns the shower off.

Your heads tilt when the kiss deepens and now you can feel how your heart picks up its rhythm for a different reason than you being worried for him. His hands move from your neck, down your shoulders and sides. When they reach your waist, your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches in your throat.

“I’ll heal so quick, milaya…” he whispers into the crook of your neck before kissing you there. “Promise you I’m fine now.”

A graze of his teeth, a swipe of his tongue, and you can feel yourself throb in a place that’s not your chest.

Still, “You should’ve told me,” you complain meekly.

You’re so pliant in his hands, practically boneless. Your knees don’t give out on you just because he has you so close against him.

He feels rock hard against your abdomen, almost a reminder of how deep he’s going to be inside you in not that long. It makes your head spin. He makes your head spin.

Your hands come up to his hair, then. They’re wet against his body untouched by water. Every part of him is.

“You’re the remedy to all my ailments,” he professes into your skin.

You chuckle. Maybe it’s because of his words, or the way he teasingly gives your ass a squeeze. Maybe it’s both.

“Let me shower you first,” he continues before you can tell him to stop with the jokes. “Then, when we’re done, we’ll show that douche how fucking taken you are. I bet that peeper has cameras in bathrooms as well.”

He pecks your lips and then pulls on your lower lip with his teeth. He doesn’t make a move, though. He waits for your green light. You know he’d limit himself to a simple shower if you said no, no matter how hard he could be.

You’re way past the embarrassment, however. After Anatoly caught the two of you fucking in the garage when you thought everyone had left, you stopped caring.

So, you grin. “Let’s show him,” you giggle.

Sergei is incredibly gentle as he showers you, lathers you in the scent of this new soap you’re being lent. His words, however, are anything but. “Bet he wishes you’d smell like him,” he whispers into your ear from behind.

You chuckle at his jealousy, even when his hands get to massaging your breasts and his erection nestles itself between your butt cheeks. “What’s gotten into you?” you giggle. He knows he’s your ride-or-die, after all.

“I’d say you, but it’s been so long since we've done that.” The pout in his voice is as clear as day.

He seems to have an idea, then, and he spins the two of you around.

“Look at you,” he grins. His soapy hands trail down your sides and then back up. His teeth nip at the crook of your neck the moment his hands give your boobs another squeeze. A bit rougher, this time.

But you’re not looking at your own reflection in the mirror. You’re looking at him, most of his bruises now hidden by your body standing in front of his.

He notices that, picks up on your line of thought the second your gazes meet in the mirror. He says something about you thinking way too much, about how it’s so new, the fact that you’re not running your mouth as much as usual instead. When he turns you back around, he distracts you by shampooing your hair.

“I don’t know how you managed to act as if you weren’t hurt.” You hope the reason is not a dumb I didn’t want you to worry.

“It looks worse than it really is, I promise.” He smiles at you as he massages your scalp and it’s like just any other day, when you’d choose to shower together because your jobs kept you apart long enough during the day.

You decide to bypass the sight of his stitched brow and bandaged cheek. You focus on the light freckles on his face instead, on the way they must have shaved his stubble before, during, or after his visit with Homer’s doctor.

“Let me shower you as well,” you smile softly when he’s done rinsing the suds out of your hair. Then, you turn the shower off. He laughs when you add a whispered stinky under your breath.

There’s half a plan quickly forming in your mind, and it has nothing to do with running away from this house and not even with your (maybe paranoid) worries.

You gently scrub his chest with a soapy loofah, careful to be as light as you can when going over all the sore spots on his body. His hands are firmly planted on your hips, squeezing lightly every now and then, like a cat. He’s also looking at you and you mirror his smile with a mischievous smirk of your own.

His cock is still hard between your bodies.

You don’t give him time to suspect anything. One second your left hand is holding onto his bicep, the next it’s wrapped around the base of his erection.

He hisses in surprise, a sound that lasts a fraction of a second, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your toes curl against the tiled floor.

“Milaya…” he warns, voice dripping the same desire that’s making him heavy between his legs.

Some would say you’re playing a dangerous game, poking the bear while it’s chilling. But you want him to prove it to you―that he’s fine, that he’s not really hurt. (Frankly, you also want him to fuck this nightmare of an adventure out of your system. It doesn’t matter whether Homer hears. Hell, it doesn’t even matter whether he watches!)

“What?” You bat your eyelashes at him, badly hiding your mischief behind a broken innocence mask.

You move your hand up, tease the underside of his glans with your thumb, then move your hand back down.

He moans under his breath, never once breaking eye contact. It makes you throb between your legs. You don’t even know if it’s the water still on your skin, or if you’re actually dripping.

“’tis what you wanted, no?”

The loofah is somewhere on the floor by now. Your left hand lazily, without rhythm, strokes him while your right hand moves up his chest. Then, it’s resting behind his neck.

“Know what?” you whisper millimeters from his parted lips. His breathing has become labored. “’think I’ll make you come like this first.”

You’re beaming. His breathing is shivering slightly. Is he trying to stay quiet?

“Fuck, you’re a minx,” he breathes, his hands pulling you in closer by your hips, until your hand barely has room to move.

He kisses the grin off of your lips. There’s a certain insistence behind the action, and he pulls on your lower lip, then adds his tongue to the mix.

You moan first, and then he follows suit when your hand reaches the head of his cock and twists.

His fingertips dig into the plush of your ass, forcing you closer. The kiss distracts you, so his slap on one of your butt cheeks catches you by surprise, makes you whimper right into his mouth.

The movement of your left hand on his cock quickens in response while the fingers of your right hand slip into his hair, at the base of his neck.

