#sergei daredevil imagine

[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. 💌

[theranskahovs]

Crimson *Sergei x Reader*

Warnings: period sex. more dirty talk than usual.

A/N: I should just change my url to “sergeimalikov” bc that’s all I ever write now 🤗 do you know how easily I could’ve wrote sergei getting his red wings you’re welcome I didn’t

•••

The warmth of Sergei’s hand on your lower back is soothing, especially when he massages in slow circles. Every few minutes he gets caught up in the show he’s watching and forgets what he’s doing, until he remembers and begins the movement again.

You let out a deep breath as another wave of cramps flows through you. Your fingers tighten their grip on Sergei’s shirt as you let it pass. From your position on the bed you can’t see the TV, but you don’t mind. You’ve wrapped your arms and legs around Sergei, with your face pressed into his neck. Just the thought of moving away from him is unappealing.

Sergei’s hand strokes over your hair absentmindedly, making you want to cuddle even closer to him if it were possible.

“It hurts so bad,” you groan, the sound muffled by his shirt.

“I know, kitten, I’m sorry.” You’ve taken painkillers but they refused to kick in, you were already overheated enough without a heating pad, and Sergei was doing his best but his hand on your back didn’t help that much.

“Have you ever tried sex to help with cramps?” He asks bluntly.

“No. Most guys are terrified of blood.”

“If I was scared of blood then I’m in the wrong business,” Sergei says with a chuckle. “Do you... want to try it, then?”

“Sure. It’s not like it’ll make it worse.” You move up so your faces are level as you give your verdict.

Sergei smiles, leaning in to kiss you and roll you over. “Wait, wait, wait, give me a minute.”

You hop off the bed, going to the bathroom. You grab a towel from the cabinet and peak your head back out to toss it to Sergei; you’re lucky you had a darker one that was clean. You head back into the bathroom, preparing yourself. You debate putting your pants back on but decide against it, knowing they’ll just get bloody anyway. While you’re at it you take off your shirt, it’ll make it easier.

You take a moment to pep talk yourself, reminding yourself you look sexy even if you don’t necessarily feel it. In all honesty you feel bloated and crampy, and those together don’t equal the highest confidence.

You emerge from the bathroom, hurrying to get on the towel. Even though there’s no way anything could be dripping out already you’re scared to stain the carpet.

“What?” you question as you position yourself on the towel. Sergei’s staring at you, making you wonder if there’s already a mess. You feel so vulnerable, and with your hormones a mess it almost makes a frustrated tear spring to your eye.

He grins at you, “You’re so gorgeous, angel.”

You smile sheepishly back as Sergei finishes stripping. Once he’s done you pull him down for a kiss, arms wrapping around his neck.

He hovers above you, and you’re glad he’s putting less of his weight on you than usual. Normally it’s a comforting presence, but your stomach is already in too much pain.

You pull back as he starts to pinch your nipple. “Be gentle, everything is sore.” He nods, pressing a kiss to where he pulled too hard.

He presses kisses all over your chest, hands heavy on your waist. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he bites your neck. His tongue roves over the area he bit, soothing the sting.

Your nails drag down his chest as he kisses you again. It’s a slow and sensual kiss, not rushed but still just as passionate.

You reach down to stroke Sergei’s half-hard cock, enjoying the low groan he makes. In turn he licks his thumb and reaches between your bodies to play with your clit.

The sensations are heightened and it has you letting out a soft moan. His fingers slip further down and before you know it he’s sliding one in. “Sergei!” You gasp, half in shock and half in pleasure.

He adds another finger, and continues rubbing your clit. He sighs at how tight your grip on his cock is getting, bucking into your hand. Your thumb smears the precum around his red tip.

“Sergei, please,” you whine as his fingers hit your gspot, begging for even more.

“Ready, babygirl?” He grits out.

“Yes, daddy.” The feeling of being empty has your walls clenching around nothing as he pulls his fingers out. He spreads you open and teases your entrance with his dick.

You sit up on your elbows, “Don’t you want a condom?” You don’t think he’d want to get his dick bloody.

“Doesn’t make difference to me” he says with a shrug.

You nod, laying back down. He presses in slowly like you asked, slipping in easily from your arousal and the blood. Both of you moan once he’s fully in.

He grips your thighs, keeping your legs spread open. When you look down to watch his movements, you see red fingerprints on your thighs.

You flush at the sight, knowing by now blood must be all over the towel and on him. You feel so exposed. Somehow it’s the most intimate you’ve ever been together.

He fucks you slowly but intensely, and a rough thrust has you crying out and putting your hands on his chest.

He stops instantly. “What’s wrong? What is it?” His eyes are full of love as they search yours, hating that he hurt you.

“I think you hit my cervix, and it did not feel good.”

“Do you want to stop?”

That’s the last thing you want. “No, just- just don’t go that deep.” You laugh to yourself, thinking it’s probably the first and last time you’ll ever say that sentence.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He moves down to your lips, and the kiss radiates ardor.

“Better?” Sergei asks after a while.

“Yes, so much.” Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.

He smirks down at you, “Guess my cock is just too big for you.”

You giggle, “Or my cervix is lower this week, but I’ll let you think whatever you want.”

“Oh?” He hums, challenging you to keep talking. If you weren’t feeling so bad he’d probably punish you for making such a comment.

“It’s too big for your pretty mouth, no? That’s why you always choke on it, right?” He angles his hips so he’s hitting your gspot, leaving you a moaning mess.

“Daddy asked you question, kitten.” His thumb presses harder on your clit, making your head spin.

“Mm- yes- your cock’s too big for me,” you grit out, barely able to form an understandable sentence. Your hips roll, desperate to meet his thrusts.

Sergei kisses along your jaw line, nipping at your bottom lip. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you murmur, “Fuck.”

You’d have hoped you wouldn’t be able to think of the pain, but instead it turned into a dull ache. Still there, making you wince if you thought about it, but buried beneath the arousal you felt.

“You feel so perfect, princess,” Sergei groans into your ear. “Gonna make me cum.”

You smirk at the praise. His thrusts get sloppier as he nears the end. You’re not far behind, each circle of your clit sends a zap of electricity to your core. Each press of his dick against your gspot has your walls fluttering around him.

“C’mon baby, cum for daddy,” he encourages. You bite your lip, focusing on how amazing his length feels as each stroke stretches you out.