You tug on the strands.

He groans.

In your hold, his cock twitches.

His impatience becomes your own then, and you’re barely aware of the way your thighs are pressing together―trying to relieve or chase a sensation, you don’t know, you’re a little too busy to give it actual thought.

In the middle of the two of you kissing, of your hand pumping him, he finds himself with his back against the wall. The cold tiles against his skin make him hiss―or maybe it’s his bruises. Again, maybe a bit of both.

He ruts into your hand.

When your thumb teases at his head, the sound he lets out is a bit of a moan, a bit of a groan, a bit of a broken chuckle. He calls your name against your lips and when you look up at him, you notice he has his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.

You try not to whimper, but your breathing still does falter. Your heart in your chest is a deafening machine, and your mind, the weakest will to ever exist.

You’re on your knees before you can take the conscious decision to, thighs tightly squeezed shut together. There are still remains of body wash drying on your chest from when you hugged him instead of rinsing him.

It takes Sergei your tongue licking up the length of his erection to realize the change in your position. Eyelids heady, lips parted, the look he fixes you with is enough to make you beam with pride, like you’re the sexiest being to ever walk the Earth.

You give him a grin, and then you’re taking him all the way to the back of your mouth. His hands are in your hair the second the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. Suddenly, there are Ukrainian curses slipping out of his lips, here and there, a sign that he’s losing control in favor of the pleasure you’re bringing him.

It doesn’t take him long to come. It never really does―he’s always had a thing for your mouth, whether you use it for words or to suck the living soul out of him.

He always swears he’s in love with you, and this time isn’t an exception. He’s groaning it right now, voice quivering. His hands are keeping you in place, your nose touching his pelvis, ropes of cum shooting down your throat. Under these conditions, your only response to his declaration can obviously be a moan. It heightens the sensations for him, his cock still in your mouth, and he’s quick to pull out.

When you look up, his chest is flushed, the tips of his ears red, and he’s out of breath.

The smirk you send his way makes him chuckle breathlessly, your head still in his grasp.

“Fuck, I missed that mouth.”

One of his thumbs moves towards the corner of your lips, where some of his cum has slipped out.

“You barely even gag anymore.”

The muscles in his thighs contract when he watches you suck the pad of his thumb clean.

“Keep that up and I’ll get hard again,” he warns, cradling your face like you’re worth more than this whole damned mansion. You are―he doesn’t really, explicitly tell you so, but it’s clear in the way he acts, like he worships the very ground you walk on.

“Isn’t that the point?” you smile, standing up. Your lips automatically meet his, and his hands automatically find their place on your hips. “I want you so bad, Serzh…” you whisper against him, one hand blindingly going for the shower head.

It’s hard to rinse the dried body wash off of his body when he’s so insistently kissing your neck, so close to him you could almost feel his heartbeat against your own. Giggling ensues when you force him back and you wipe his front clean with one hand while doing your best not to spray water on his injured face.

The look on his face as he watches your every move is worth a thousand words, if not more. It makes blood rush to your face, and your gaze moves to his chest, his eyes too expressive for your own sanity. Like he wants to devour you, drink you in, and it’s not even because of the competition he wants to ward off.

“My turn now,” he suddenly says, grabbing that damned shower head from your hand and hanging it back in its place. Then, you’re the one against the wall and he’s the one on his knees.

Fuck, do you love this sight!

“’been thinking about this sweet pussy for so long…” He makes a sound in the back of his throat, like he can’t believe he’s finally being served dessert―despite it definitely being his favorite.

You let him maneuver you until your left leg is on his shoulder, your hands in his hair, but when he inches closer, you pull at his strands―

―not quick enough: he’s already licking a stripe up your pussy, until he places a kiss on your clit. Your mind clouds over, and it’s like having cotton in your mouth. “Not with that cheek,” you manage to complain through the haze brought on by him going to town on your core. You don’t want to somehow, accidentally, mess up his freshly bandaged wound.

“’s fine, I don’t need it to eat you out, do I?” He kisses your inner thigh, the one resting on his shoulder, and when you look down, he’s already looking up at you.

There’s a gleam in his eyes, like he’s promising you heaven on Earth. Like by the time he’s done with you, you won’t even be able to tell what day it is.

And who are you to say no? Oral with Sergei is a glorious experience, unlike any other you’ve lived through, maybe only surpassed by the actual sex―with him, of course.

It starts off toe-curling, with the tip of his tongue teasing your clit and one of his fingers pushing into the heat of your pussy.

You barely hear what he groans―so fucking wet already―your mind is simply too hazy. It’s spinning right after, when he starts suckling, and that one finger turns into two.

You hear yourself then, underneath his moans and your own. The sound of your slick, of how wet you are as the movements of his hand change rhythm and angle. When he starts hitting that spot, ravaging you like a man starved, you fear your knee giving out.

“God,” you moan out, pulling on his hair subconsciously―and maybe a bit too hard. Whether you believe in God, or in many, or none altogether, he eats you out in such a way that he does feel like one. Like he could make you see stars or even the entire universe without really making you leave the room or lift a finger.

The pitch of your moans heightens when he adds a third finger, stretching you to make you take him, and you feel yourself clenching impossibly tight around his digits.

Oh, fuck, how much did you miss this! You didn’t really think about this part of your relationship while on the run, but now you never want to leave this bathroom.

When you gather the strength to peek at the mirror, you’re met with the sight of your hair, wet and messy against the tiled wall. Your left calf is hiding part of a nasty bruise on his back. Even in his current state, however, he doesn’t show signs of hurt or discomfort.

Then he does something. Either with his mouth or his fingers―you’re honestly too lost in the pleasure he’s giving you to even rationally realize what’s rubbing you the right way. All you know is that your breathing deepens, your moans turn into whines, and your eyes cross behind closed eyelids.

“God, like that, don’t stop,” you beg, only half coherent, as one of your hands moves up to grab a hold of your boob. It’s like you’re looking for support, even despite knowing he’d never let you fall, never let you get hurt.

Your brain doesn’t even fully register what he’s saying to you above the deafening galloping of your heartbeat.

You just need to come so badly… Maybe you even tell him so, and maybe he adds a little more vigor behind his actions. His fingers curl just right inside you, and he doesn’t get up for air one second. Mouth suctioned to your clit, he gives you all he’s capable of.

Maybe he even looks up at the way you’re playing with your breasts. Maybe he even makes a comment―you definitely feel the vibrations of it against your core the same way you feel those of his moans. All you know is that you’re coming, pulled under the surface of coherence by the wave of this sudden orgasm. It blinds you, even when your eyelids are already closed, and you swear your heart skips quite a few beats.

Maybe you even do see god this time (maybe in the shape of your lover), as you give in to the pleasure, surrender to its onslaught, and spill your orgasm on Sergei’s face―if you weren’t soaring so far high up the heavens, you’d definitely force him to pull back and not mess up his injuries. But you don’t even think you’re part of this world anymore.

It takes you quite a while to come back to your senses. Slowly, the fixture lights in the ceiling come back into focus and your blood stops roaring in your ears. Your breathing is still quick, and you barely register the way your legs are quivering―

fuck, you want to do it again

―both feet on the ground.

It takes you a moment more to realize Sergei is standing right in front of you, his hands on your hips, one of his legs between yours to help you keep your balance.

His dick feels impossibly hard again, pressed against your thigh by your close proximity.

“You were so fucking loud,” he beams, looking prouder than he’s ever looked. You match him on that intensity, but in your case, it’s just because of how fucked out you are. “Squirted and all.” He’s so smug about him―you want to kiss him until he’s as breathless as you are. “I bet everyone in this house heard you.”

You don’t even have the energy to let yourself be embarrassed by that possibility. Sergei always has this effect on you: he obliterates everything else, until he’s the only focus of your attention.

“Serzh…” It comes out as an airy whine, your call of his name. You’ve barely touched the ground that you already want to float up again.

He hums, and then, “What?” right against your lips. He peppers them in kisses as light as feathers until he’s pulling breathless chuckles out of you.

“Please.”

You’re throbbing again, tingling all over.

On your thigh, you feel how his cock is already leaking.

“Please what?”

He’s on your neck, adding to his own work of art of hickeys. His hands are cupping your breasts, testing their weight, then teasing your hardened nipples.

Your hands shoot up to his biceps when he twists one of your nipples between deft fingers, a drawn-out moan diving from your lips.

You swear you could drown in him.

“Please, fuck me.” You look into his eyes as you say it. His pupils are blown and the lower part of his face is still glistening in your juices.

You taste yourself on his tongue when you kiss him. You should be looking for Vladimir, joining Homer for lunch, but you can’t even move yourself from this spot in the shower.

Before you can start pleading with him again, you’re taking matters into your own hands―his cock in your left hand, to be precise―and you’re turning around to face the wall. The cold tiles against your sensitive nipples pull a whine from the very center of your being.

From behind you, Sergei chuckles into your neck, entertaining the way you swipe the head of his cock along your dripping entrance but refraining from even slipping just the tip in.

“You want it from the back?” he murmurs, kissing your skin where he’s just stopped teasing you with his tongue.

So, what if you’re already delirious?

“Yesss.” The sound of that s stretches for a second too long, until the air is caught in your throat when he grants you with the tiniest thrust, enough to taunt your heat with his head.

“How bad?” he asks, one hand at the base of your throat and the fingers of the other inching down your front, your abdom― oh, fuck.

The moan that escapes you when he circles your clit once is so loud, it rings in your own ears.

All you can muster up after that is a questioning hum, his burning-hot presence behind you―against you―is enough to make your toes curl.

“How bad do you want it?”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he touches your clit again at the same time his cock breaches your entrance to give you just the bare minimum.

“So bad.” Your voice is reduced to a whisper. As you anticipate what’s to come, your lungs struggle to take in enough air. “I’ll go crazy if you don’t take me right now,” you manage to breathe out when a hand on your hip stops your attempts at fucking yourself back onto his dick.

You hear the vibrations of his chuckle in your back and then, when you least expect it, he’s abruptly thrusting up into your pussy. It catches you off guard, and you’re so worked up you almost fear you’re going to come on the spot.

You don’t.

Instead, you find yourself wrapped up in his arms, his hips unmoving. You can’t distinguish whether it’s his cock pulsing inside your pussy or whether it’s all just you.

“I almost fucked you in that car with Vova in the back,” he confesses, voice strained and breath labored. “I needed to feel you so bad to know everything was fine.”

Are you even still breathing?

Are you choking on his dick or is it still in your pussy?

Your hips writhe, walls clenching down around him.

“You still with me?”

You manage to nod against his shoulder, barely aware of all the small moans that are slipping past your lips.

He smiles into your temple, and then he’s taking a step back. Two. Three. You feel each movement deep in your core, where he’s still safely lodged, and you’re on your tiptoes, doing your best to keep up with him.