“Want me to fill your cute little pussy up? Have my cum drip down your legs?”

“Mmmhmm,” you moan out, the beginnings of your orgasm taking hold.

Everything happens so fast. Your clit is being rubbed at what feels like supersonic speed, and every thrust is hitting perfectly.

“Sergei!” You exclaim, before your body takes over, sending ripples of pleasure through you. Your walls tighten around Sergei, bringing his own release. He tightens his grip on your hips, moaning deeply.

He hovers above you, resting his forehead on yours as you both recover. You put your hands on both sides of his face, kissing all over.

He pulls out and rolls over onto his back next to you. You prop yourself up on your elbow, admiring how well the post-sex glow looks on him. You stare at the blood that’s on him, his hands (which by now you’re well used to) and his dick.

“Do you feel better?” He asks.

You nod, smiling back at him. “I need a shower now, though. Join me?”

He makes a sound of agreement, getting up and starting the water. You stay laying down for a moment, remembering the cramps you had before, and acknowledging the way they’re not piercing anymore. You make a mental reminder for next month.

[angelaiswriting]

If you want to be tagged in what I write or submit a request, INBOX ME. | Read my REQUEST RULES before requesting. | LINK TO FANDOM MASTERLIST

[r] = requested  :|:  [nr] = not requested  :|:  [✓] = completed  :|:  ❌ = discontinued  :|:  🔞 = 18+ only  :|:  🎄 = Christmas specials

PREFERENCES

What kind of lovers are the Russians? (Vlad, Tolya, Piotr, Sergei) [r]

The Russians And Your Period (Vlad, Tolya, Piotr, Sergei) [r]

CHARACTER STUDIES

Ruined Youth | Vladimir Ranskahov [nr]

ANATOLY RANSKAHOV

🔞 Three Words | Anatoly Ranskahov x fem!reader [r] >> Read on AO3

🔞 White Nights | Anatoly Ranskahov x fem!reader x Sergei [nr]

🔞 Arranged | Anatoly Ranskahov x fem!OC [nr]: Part One // Part Two (18+) // Part Three (18+) >> AO3

PIOTR BYKOV

🔞 Unexpected | Piotr Bykov x fem!reader [r]

SERGEI YURCHENKO

Bad Day | Sergei Yurchenko x fem!reader [r] 

🔞 Lace | Sergei Yurchenko x reader [r] >> AO3

🔞 White Nights | Sergei Yurchenko x fem!reader x Anatoly Ranskahov [nr]

🔞 Escape | Sergei x fem!reader [nr] >> AO3

VLADIMIR RANSKAHOV

X FEM!READER

🔞 The Morning After | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader [r] >> Read on AO3

🔞 More Than Enough | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader [r]

🔞 Sick Days | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader [r]

Strong | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader [r]

Can’t Go On | Vladimir Ranskahov x wife!reader [r]

🔞 Baby Fever | Vladimir Ranskahov x wife!reader [r]

🔞 Confessions | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader [nr] >> AO3

SERIES

[✓] The Truth | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader: One: The Truth [r] // Two: Jealousy, 🔞 [r]

[✓] 🔞  Katya | Vladimir Ranskahov x OFC: One: Piter, [nr] // Two: Katya, [nr] >> Also on AO3 :: Piter | Katya 

🔞 The Assistant | Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader: 🔞 >> SERIES MASTERLIST (also contains the Files with insightful information about the story and its characters) >> Also on AO3

[angelaiswriting]

White Nights | Anatoly Ranskahov x reader x Sergei

[original picture: pexels]

✏️ Pairing: Anatoly Ranskahov x fem!reader x Sergei (Yurchenko)

✏️ Requested by me, bc I’m the worst kind of friend haha

✏️ A/N: *sweating* :) beware. Also, thank you Paulina for helping me choose which Russians to use <3

✏️ Warnings: this is a fucking threesome, so 18+ ONLY!!! Don’t cheat or I’ll block you. Contains: m/f/m sex, safe and unsafe sex, oral (both male and female receiving), double penetration, vaginal sex, anal sex, breeding kink, overstimulation, cum play (? I guess, but it lasts half a second). This should be all...

✏️ Word-count: 4,974 

REQUESTS ARE OPEN IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE FOR YOU 💛

The late May cool breeze is a gentle caress against her skin as she lies there, on silk bed sheets, next to a sleeping Anatoly. His skin looks paler under the light of Piter’s white nights, just as his love bites look darker, red and purple tattoos next to his black ones.

Y/N grins, turning onto her side and propping herself up on an elbow. Her fingers trace the line of his jaw, down his jugular–he moves in his sleep, exhaling loudly from his nose–, then down his chest. She traces the griffin on his right shoulder and she bends down to graze her lips against his still slightly sweaty skin.

Anatoly shivers, goosebumps cover his skin under her lips. The fingers of his right hand twitch almost imperceptibly, but she still feels the movement, feels the tensing and relaxing of the muscles in his arm, under his warm skin. He turns his head towards her but he doesn’t wake up–her touch is too tender, too light, like a feather gently caressing his skin.

A smile graces her lips as her hand resumes its movement. Her fingers walk on his chest like ghosts. They outline his right Ortisala star, gently pressing on each of the eight points before she draws her fingertips lower. Her blunt nails lightly graze his nipple and he hisses, still swimming too deeply in his dreams to wake up. She teases it for a few seconds and stares in almost blissed awe as it beads under her touch.

There’s a tingling in her clit–it’s probably because of the orgasms she’s already had tonight, but she likes to think it’s because of what she’s doing to him. She pushes her right knee until it bumps into his thigh and the movement causes light friction between her legs. And she sighs.

Her lips skim against his skin: they leave one last kiss on his shoulder before they trail down his arm, cross onto his chest, down his pectoral. Her tongue slips out: first, it licks her upper lip, then its tip teases his nipple before flattening against it. She sucks on it for a few seconds and Anatoly’s hips slightly wiggle, his ass–the same ass she left a hickey on before he fell asleep–presses a little harder against the mattress.

“Zayka.”

She smirks against Tolya’s skin before she turns around and lays on her back.

A low hum of approval tears its way from the base of her throat as she looks at Sergei. He’s leaning against the doorframe of the huge five-star bathroom and the light of the in-ceiling lamps is like a fair-orange fog behind him. The condensation from the shower he’s just taken lingers in the air, dampens his freshly dried skin.