When he turns the both of you around and makes you lean forward, you realize he’s brought you to stand between the twin sinks on the counter, right in front of the wall-long mirror. You catch his eye in your reflection, his body curled over yours so that he can press kisses to the crook of your neck. His cock pushes the tiniest bit deeper this way and it makes you moan, eyelids so heavied down by pleasure that it’s hard to keep them open.

“Wouldn’t want to crack either of our skulls in the shower,” he explains, finally―finally―pulling his hips back just to then thrust the air out of you the next second.

“Fuck.” How are you still even capable of forming words?

Your shoulders sink down for a moment as your weight rests on your forearms. Sergei’s hands on your hips luckily hold you up.

You call his name, pleadingly. The head of his cock is bullying this spot inside you that makes your eyes almost cross, fuck, you really need to come.

Maybe he’s even in your chest. Honestly who knows at this point. You feel him everywhere.

“You’re always so tight,” he pants, fucking into you so hard your breath hitches in your throat. You find it impossible to believe he’s just got out of the worst physical and mental scare of your lives. “So… wet― shit―”

His hips stutter when his right hand finds its rightful place between your legs, on your cunt. You clench around him so hard when he starts playing with your clit again that he swears he can see stars even with his eyes open.

“Fuck, you’re the death of me,” he groans, meeting your blurring gaze in the mirror that’s starting to fog up. He gives one of your boobs a squeeze with his free hand before he starts playing with your sensitive nipple― “And what a sweet death that’d be.”

―to be fair, every part of you is. Sensitive, that is, and overstimulated. All your nerve endings are alight, fired up by the way he’s fucking into you, like it’s a sport he’s fucking elite at.

It empties your mind completely as your body is full of him. Your mind is, too, and your chant of his name rises in volume.

Fuck, you’re so close. His movements on your overstimulated clit almost make you sob.

If this is how you die, you’ll honestly welcome it with a full heart. There’s no part of you that doesn’t feel full to the brim anyway right now, for that matter.

You tell him in between moans, how close you are, how good he’s fucking you. Even if you’re covered in sweat, you’ve probably never felt so good as you do now. Is it because you’re surrounded by the illusion of safety in this house? Fuck, you don’t know.

“I’m so close, too,” echoes Sergei’s voice.

With the last of his strength, he pulls you up. His right hand is still stubbornly playing with your poor clit; his left arm keeps you upright, your back against his chest, and his hand under your chin keeps your head facing forward.

The sight in the mirror almost does you in. There are drops of sweat rolling down the side of his face. His skin is flushed in exertion, but it’s the hunger in his eyes that makes you moan out loud, loudly. Then your breasts, bouncing with each thrust into your heat. Then the smallest glimpse of his cock, rock hard, a pearly ring of your juices at the base.

“Shit, where do you want me?” he groans―“Inside?”―in a broken voice.

“Please,” you sob back. “Yes.”

You’re holding onto his left arm for dear life, unable to hold back your orgasm any longer. It hits you with the force of a freight train when Sergei simultaneously gives your throat a gentle squeeze while his right fingers flick your clit one last time. Everything goes white behind your closed eyelids, and you can’t hear anything above the ringing in your ears.

Your walls spasming around his dick trigger his own release and you both fall forward, almost boneless. You do hear his moans right next to your ear and he’s also not holding them back. His whole weight is on you, his left arm trapped between your chest and the countertop, while his hips still haphazardly rut into yours as your pussy milks him to the last drop.

He doesn’t pull out for the longest time, nor does he straighten himself up. You don’t complain, though―even with this whole man on top of you, it’s like you’ve never breathed better. To your chagrin, the time eventually comes for him to move, however. You lift your head a bit to watch his reflection in the mirror and you chuckle when you feel him tap his cock a few times against your entrance, after he pulls out.

“You’re already leaking.”

“Oh, no!” Your voice drips with sarcasm, and suddenly you’re being lifted up and turned around.

“Still running that mouth of yours?” There’s a touch of amused disbelief in his voice when he asks that, and you giggle against his lips before you kiss him.

“Maybe you should put something in it to fill it up,” you tease.

He does put something into you to fill you up, then. Just, it’s not in your mouth. The three middle fingers of his right hand breach your entrance―they make you gasp―effectively stopping his cum from dripping down your legs even more and to the floor.

“That can be arranged,” he smirks, satisfied by your reaction.

He walks you back into the room like that, three fingers up your cunt and his tongue in your mouth, his lips against yours.

“That porn performance―” comes a voice as soon as you make it out of the bathroom― “for free? Damn, you’re nasty!”

If looks could kill, Sergei’s would have Vladimir dead and buried already.

“What are you doing here?” You don’t know why, but Sergei’s Russian makes you flutter around his fingers. Your reaction earns you a glance from him, and then he moves his fingers in a beckoning motion a couple of times.

There’s no holding back the moan that rips up your throat, it doesn’t even matter that Vladimir has a first-row ticket for the view of your ass, the drops of sticky white semen that dripped down your inner thigh no more than two minutes ago; hell, even that of his best buddy’s fingers nestled deep in your heat!

Your hands give Sergei’s biceps a squeeze, and then out of your lips comes the gentle call for, “Serzh.”

“Came to fetch you for lunch, stayed for the show.” You don’t need to turn around to be able to envision Vladimir’s shit-eating grin. “Hurry up getting dressed, we’re already late.”

*

You get seated right opposite Homer at the dining table. Try as you might, however, you can’t refrain from squirming in your seat. His gaze is fixed on you, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s also been an indirect witness to your escapade in the bathroom of his guest room. Not that you owe him an explanation about anything, but still…

Whether it pissed him off or he found it amusing, though, he doesn’t bring it up. He says absolutely nothing on the topic, and luckily so. You’re not sure you’d be able to keep in the fact that you’re dripping someone’s cum in your by-now ruined panties anymore otherwise.