He’s hard again–she can see the outline of his erection underneath the white towel hugging his waist. She moans, her ass presses into the mattress much like Anatoly’s a minute ago, and her legs open slightly. It doesn’t matter that she’s been cleaned before falling asleep: there’s still an insistent wet feeling between her legs.

“Please, don’t go,” she begs. Her right hand moves down between her legs, middle finger tracing down her clit, fingertip gently pressing into her core. “Please, don’t go yet.” Her voice is a whisper, but Seriozha smirks and she knows he’s heard her pleas.

He hums, pushing off of the door frame. His steps are measured as he moves closer to the bed. He has the gaze of a predator, but there’s still an amused smirk tugging at his lips, one that makes her smile brightly. “You want me to stay?”

They both know she does. She always begs him to stay a little longer, always a little longer and minutes turn quickly into hours when she does–and when he does stay. It doesn’t happen always. He’s always busy, there’s always something he has to do, places he has to be, people he has to beat. But he always makes time for her, and today is no exception.

“I do, and you know it well.” Her voice is strained, she’s moaned too much tonight. But arousal is slowly starting to boil again in her stomach and in her veins and it’s clear in her tone.

“Aren’t you tired?” His fingers graze her right ankle, up her shin, rough skin against her tender one. He places his palm on her knee and presses it down as he sinks on one knee on the mattress. A bruise has blossomed on her inner thigh and he bends forward, he kisses it, he lavishes it with his hot tongue.

She shudders. A low moan seethes from her kiss-swollen lips.

“I’m not,” she manages to say, and her answer is a breath as she stares up at him.

Truth is, she is. She’s exhausted–and she’s sore. And they both know it. Her thighs are still shivering, her breath is becoming shorter and shorter the longer he stares at her, the longer his skin burns her sweaty one. But she’s greedy–they both are.

“Liar,” he chuckles against her thigh. His lips move closer to her labia. He nudges her clit with his nose, breathing her in before he plants a slippery kiss on her lower abdomen.

Neither of them cares about the lie. It’s like a game, like a cat chasing a mouse, with the only difference that they’re both chasing each other.

“I truly don’t want you to leave.”

“I know,” he hums, moving the other knee on the bed and crawling over her. “You never do.” His lips are light on her skin, but the gentle touches still make her muscles tense and shiver at the same time.

Her body sings under his kisses. His chest grazes against her breasts, it presses slightly harder against her turgid nipples and she moans, face nuzzling in the crook of his neck.

He’s keeping his hips away from hers and she knows it. There’s no way she’s going to keep to herself if he shows her how much he still craves her, how much her love-kissed body still draws him in.

“Stay,” she murmurs against his skin, right on his pulse point, a patch of skin she has spent part of the night kissing and suckling.

Her leg hooks behind his, trying to pull him closer–to no avail.

“Please.”

Her hand is quick at snaking between their bodies and before he can stop her, she’s tugged at the towel around his hips and she has opened it. His erection brushes against her abdomen and her back arches. He moans.

“You know I can’t,” he whispers against her cheek, his voice low, so as not to wake Anatoly who’s just moved in his sleep. He presses a kiss on the corner of her lips, one of his hands brushes strands of hair away from her forehead, where sweat has dampened them. “Vladimir needs me.”

Her other leg hooks around his thigh and she moves it higher up until her knee is resting next to his butt. She pushes him against her and his is a welcome weight against her spent, but still throbbing body. “I need you more.”

She grabs his face in her hands. The hold is gentle, yet firm at the same time. She smiles up at him, eyes glinting, dimples forming on her cheeks. She’s waiting for him. It’s a script they know by heart now, and when he pushes down, presses his lips against hers, she exhales hard from her nose, she snakes her arms around his neck.

There’s no going back now, this is the point of no return.

“You’re greedy,” he states, lips moving against hers as he speaks.

“I am.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Can you blame me?” Her hands move to his shoulders, down his arms, then back up again and down his back, fingertips pressing into his sore muscles. “With a man like you, I don’t see how else you expect me to be…”

He laughs then, and she loves the sound of his laughter. It makes her skin tingle, her stomach knot, her blood thrum in her veins. She doesn’t know how Anatoly sleeps through it, and neither does Sergei, but it doesn’t matter–she’s not going to neglect him anyway.

“You are terrible,” he jokes, slowly lowering his hips to meet hers again. He lulls his hips against hers, kisses her cheekbone, inhales her scent. She smells of him and of Anatoly and of sweat and of the cigarette he’s smoked before entering the bathroom to shower. “You’ll get me fired.”

“All the better.” Her hands slip around his waist, move down to his ass, pinch his buttcheeks. “I’ll have you for myself all day every day.”

“Do you ever tire?”

“Of course, but not of you.”

Sergei shakes his head. He presses his body down harder against hers, feels her nipples hard against his chest, feels her wet labia hugging the underside of his dick. “You will be the death of me,” he smiles, kissing both her eyelids, then her nose, then her lips.

She grins at him. “You’re already mine.”

He kisses her again, and she kisses him back, parts her lips before his insistence can pry them open. It’s slow and wet and hot, and his tongue brushes against hers. He can feel her heart beat right below his, hammering against his ribcage.

A moan chokes in her throat as he kisses her when a slightly harsher jerk of his hips has his dick to bump into her clit. She arches off the mattress and against him and his lips move from hers to her neck, the dip in her collarbone, the valley of her breasts.

His hands brush up and down her sides as he sucks a hickey on the side of her tit. He doesn’t know who gave it to her, whether he or Tolya. Once, at the beginning of their relationship, he used to be able to tell his love bites from Anatoly’s, but now…

“Serionya,” she moans, fingers tugging at his hair when his lips finally wrap around one of her nipples.

Her body feels like it’s exploding then, her skin feels like it’s on fire. Her breath is soon ragged as he tugs her nipple, laps her still sore and sensitive skin with his tongue.

He has the touch of an angel, Sergei. Anatoly is often rougher, but she doesn’t mind it. She loves the contrast between her lovers, loves how they know how to work her body to tear from her the reactions they want. She loves it when Tolya spanks her, just as she loves it when Serzh kisses and licks her bruises and her hickeys. She loves how they both drive her crazy, how they leave her body sore and loved and warm.