If anything, your meal goes on smoothly, which means that the discomfort is only yours to bear. Maybe you’ll pull on Vladimir’s ears for not calling you as soon as he walked into your bedroom. Maybe the ground will open up like a hungry mouth and swallow you before you can be done with your tomato salad.

You don’t even follow the conversation the men are having until Vlad says something odd. Your hospitality feels like being home, in Russia―which, for as long as you can remember, has always been code for guys, shit’s about to hit the fan.

You can semi-freely talk about it only a few hours later, when you’re granted permission to take a walk into town, posing as semi-normal tourists.

Vladimir keeps his comments about you and Sergei going at it like rabbits for himself. Instead, he picks an ice cream place in the noisiest part of town and drops down a plastic chair with a lemon-strawberry cup in his hand.

It’s good to see him do so much better already after a check-up and IVs, but it’s a bit unsettling that he’s also picked up on the weird air at Homer’s estate.

“We gotta leave as soon as possible,” he says in Russian, unhurried, even if you can almost see the cogs turn in his head. “I got in touch with the cousin of one of the guys,” he doesn’t say which, however. Does he feel stalked?

You look around, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, mentally registering all the faces you manage to lay your gaze on as you eat your own ice cream. Sergei catches your eye and when you tiredly smile at him, he gives your knee a squeeze.

He hasn’t managed to tell you anything about that night, yet.

“He’ll make us disappear in Costa Rica,” he continues, leaning closer across the table and lowering his voice. “We’ll continue from there.”

“You sure we can trust him?” That question is out of your mouth before you can rein it in. After all, Homer was supposed to be a trusted man as well―not that he’s explicitly done anything against any of you (if his flirting doesn’t count), but there’s still something unexplainably off when he’s around.

Someone at the edge of the plaza catches your eye then. It’s a man you have never seen, but he’s staring right at you. During this trip your paranoia has been proved well-justified so far, so you don’t dismiss it this time: you lean across the table with the flirtiest smile you can muster for a man who’s not the one you love and you steal some of Vladimir’s ice cream with your own plastic spoon. At the same time, so close to his face you could even count the freckles on the bridge of his nose if you wanted, you quickly glance to the side without moving your head an inch.

Far from being stupid, Vladimir picks up the message immediately and pretends to be flirting back. “You’d better give me a repeat of your show tomorrow,” he says in the end, wincing a bit when he sits back against his chair. “Maybe we can have a three-way on the beach after dark.”

Luckily, Sergei plays along.

In your mind, ‘tomorrow’ echoes a thousand times. How did he manage to organize another escape so quickly when he had had a whole foot in his grave this morning?

You hope this time, your escape will end well.

Quickly enough, the topic of conversation changes and it’s just two friends talking normally with each other.

You? You keep pretending you’re watching everything around you through the eyes of a tourist. Instead, you see how the guy you spotted earlier is still there, looking in your direction from above the newspaper in his hands. A young couple has been on a video call since you sat down, and their phone seems to be tilted more in your direction and it is theirs. A bunch of kids, who had been playing football on the other side of the fountain when you got your ice creams, have moved closer; they’re not clamoring as much anymore, either.

You hope it’s just your paranoia. But you do spot a guy with an in-ear device at the entrance to the square, on the far left.

And if it’s not paranoia, is it Homer? Is it the people from Hell’s Kitchen?

That night the house is dead silent and in spite of it, you still struggle to fall asleep. Your brain mulls over a billion things at once. Homer. Your escape trip from New York. The people you left behind under the rubbish. The guy that’s apparently taking you to Costa Rica. Homer’s gaze everywhere on your body, making you squirm in discomfort at being ogled so openly, so disrespectfully.

Sergei’s lightly snoring next to you when you turn around. For a moment, you contemplate waking him up―maybe he can help you fall asleep―but you eventually decide not to. Running away has been exhausting for you; with his injuries and what he must have been through, he must have been hit even harder. He should probably get as much sleep as he can now that things are relatively quiet.

You turn around as slowly as possible, trying to slip out from under Sergei’s arm without waking him up.

When you get out of bed, you pick up your burner phone as you go. There are no new messages, no missed calls. It doesn’t surprise you.

[1:07 AM] you: you awake?

It takes him a few minutes to answer, but you’re glad he’s there, battling with insomnia on the other side of the hallway just as you. When it’s messages in a row.

[1:11 AM] V: yeah

[1:11 AM] V: why?

[1:11 AM] V: something happened?

You smile: you’re not the only paranoid bitch apparently.

[1:12 AM] you: everythings fine. cant sleep.

[1:12 AM] V: He’d bite my head off if the dicking down came from me. Sorry doll.

You glance at Sergei from where you’re sitting on the floor, but your snort doesn’t seem to have disturbed his sleep.

Vladimir, that sly motherfucker. He knows Sergei would tear his dick off even just for the fact that he’s thought of his woman. This morning was just an accident, so to speak, but there’s not a ‘second chance’ in your lover’s vocabulary, at least not in this field.

[1:15 AM] V: What? You considering it? ;)

Your uneven breathing is the only sign you’re doing your best to keep the laughter from spilling out of your lips.

[1:16 AM] you: you wish bby :*

“Milaya?” When you look up, Sergei’s rubbing his eyes, blearily looking at you after switching the bedside table lamp on. “What’re you doing there?”

The gruff in his voice shouldn’t rub you the way it does. You’re reminded of the first stage of your relationship, when you worked off hours and often came back home in the middle of the night. He’d demand you wake him up, and then he’d fuck you to sleep, his rough voice whispering obscenities in your ear or into the skin of your neck, your chest―even your inner thighs, if you still had the energy to let him eat you out before you clocked out for the night.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply. It’s no surprise that your knees buckle when you stand up and make your way to bed, your mind so deep in the gutter.

He eyes the phone in your hands. “Everything okay?”

You hum and slide into his open arms. The way his head nuzzled your chest makes you chuckle and your fingers comb through his short hair.

“Yeah. Vova can’t sleep either.”

When you look down at him, he’s pouting. “You were texting my best friend? You could’ve talked to me…” He might be dangerous when it comes to other people, but it’s mainly playful banter when it comes to Vladimir, you’re sure. Had you wanted him, you would have already made him yours. The dude hasn’t posed a danger for years now.

“I wanted to let you rest,” you reply, but Sergei’s hands are already starting to wander, and they distract you for a heartbeat or two. “After Hell’s Kitchen… You just haven’t been sleeping well.”

He scoffs in amusement, but the way he kisses your lips right after tells you he’s so very grateful―lucky, as he always says―to have you.

“That’s just because I didn’t have a chance to fuck you,” he smirks, his words crude. They hang heavy in the space between your lips, and heavy is the hand on your hipbone now that he’s hovering over you. “Can I do it?”

You can’t deny him, not when he looks at you like that―like you’re the goddess he worships―and not when hunger is already starting to simmer in your womb. So, you entertain him.

“Do what?”

“Do you.”

You laugh, breathless.

“C’mon, just let me get my dick wet. It’ll help you fall asleep so fast.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, still smiling. You bend your legs at the knees to trap him between them. It’s a blessing, the fact that you went to bed just wearing a t-shirt because you can feel the warmth of his erection against you through your panties. “You really can’t be romantic even just for a minute!”

He nuzzles the crook of your neck, kisses where your marked skin still feels tender and loved. He comes down on his elbows, and all of you is pressed against all of him. It’s the most comforting weight there is.

“Let me make love to you,” he corrects himself, rutting against you once. “Let me make you feel safe.”

A kiss to your lips, then his tongue comes out to lick at you once before you give him access. It goes on and on, the kiss; it lengthens until you have to pull away for air.

“Let me be on top.” You don’t even need to beg: he turns onto his back and pulls you with himself until you’re straddling his lower abdomen.

“No prep?” he wonders, surprised laced through his voice.

You shake your head. “’m wet enough already with the way you run your stupid mouth.”

He grins.

You make quick work of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to whip his cock out. The tip is already reddened and leaking pre-cum. You smirk, look at him, then look back. You wonder how he always manages to work himself up so quickly, but then you realize he has the same effect on you―you’re dripping when you pull your panties to the side―so you don’t ask.

The way he lets himself go into a single, long groan as you slowly slide down on his cock gives you a full-body shudder. Your hands bunch his t-shirt in your fingers and your eyes almost cross. When you finally sit down on him, his erection buried inside you to the hilt, the air slips past your lips in a quivering breath.

“Fuck, feels so good,” you whisper, leaning forward until you’re lying fully on him. “You feel so good.” The stretch is delicious, and you feel how your walls flutter to make room for the size of him.

“Always such a snug fit.” His hands grab your hips, and he thrusts into you once, then once more. Two orgasms each this morning clearly weren’t enough, but tonight you stop him.

“Don’t more, let me feel you like this.”

He doesn’t complain, not even when you both already know cockwarming isn’t his forte.

“Tell me about Hell’s Kitchen. The fuck happened?”

“Now?!” he gasps, making you look at him. “While my dick’s in your pussy?”

“As good a time as any. I’ll fall asleep after. I figured it’d be easier for you than being in my mouth.”

A sigh.

It’s silent for a while, and then the dam opens. He tells you as much as he knows. Which, admittedly, isn’t much. Or he’s trying not to burden you too much.

You wish he’d lean on you, share his pain so that you can be each other’s crutch.

He tells you about the masked mudak, the one that’s been messing with them and their business for months. Fisk and his schemes. Then the bombing at the garage―his fingers dig harder into your flesh when he talks about that―the explosion, the smell, the blood when he had tried to pull Grisha out of the ruins. He was coughing up so much blood already, the poor kid, and Sergei had to look the other way when he gave in to his plea to be shot and taken out of his misery. He had been a breathing corpse, mutilated by the fallen ruins―bricks and poles and sin.

Sergei doesn’t tell you that, though. He doesn’t paint a picture.

It’s already a miracle he manages to get to the end of his recall with a still-hard cock. His arms hold you close, and you feel the way his chest constricts.

You try not to grumble. Just a couple of weeks ago Grisha had come to you asking for advice―there was this girl, prettier than the sun and moon combined, and he wanted to do all the right things to ask her out. You wonder if he did. If he followed your advice. Or had he still been waiting for his chance when his world went off?

You don’t speak for a moment, simply listening to the changing rhythm of his heart. Then, you apologize for pressing him into giving you an explanation, and you kiss him until he forgets all those bad things for the time being.

That night you make love to him, try to ease the nightmares and the bad memories plaguing his mind. When tears start trickling down the sides of his face, his eyes closed, you hold onto him a little tighter, a little closer, and you fall asleep still connected with each other.

If you could shield him from what happened, shift its weight onto your shoulder, you would.