She also loves it when Sergei worships her breasts. It’s almost as though he feels when they’re more tender and sensitive than usual, and even more so after a long afternoon spent making love. He’s tending to them now, teeth lightly grazing and nipping the skin, lips, and tongue almost torturing her nipples.

“They’ll be even more sensitive when you’re with child,” he groans, squeezing her left breast in his calloused hand.

There’s something in the idea of getting pregnant with Sergei or Anatoly’s child, something that drives her crazy. They use her breeding kink to their advantage, they slap her with it when she least expects it, and it doesn’t matter that they’ve never actually talked about it.

But there’s still no way she can stop that loud moan from tearing her whole mind apart and it’s then that Tolya wakes up. He stretches next to her and it takes him a while to realize what the sound that woke him up was. And when he’s fully back to reality, Sergei is already kissing his way down her belly and towards her vagina.

“Bozhe moy,” Tolik hums and she can feel Sergei grin against her.

“To-” but her voice is caught in her throat when the man between her legs sucks her clit in his mouth. Her back arches again and it’s almost painful, her core still sensitive and slightly overstimulated.

Sergei and Anatoly could have the ability to read each other’s mind and the fact wouldn’t surprise her, for it’s already like they know what they have to do and they work on her in sync. As the former pushes a finger into her pussy, Anatoly turns onto his side and kisses her shoulder much like she did to him before Sergei got out of the bathroom.

“You are little devil,” he hums against her skin, sleep still clouding his senses.

There’s no way she can answer him with words, for she’s too lost in the feel of Seriozha’s finger slowly pumping in and out of her, his fingertip firmly pressing against the sensitive patch of skin on the front wall of her vagina. She feels every inch of that finger down to his bruised knuckle just as she feels every contraction of her pussy around it. There’s a tugging in her lungs as her breath grows shorter. Her eyes are so tightly shut that she can see sparks behind her eyelids.

Right then, Tolik brushes his thumb against her nipple and she comes. It’s hard and sudden and noisy as Sergei draws her pleasure out, forcing a second finger into her cunt, fighting against the spasming tightness of her womanhood.

As his friend is busy working her through her orgasm to prepare the soil for another, Anatoly stares at her face. He watches as it contorts in pleasure, as her eyelids screw even tighter. He feels all her strength as her hand grabs his forearm and grips hard on it, fingers bruising into his skin, into his muscles. It’s a sight he’ll never get tired of, and the sounds she makes…

Bozhe moy.

They make goosebumps wash over his skin, they tug at his stomach. When she groans like that, half in pleasure and half in something more, he feels blood rush to his groin. It stirs something inside him, and he wants to take her right then and there. He wants to mark her body, bruise her skin with love bites–and he knows Sergei wants to do the same, that’s why he’s stayed, that’s why he always stays when she begs him like he’s her own personal god.

“Serzh,” she moans breathlessly.

Anatoly moves her arm so that he can lay closer to her, kiss her breast and her neck, her earlobe, her cheek, press his hardening cock against the side of her thigh.

Sergei stops for a second. He gives himself a gentle tug, swipes his thumb over the head of his penis, hisses at the feeling, then moves his fingers inside her for another couple of seconds. Y/N loses her breath entirely, both because her pussy is still raw and sensitive, and because Anatoly is sucking kisses into the crook of her neck, teasing her left nipple with long, slender fingers.

Both men kiss her skin for endless minutes, they let her calm down from the drawn-out orgasm that’s still making her legs tremble. Tolya focuses on her neck, on the side of her chest, rolling his hips against her leg. He pushes higher up on the bed, turns her head towards him with his hand, and he kisses her. She kisses him back–sloppily, slowly, and it’s all lips and tongue. Serzh kisses her right hip, presses his fingertips into her right thigh, pushes his hips against hers. He kisses her belly, sucks a hickey next to her belly button. He licks and sucks her skin, calms her down with his tongue, crawls up the side of her body until he lays next to her, wrapped to her much like Anatoly.

Y/N’s breath is heavy. And ragged. She loves it when she’s too spent to continue but she still begs Sergei to stay. It always ends with him between her legs, drawing her wild in a matter of minutes.

Her brain has stopped, she cannot think. She can only feel. She feels them both against her. She feels their burning skins, their even hotter breaths. Their erections press into the skin of her thighs–Sergei’s leaking pre-cum, Anatoly’s not yet.

The feeling of them so close, their touches swimming to her through her blissful daze, is enough to make her moan again.

She turns her head when Anatoly turns around to fumble in the bedside table and she kisses Sergei–or rather it’s Sergei that kisses her. They stare into each other’s eyes as they do and she moans in the kiss when she tastes herself on his tongue. He makes her suck his fingers clean and she does. She sucks on them like she would his dick and he presses them down against her tongue. A low moan rumbles in his throat and she whimpers.

“Ptichka.”

She lets Seriozha’s fingers go when she hears Anatoly call her, but she doesn’t turn. She grabs Sergei’s hand and she moves it on her breast. His spit-covered fingers make her skin slippery, but none of them cares.

“Why don’t you kiss him?”

Y/N knows what Tolya means with that kissing and Sergei does, too. He groans loudly, rolls his hips against her leg and she lets his hand go.

He turns on his back and she kisses his chest as she hovers over him. Her lips tease him, they tug at the skin of his neck before her touch moves down his body, skims over his bruises and his tattoos until she’s nestled between his legs.

Her jaw is sore and tired, but she still grins up at him as Anatoly shuffles behind her, tears the package of a condom open. The sole focus of her attention, though, is Sergei. Sergei, who’s staring down at her with glossy eyes. Sergei, whose bruised hands lay on hers as they press into his hips. Sergei, who’s able to edge her for hours, who brings her closer and closer to her orgasm and stops a heartbeat before she comes on his fingers or on his face.

She wants to edge him, too. She wants to tease him until he cannot take it anymore, until his dick is too overstimulated, until he begs her to let him come. But she’s tired, he’s tired, Anatoly probably is, too, even if he’s had almost two hours to sleep and recharge.

And so she plays no games with him and does what Tolya told her to. She bends down as Anatoly keeps her ass up, presses himself against it, and she places a gentle kiss on the head of Sergei’s tip. She licks his precum away and it’s slightly sweet as she hums against him, lips trailing down his length until they press against one of his balls.