*

The day after, you stay out late for dinner. Vladimir came up with some bullshit excuse about him wanting to celebrate life with you and Sergei, and Homer let him go.

Did the guy also send someone else after you? You have no clue, and frankly, you don’t even look around to try and spot his goons. You’ve mainly been picking at your food with your fork all day. Sergei managed to sleep like a baby―of which you’re proud―but your mind has been stuck on the memory of Grisha in your living room, pacing back and forth while he spilled his heart out. How he hadn’t wanted to go to the guys because he just knew they’d tease him to no end. How he didn’t know what to do―his parents had been the worst example to follow in just about any field of life, and he didn’t know what to do. Sergei’s woman is the nicest person on Earth, someone had told him, so he had come to your apartment when he knew Sergei was out with the guys.

You think about how he had just been nineteen; he would have turned twenty on Christmas day; you had already planned to invite him over for a few days so that he wouldn’t have had to be alone―your heart squeezes in on itself, and you sigh.

“It’s all gonna be over soon, Doll,” Vladimir smiles, patting your hand on the table with his bandaged one.

You look at him. The dark circles under his eyes. The bruises on his face. His split lip. You know there’s much more underneath his clothes that you can’t see right now―but that you have seen too many times whenever you stopped to clean his wounds in the car. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the last almost ten days, and like he’s lost ten more. A shell of his old self―no brother, no freedom, no business―a bird-dog trying his best to reach a place where no one knows his name, or his face.

Sergei also looks like the vocabulary definition of exhaustion. One day of relative freedom―yesterday―was enough to deplete his reserve of energy. Now all he wants to do is escape. And forget.

You smile. For their sake, you tell yourself. Be their crutch like they’ve been yours.

“Is it going well?” you ask, turning your hand around so that you can hold the one Vladimir still has on yours.

He hasn’t told neither you nor Sergei his plan, and neither of you has asked. You figured the less people knew about it, the more chances you’d have to make it.

He nods. He’s the only one whose stomach isn’t knotted up. Is it because he was mostly passed out during your first escape? You guess that could be the answer.

There aren’t many patrons left when a group of men walks in. It’s hard not to spot them; they stick out like black birds among the colors of the restaurant.

Are they Homer’s?

They spot you. You see the way the look in their eyes changes when their (apparent) leader’s gaze locks with yours. You’re the only one facing them, Sergei and Vladimir sitting at the other side of the table.

They walk closer. They’re seven tables away.

Six.

Three.

Your hand wraps tightly around your knife.

Two.

The man in the front smiles. It reaches his eyes. You think he’s going to flirt with you, cause a scene, create chaos.

“You must be Sergei’s woman,” he says when he and his men sit at the table behind you.

It takes you a moment for your brain to realize he’s spoken Russian. You’ve never been more relieved to hear a language before in your life.

Was Vlad waiting for your escorts? Is that why he insisted on staying that long?

You breathe out in relief and when you look at your companions, they’re both grinning. Sergei gives you a nod of his head, his foot teasing yours under the table in reassurance.

“We met some dogs,” says the man behind you. You don’t dare turn around. “We sorted them out, but their owner might come looking.”

Things move quickly after that. Your heart hammers in your chest with the same strength as the night Sergei woke you up in the middle of the night, but this time it’s not out of fear. There’s excitement scorching through your veins, and adrenaline is probably already kicking in.

You’re out of the restaurant, your hand securely wrapped in Sergei’s. Vladimir is in front of you; the men his friend sent are all around. It’s like being a celebrity, even when you’re not.

It goes to your head.

Your heart beats so hard it hurts. It seems to pulse in your eardrums, and there’s a restlessness everywhere in your body―your fingers, your arms, your legs. It’s like your body wants to run, desperately, and yet it’s stuck at a much slower rhythm.

You meet Sergei’s gaze. He gives your hand a squeeze, mouths an I love you, and you think you want to marry him. Right here, right now. You want to take his face in your hands and kiss the living daylights out of him.

Your head hurts.

It’s sort of exhilarating, in a way you didn’t predict.

You’re on a boat. Then a much bigger one.

The men’s leader and two others are in the helicopter with you, Vladimir, and Sergei. You have no idea how you even got on it.

Your head hurts.

*

They move you a lot in Costa Rica. You never spend more than one night in the same place. As it turns out, his friends are trusty, this time. You’re introduced to Andrei’s cousin, the one Vladimir has mentioned, and you have to witness the way his soul cracks behind the look in his eyes when he’s told the news.

Danger still feels really close, but just like your escape from Cuba, it’s fucking exhilarating. A whirlwind you can barely keep up with.

You have some of the best sex of your life―it’s the only thing that helps burn out that extra energy making you restless. You think Vladimir is never going to let you and Sergei live it down. You promise him he can sit and watch if he wants, and maybe one night he does, in the armchair by the window of your temporary room, and you enjoy the way he looks at you while Sergei fucks you from behind.

When you reach Romania, the home of some more friends of Vladimir’s (you wonder how he even manages to have so many when he can be such an annoying ass), you’re all positively exhausted. It’s been three weeks since leaving Hell’s Kitchen behind, but it feels like much longer than that. Three years, or maybe three lifetimes.

You don’t have many memories from Cuba; you didn’t have the time to form any, after all. Homer and his flowers, the shower, that ice cream in the sunny plaza. Costa Rica is a whole other story; when you think about it, there’s still phantom soreness between your legs and Vladimir’s taste still tingles your tongue, that one time Sergei miraculously agreed to let you suck him off.