“Ptichka…” Anatoly hums as he bends down over her, pressing his chest against her back. His fingers are cool are they glide over her skin, tease the underside of her breasts, tug at her nipples. “Don’t tease him,” he reprimands her. The tone of his voice is sweet, and his lips are even sweeter as they brush against her earlobe.

Sergei grins in agreement and his chuckle turns into a groan when she takes him in her mouth. It’s wet and hot and he loves every second of it–he always does and she knows. Her movements are slow nonetheless and she moans around him when Tolya gently pushes a finger into her pussy as his tongue swipes over her asshole. It’s still loose from when Seriozha fucked her from behind that afternoon.

Her brain is unbelievably slow at picking up with what Anatoly wants to do, but when she eventually does, she almost chokes on Sergei and his cock ends up deep in her throat.

“Fuck,” he groans, his fingers tangling in her hair and pulling her head up.

Her eyes close, though, as Anatoly pours lube on her butthole before he goes on and teases her open. It’s an easy task, for Sergei always feels unbelievably huge–bigger than Tolik–when he fucks her ass. And he knows how to fuck it, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t end up as deep as Anatoly, because the stretch she gets when slowly and teasingly bucks into her is…

“Want me to come in your mouth?” Sergei’s voice is strained as he stares at his twitching dick.

“I thought you were…” She licks her lips, arching her back under the assault of Tolya’s mouth on her clit and of his fingers in her ass. “Going to fuck a kid in me, wanted my tits even more sensitive…”

She slowly crawls over his body, movements unhurried and measured to allow her other man to follow her. Her breasts brush over his skin and his cock is trapped between them until her nipples glide over his abdomen. She stops to suckle his own beaded nipples and she groans when Anatoly’s touch disappears.

“We will both fuck kid into you,” he whispers in her ear from above her. His slick fingers grasp her boobs and squeeze them until she moans again, wiggling her ass against his hips, his dick pressing between her buttcheeks.

Anatoly is the worst at their breeding kink game. He’s capable of coming without anyone touching him when the dirty talk reaches a high enough level. He moans and grunts and squeezes her hips in a vice grip–and then spends endless minutes kissing and licking every bruise he’s left on her skin.

He lulls his hips against the curve of her ass and the pressure pushes her down and onto Sergei, and they all moan. The latter grabs her face in his hands and kisses her, passion burning on his tongue as he swipes it against hers, while the former lets himself fall back onto the mattress with a grunt.

They both maneuver her until she’s lying on her side, facing Sergei, who hooks her left leg around his hips and thrusts up into her pussy without warning. The feeling draws a long moan from her throat as Serzh sobs in pleasure at the tight feeling of her.

And this time it’s Y/N who stares at his face, contorted in pleasure, brows furrowed, tendons visible under the skin of his neck. She nuzzles her face against his cheek, swipes her tongue against his stubble-covered jaw. There’s a low sigh on her part when he pulls his hips back until only the tip of his dick is inside her, and then another moan when he slowly pushes back in and tugs at her legs to penetrate her deeper.

Then she tenses when she feels Tolya’s middle finger tease her butthole once more. She knows he wants to go slower, she feels it in the uncertainty of his movements, but she also knows he cannot wait. So she drapes a hand back and winds her fingers through his hair, pushing her closer to her back until he’s kissing her shoulder, his hand grabbing her hip to keep her in place.

The feeling of completion builds up slowly, for he slowly pushes into her ass, and all she can do is whimper and sob. All she can feel are her muscles stretching around their erections and her hardened nipples pressing into Sergei’s chest as her back arches. She tugs on Anatoly’s hair until he groans and he snaps his hips forward, pushing the last few inches into her.

They all stop to catch their breaths and Y/N is on the verge of the umpteenth orgasm of the day, and even more so when Tolya pushes his hand between her and Sergei’s bodies and toys with her clit.

It’s all it takes for Sergei to draw his hips back and when he pushes back in, it’s Anatoly’s turn to pull out. The alternating movement keeps her on edge, but it’s not just them: both men can feel each other’s erections brushing against her inner walls and against each other. It’s something they love–double penetration. They feel all of her and all of each other and it always takes them less time to come.

That’s the reason why less than a minute later, Seriozha, left somewhat overstimulated by Y/N’s mouth, comes with a grunt, snapping his hips forward and knocking the breath out of Tolya’s lungs. His release triggers her own orgasm and the three of them still, Sergei and Y/N catching their breaths as Anatoly pulls out quickly. He massages her arm, kisses her shoulder, the side of her neck, until Sergei pulls out, too, and she can turn onto her back.

Right then, Sergei’s phone rings and there’s a unanimous grunt when they see the caller is Vladimir.

“Have to go,” Serzh mutter against her lips before pecking them.

She complains, but she lets him go. Anatoly pulls her onto her back and moves over her as they both listen as the other man quickly cleans himself up before getting dressed and leaving.

“You have to talk with your brother,” she whimpers when his mouth latches onto her left nipple and tugs hard.

“Will do, zayka.”

He slips down her body, grabs a hold of her thighs and spreads them open and then, a huge grin plasters itself onto his lips. There’s awe in his eyes as he stares at Sergei’s cum leaking out of her cunt and he bends down to lick it back up. She whimpers and wiggles in his hold when his lips and tongue come in contact with her raw skin and then her clit. And there’s a gasp when he’s ready to penetrate her, for she’s noticed his condom and she’s put her foot on the crucifix tattooed on the middle of his chest.

“That has to go,” she whines and she shudders as she watches him take the latex glove off.

He pushes into her slowly and he almost has to fight his way in, her walls are still convulsing. She clamps down on him, her eyes falling shut as her hands cover her tits and hold onto them.

“You are something else entirely,” he mutters against her throat when he bends down, covers her body with his.

He doesn’t wait a second before starting to thrust in and out, always faster and deeper. The feeling of Sergei’s semen inside her is enough to spur his arousal, to drive him wild as his thrusts get sloppy in anticipation of what is to come.

“Relax,” she whispers against his ear. She nips at his earlobe, kisses his jaw, sucks his lower lip and grazes it with her teeth as she pulls at it.

His exhale is loud when he breathes out his nostrils against the crook of her neck. He winds his arms under her back, holds onto her shoulders as his movements get more frantic and her walls squeeze him so hard he has to screw his eyes shut.

She’s spent, he knows it, but she still bucks her hips, she tries to meet each and every thrust of his. Her arms bring him closer, they force him to mold his chest against hers. Her breath is ragged against his skin and so is his against hers.

It doesn’t take him long to enter that almost-there grey zone, when he twitches and throbs inside her, whimpering under his breath. His hands push her thighs open wider and then closer to her and with the new position, her feet hook around his ass, her heels press into the soft skin of his buttcheeks.

When she whispers, “Fuck that kid into me as Seriozha did,” he grunts and moans and snaps his hips forward so hard it hurts, but the orgasm that strikes him leaves him breathless. His back tenses and arches off of her chest, his toes curl, the muscles in his thighs quiver, his knees lock, and behind his closed eyelids white pleasure explodes.

She’s caressing his back when he comes back down to earth, her lips brushing against his cheeks as she whispers sweet nothings into his skin. Her skin is warm against him, both of them covered in sweat and goosebumps as the night breeze hisses in through the open French window.

“You truly are something else,” he mutters against her boob before he lifts his head just enough to lick away his drool from her skin.

Y/N laughs at that and the sound reverberates through his chest before he gets up onto his knees.

“Come, let’s shower,” he smiles, grabbing her hands in his and pulling her up.

They lean against each other on trembling legs as they enter the bathroom and then sit down on the floor of the shower, warm water raining down on them.

Anatoly stares as his and Sergei’s jizz trickles down her pussy, against the tiles of the bathroom, down the drain of the shower and he can’t but feel enamored with the view.

When she catches him staring, she takes one of his hands in hers and brings it to her core. At first, the contact is short-lived: he smiles, exhausted, but then he moves his hand away to sit behind her. When her back is pressed against his chest, though, his hand resumes its position between her legs and it cups her sex. He doesn’t tease her, doesn’t push a finger into her. He just smiles down at her when her head falls back onto his shoulder and kisses her forehead, her eyes closing in exhaustion.

None of them wants their vacation to be over.

“I love you,” she sighs, after a while, hands massaging up and down his thighs.

He chuckles, pulling her closer with an arm around her waist. “Tozhe tebya lyublyu.”

I am so sorry, guys. I’m so sorry you have to bear with me *facepalms* I... I’m another person when Russians are involved, istg.

Holy shit, though, writing this felt like going through labor, but boy, am i happy with it! :) Now I’ll just go dig myself a hole so that I can hide in it. I’ll answer from my grave if you leave feedback, I guess Satan will be nice company :)

P.S. I’m sorry if this sucks.

P.P.S. :) this is an anxious smile, for the record. :)

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask. Same goes for ‘Bratva’)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi

Bratva (people not on the lists but that might still be interested): @sweetvengeancee @brobachev @kind-wolf @kellydixon01

[angelaiswriting]

Lace | Sergei x reader

[original picture: pinterest]

✏️ Pairings: Sergei (Yurchenko) x fem!reader

✏️ Requested by Anonymous: Hi I love your writing so much and I just wanted to request a Sergei imagine about how the reader and him are taking it slow but she keeps teasing Sergei and it’s making him go crazy and if you want to do smut with it you can💛💛💛💛💛

✏️ A/N: holy mother of God! Have I... Is this... Is this my best smut ever?? I love this guy hahaha I got so horny at some point that I started to write so slowly it was pure torture HAHA

✏️ Warnings: slow burn + smut, so 18+ only!!! This is also hella long, a fucking dissertation on this guy’s penis and arousal probably.

✏️ Word-count: 8,408 (this is a motherfucking essay. kudos to you for reading, I love you)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE FOR YOU 💛

🎤 Song: Я так хочу... by Океан Ельзи (English translation) (is it okay if I add suggested songs to my stories?)

Jesus Christ, give me strength!

He cannot look away. Fucking shit, Sergei Yurchenko cannot look away from…

(O my God. Don’t look there!)

… from her fucking tits.

Oh God, he’s finally admitted it.

Sure, he’s not a saint, but he’s not a douche, either. Really. Sergei is a gentleman–the best gentleman one can find at Veles Taxi, that is. But Y/N… Fuck, when she’s present and she’s bent over the hood of his cab just like she is now and you can look underneath her blouse… It doesn’t matter that she’s half-yelling at him, repeating him that she is the one dispatching calls and not him and that he should do as she says, and she’s trying her hardest to drill the concept into his stone-hard skull. It doesn’t matter because from the driver’s seat he can see her black lace bra and holy mother of God, the things lace does to him…

He tries not to wiggle in his seat and even more, not to fix his pants–he already knows her speech by heart by now, so it’s not like he’s busy listening to her. What he’s busy with, though, is ogling those two hanging boobs that just…

Fuck, they do things to him.

For starters, they get him hard–fucking stone-hard, for his woods haven’t been called ‘woods’ ever since Y/N started to work for Anatoly and Vladimir Ranskahov at the garage.

And he should not–boy, I should yes–think of her that way. Shouldn’t think of fucking her senseless on the back seat of his cab and not even on the desk she uses at work. He shouldn’t think of how she might look under her blouses nor of how many fucking lace bras she owns–shouldn’t think of his hands on her hips and her above him as she unclasps said bras and throws them somewhere. He shouldn’t even think of those lipstick-coated lips as they wrap around his-

“Are you even listening to me?” Y/N yanks the driver’s door of his taxi open and shakes his shoulder. He looks up at her, his lips parted, eyes slowly trailing from her bosom to her lips and he tries his damn hardest to divert his mind from the sight of her bent over his car–he’s starting to think he’d like to take her from behind in that position, her breasts pressed against the metal surface of the hood, but he should not think of her that way. “I swear to God, Sergei! You can’t up and leave me without a car because you just want to get off the grid for a couple of hours! Let me do my work and I won’t fuck up yours.”

You’re already fucking me up, zayka, he thinks, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts.

“Da, da,” he groans instead and she moves to let him out of the car. His head is pulsing where his cheek met a punch, but it’s still more bearable than the throbbing inconvenience between his legs. He hopes and prays she won’t look down because he’s not sure his pants are doing much to conceal him.

“What in the world happened to your face?”