Life in Romania, by the Moldovan border, is nice and quiet, and there’s not much to do in the countryside you’re sent to for your own protection. You enjoy the walks―at dawn, at sunset, in the midday sun.

Skinny dipping with Sergei after dinner quickly becomes your favorite activity. He’s so real and solid in this life that now feels like such an illusion. You let him love you, and he lets you love him, too. There’s not a place around the house where you haven’t touched each other, kissed, hugged.

You start to pick up the language and around the four-month mark in the country, you feel like it’s finally starting to click. You find a part-time job, Serzh does, too. It keeps you busy―away from the frenzy of New York City, and away from the dreadful stillness of a life so out of your routine all of a sudden.

Sergei puts a ring around your finger one night, as you’re lying in bed, the smell of sex still lingering in the air even despite the open window. He says marriage is just a formality, but he definitely can go down that route if you want. He’s still going to spend the rest of his life by your side regardless.

You think you could give him anything he wants. Could and would, no ifs and no buts.

Vladimir turns restless, however. He seems to slowly sink, like a stone not dense and not heavy enough to immediately reach the bed of the river. He feels stuck, and you see the way he can’t seem to be able to go on. The exhilaration of your escape has left his system―much more slowly than the adrenaline did, but you see he’s running on reserve now.

You think you’re losing a piece of him each day that passes.

You’re stuck in the indecision of what to do. If you bring up old memories, the scars on his body start bleeding again. If you shut them down, the black hole in his chest grows and eats away at him right before your eyes.

Revenge starts being brought up. It’s always late at night, when he’s had a bit too much to drink. He brings up Anatoly as you and Sergei watch on, unable to do anything. He brings up his brother and the way he was murdered. Brings up Fisk, Gao, Nobu, the masked mudak. He burns with the intensity of a sun, and the bitter cold of outer space.

You fear losing him to his demons. Sergei doesn’t know how to bridle him anymore.

One night, he starts crying. He’s had a glass too many―a bottle too many―and you find yourself sitting in the garden, the warm July breeze contributing to the scorching heat of his skin. He’s feverish―he has been for a couple of days now.

Sergei’s smoking a few meters away, eyes trained on the night sky as he stands barefoot on the grass, wearing nothing but an old pair of knee-length pants. You see the way his jaw clenches in the moonlight, and you know he’s close to tears as well.

It scares you shitless.

Vladimir allows you to hold him in your arms, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, wetting you with his tears and his saliva, where he cries broken sobs into the skin of your shoulder.

Maybe it’s always been just a matter of time before what happened in Hell’s Kitchen caught up with him.

Maybe it’s also just a matter of time before this wave of destruction slows down to a halt. You hope maybe next summer, he won’t be drinking this much. By the summer after that, he’ll be able to hang mirrors in the house without shattering them. By the three-year mark, he’ll be sprouting in the spring and thriving in the summer.

Sergei turns around and finds you already staring at him. On his lips stretches the small, sad smile that mirrors your own. You think you see gratitude in his eyes before he goes inside to fetch a blanket. He wraps Vladimir up like a child and drags him inside.

That night you both lie on the floor of Vladimir’s room, as still as statues, listening closely to the way he breathes while he sleeps.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Sergei whispers, dread in his eyes as he looks at you for an answer, like you’re a deity that can see the future.

You trace the lines of his face, his lips. You kiss him lightly, even despite the smell of smoke that’s left behind from earlier. “Eventually,” you promise―a lie, but also a hope.

You don’t tell Sergei, but you think Vladimir is still on the run. You can only hope he will slow down, stop, look around, see he’s safe, still alive, and that his demons haven’t followed him into his physical reality.

Bye, thank you for reading my fic. 💌

[wychelm]

it's so funny how wesley is the only character in daredevil who seems aware that gay people exist presumably because he is one but the only time he decides to bring gay people up is when his boss kills anatoly and he's trying not to act suspicious. idk why it just took me out. vladimir glaring at him like ರ⁠_⁠ರ and wesley's like btw I'm aware of bisexuality as a concept. your brother is not dead

[thingsasbarcodes]

Daredevil 1x04 - In the Blood

[sword-day]

Get well soon.

DAREDEVIL 01.04 In the Blood

[sword-days]

We don't need anyone else. Only each other.

DAREDEVIL In the Blood

[jennajaeger]

Just for fun, I thought I'd put together a little masterpost of characters that are either old F/Os from before I got into selfshipping proper, or are almost but not quite at full-blown F/O status :P

~

Past F/Os

Victor Van Dort (Corpse Bride), Jasper Whitlock Hale (The Twilight Saga), Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse Batman movies)

Viserys Targaryen (Game of Thrones), Harry Osborn (The Amazing Spider-Man 2), Balem Abrasax (Jupiter Ascending)

Pietro Maximoff (Avengers: Age of Ultron), Anatoly Ranskahov (Marvel's Daredevil), Vladimir Ranskahov (Marvel's Daredevil)

Wade Wilson (Deadpool), Chato Santana / El Diablo (Suicide Squad), Kylo Ren / Ben Solo (Star Wars)

Almost F/Os

Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Eros (Marvel's Eternals), Billy Hargrove (Stranger Things)

Bruce Wayne (The Batman), Leon Kennedy (Resident Evil), Nathan Bateman (Ex Machina)

Paul Atreides (Dune), Kaz Brekker (Six of Crows/Shadow and Bone)

Asha of Rosas (Disney's Wish), Coriolanus "Coryo" Snow (The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes)

[heartsbreaking-migrated]

i said this in the tags earlier but someone should write either vladimir or anatoly ranskahov from daredevil because im working on something and i need you.