She grabs his chin before he can stop her and he hisses both in surprise and in slight pain. Her fingers are cold against his warm skin, her fingertips pressing so hard into his flesh that it’s almost like she’s grabbing his bones. It’s her payback and he knows he deserves it, it’s just that motherfucking douche deserved his fists.

Sergei tries to dismiss her worries, but she’s not moving away, she’s not taking her hand off of him. His breathing pattern slowly turns ragged and he has to force himself to keep breathing–slowly in from the nose, slowly out of the nose, it doesn’t matter if its bridge hurts–because he knows that if he lets his mind wander, he’ll have her pinned between his body and the wall.

“Jesus Christ, Yurchenko!” she groans, nostrils flaring, eyes hard as stone. “I can’t fucking believe you left me with one man less just because you wanted to pick up a fight!”

They both hear Piotr’s amused chuckle as he quickly clocks out to go home for the night. He yells a final exclamation before leaving the garage, one only Sergei understands because Petya makes sure to use Russian, a language Y/N still doesn’t speak. Fuck her already, he smirks and boy, if only Sergei could…

But there’s some age gap between him and Y/N, and he… He doesn’t know, he’s insecure. It’s not even that much, but who knows if she’d entertain the idea? He should just stop having those thoughts about her, leave her the fuck alone, but even her cheap perfume draws him in like a magnet.

“I will tell Vladimir next time.” It’s a promise, he knows, and as he stares into her eyes, he knows she wants to do it now–she’s pissed, she’s mad, they probably lost a couple of clients because he felt so insulted he needed to throw some punches, but she still holds back. Her fingers are still on his chin, their grasp not as hard now, and she doesn’t make a move to step back and let him go. “You can’t just do this,” she sighs after a minute or two and slightly shakes her head.

He feels like holding her, like wrapping his arms around her waist. He wants to feel her flush against him–just for once, just to know what it feels like–but he, too, doesn’t move. “I will call next time,” he finds himself promising. It won’t happen, they both know it, but it doesn’t exactly matter.

“You won’t.” Her fingers leave his skin and she takes a step back. Sergei has to stop himself from taking a step forward, closing the distance, or at least reducing it. “Because you won’t do such a thing again. Now give me a lift home.”

*

The passenger’s seat of his car still smells like her the next morning. Sergei doesn’t know if it’s just an illusion or if her perfume still really lingers on the leather seat, but it doesn’t matter. He stares at it longer than he realizes and it’s Piotr that brings him back to reality, banging on his window and laughing like the dick he is.

“What the fuck were you doing?” Piotr’s tone is amused when Sergei finally gets out of the car. There’s an exchange of cigarettes and lighters and for a moment they both keep quiet, enjoying the harsh drag of the smoke as it reaches their lungs.

It’s a welcoming feeling, a morning ritual before starting their shift. They often don’t have a problem smoking during their cab rides–clients can either go fuck themselves or shut the fuck up–but it’s still good to have a few minutes of peace before starting the day.

“So?”

Sergei shrugs his shoulders. He looks up at the clear morning sky, puffs out the smoke and takes a deep breath of the chilly air. “What?”

“What were you staring at?”

Another shrug. “Nothing.” He doesn’t mention the ride he’s given Y/N the night before, nor that he’s had to relieve himself in the shower, nor that he’s found it hard enough to fall asleep. He doesn’t even know what it is exactly that does this to him–doesn’t know why she has this effect on his body and his mind–but there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from feeling like a horny teenager around her.

Piotr takes a long drag from his cigarette and stares long and hard at his buddy. “Did you drink?” he enquires. “Because if you’re drunk and she finds outs…” He chuckles, his thumb drawing an invisible line that cuts all the way across his throat.

“I’m not drunk.” Sergei’s answer is a grunt. He hasn’t drunk in ages and he’s proud of that, he doesn’t want to… to go back there, do the shit he’s done when he hit rock bottom. “And she-”

But he’s cut off when he sees her walk through the open gate that looks on the garage’s backyard. His breath is cut short and his next drag from the cigarette is harsh, it hisses in the clear morning air.

It’s like he’s alone not just in the yard, but in the whole world, too, and she’s right there with him. He’s that desperate. And when she greets him and Piotr with a smile, Sergei likes to think she’s smiling at him.

With a whistle, Piotr calls his usual ‘Privyet’ and while his friend hears it, he doesn’t see his omnipresent smirk.

She looks… so good in that flowery dress of hers. It’s always breathtaking to see her in a skirt and not in her usual jeans–and Sergei has to admit that her legs are a fucking weak spot of his. He imagines his rough hands trailing up her soft skin, from the ankles to her knees to her thighs as he spreads them open to-

Stop it.

She’s too much for him, more than he deserves, and he knows this, really, he does. She’s her and he’s… well, he is what he is. There is no way she’ll ever… ever consider anything more than a friendship with him. And yet, this doesn’t do anything to stop his fantasizing.

He wonders if she’s wearing a lace bra today, too. And what color it is. And how it feels to the touch.

“Yurchenko has a crush?”

When he turns to his left, he sees Piotr chuckling like a kid faced with the hottest secret he could ever find. Sergei doesn’t answer: he grits his teeth, clenching his jaw so hard the bone feels like breaking, and he throws his cigarette to the ground.

“Holy shit!” There’s a gasp at that realization. Piotr is rarely surprised by things, but when it comes to his best buddy… Yeah, holy shit. Seriozha is a grown man, he’s probably been with more women than Piotr will ever know, and yet, to see him squirm like that in front of that girl… It’s almost hilarious.

“I will fucking end you.” Sergei is not looking at him, but Piotr knows he’s serious. Maybe he won’t actually kill him, but not even God will be able to stop him from punching that shit-eating smirk off of his friend’s face.

*

“Give me a lift home?”

When Sergei gets out of the toilet after a long day in his cab, the last thing he’d have expected was to find her right there, in the corridor waiting for him. He’s taken aback and he stops in his tracks: she looks tired and her shift should have ended two hours ago, when Ivan took her place, but she’s still here.

He’s tired, too, but she’s a sight for sore eyes–for sore everything, to be honest. He heaves a sigh without even realizing it. He doesn’t stop to wonder why she’s not asked this to Piotr, or to Vladimir, who’s left earlier than usual today. It’s almost comforting to realize she’s been waiting for him long after the end of her shift and not because she had to scold him.

“Sure.” His voice croaks and he starts to move again.

He leads her to his car, his hand on the middle of her back. Neither of them knows how that hand ended up there, but she doesn’t move away and he doesn’t, either.

She’s warm under his touch. She somehow feels real–which is really a stupid thought, Sergei curses himself. Of course, she’s real! But it’s weirdly comforting to know she is, after all, really real and not a product of his imagination. And it’s not like they haven’t touched before–even if not how he’d like to touch her–but…

But his mind is derailing and he has to stop the course of his thoughts.

They’re both quiet when they enter the car and there, in that confined space, Sergei feels his throat close up. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how to breathe anymore. All he feels is her: her perfume as it tickles his nostrils, her gaze as he turns the key and the engine roars, her presence right there, a few inches from him.

The car feels cramped, but it’s a weirdly pleasant feeling. He knows that, if he only tried, he could touch her–he could stretch his hand out and grab hers, hold hers as he drives. He could even move his hand slightly now, as soon as he removes it from the stick shift, and brush his fingers against hers.

He likes to think she’d let him touch her. It doesn’t have to be sexual, obviously, even just her hand in his would feel like heaven.

“Would you like a drink?” He finds himself asking. The shock of his proposal cuts his breath short–both because he’s suddenly anxious she might say no and because he hasn’t had a drink in what feels like forever. There’s no reason to get back to drinking, just as there’s no reason why a drink should catapult him back where he had fallen last time.

“I’d love that, Sergei.” She smiles–he sees it from the corner of his eye–and she’s staring right at him.

He dares a quick glance at her, a shy smile tugging at his lips before he returns his attention back to the road.

I’d love that. Those three words feel good. It’s like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders and his stomach and his heart and he can breathe again. Sergei. His name has never sounded better than falling from her lips–and if that night was meant to end in failure, he’d still feel like a hero, for hearing her call his name was better than anything else in existence.

“Good,” he nods.

Right after that, he mentally scolds himself. Good. What kind of answer was that?

Fuck.

He hasn’t been with a woman in so long he’s forgotten when the last time was. The fear to ruin everything creeps up his spine, shocking his muscles so hard that they tense.

*

He doesn’t remember much about last night, but this time it’s not because he drank too much.

All he remembers are her lips pressing against the rim of the beer bottle, her eyes smiling at him as she listens to his usual bullshit, her thigh pressing against his in the packed space of the booth.

I love to listen to you talk–her confession is still swirling in his mind. The music had suddenly become loud when someone decided to resuscitate the dying party and she had to scream those words into his ear. Her lips had brushed against his skin, her nose brushing against his earlobe and his hair, her chest against his shoulder to keep her balance.

He wasn’t proud to say it, but the boner he’d gotten from that contact had kept on bugging him until he dropped her off at her place–would she notice? Would she point it out? Would it creep her away?

The fear still lingers: he didn’t see her all day, for today was her day off, and as he stands in front of her apartment building, he’s not sure he wants to go up to her door. But he has a bottle of red wine in his hand–still new, he hasn’t drunk from it and he’s damn proud of it–and he doesn’t want to bring it home, where he could do some shit.

So, he enters the building, walks up the stairs and stops in front of her door. His hand stills mid-air, almost knocking, when he realizes he should have probably called her. What if she’s not home? Or, even worse, what if she is home but with some guy? It’s not like they’re best friends–even though he likes to consider himself a friend of hers; he knows close to nothing about her private life.

His fist falls back down at his side and he’s suddenly second-guessing everything–his presence here, the chance he’d like to have with her, the smiles she sends him…

Someone coughs behind him and he feels like a deer caught in flashlights. His whole body tenses up, his fist tightens. “Are you a friend of the sweet girl that lives here?”

It’s just an old lady, he realizes with a sigh when he turns around. His muscles relax, his brain starts working again. He nods, uncertain–is he, though?

“Well, you should knock, then,” she goes on. The unknown lady does nothing to go back into her apartment. Behind her, Sergei can see a tidy hall and the light of a television reflecting off the mirror at the end of the corridor. He can see himself in it, too, and as he stares at his reflection, he wonders why Y/N should give him a chance–half his face is still bruised, part of his bottom lip is still slightly swollen.

“I-” What was he going to say? He doesn’t know. He sees himself swallow in the mirror, his head towering above that of the old woman, and all he wants is to flee that place. “I don’t know if she’s home,” he eventually confesses, his gaze meeting that of the woman.

“She always is,” the neighbor shrugs. She probably belongs to the nosy type, Sergei thinks, but he’s somehow happy she’s caught him.

They stare at each other for a few minutes after that, none of them saying a word, and the silence is weird and uncomfortable. Sergei shuffles his feet, stares down at his shoes for a second before the door in front of him closes shut without the woman uttering a good-bye.

He doesn’t mind it.

He just turns around and knocks on Y/N’s door before his mind can stop him again.

“Sergei?” She’s surprised when she opens the door, but a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips before she’s fully smiling at him. “What are you doing here? Come in.”

He walks through the door and it’s like walking through an invisible veil. While he was nervous in the corridor just a few moments ago, a wave of calmness and peace washes over him when he passes her and stops a few steps from the door.

His deep breath is met by her quick, unexpected hug before she closes the door behind her back.

“I…” He holds the bottle up between them, almost like a shield in case he needed any protection. But when his insecurities come back, a frown settles on his eyebrows. “I thought I would… stop by?” It comes out like a question. But it doesn’t matter because her smile turns brighter and she takes the bottle he’s handing her.

She grabs his hand in her free one and leads him into her house. “I’m happy to see you.”

His thumb absentmindedly brushes against her skin, but he doesn’t even realize it. He feels light and suddenly his mind is emptied of all his worries. And this time the effect lasts.

*

Things get busy after that night and Sergei finds himself struggling between the legal and the illegal sides of his job. Because of this, his free time is cut short and he barely sees Y/N. Vladimir and Anatoly keep him busy for days with ‘the business’ and all Sergei can think about is that Piotr gets to see her every day.

His insecurities come back with the same force of a freight train.

Piotr knows his secret. What if he spills it? Or what if he decides to ignore it and claim the girl for himself?

Sergei trusts his friend, but he also knows how he is with women. Petya is a fucking Casanova, while he is… trapped in the mud of his past, probably. Piotr knows what to do and what to say to a woman on any occasion. He knows how to make them laugh and how to make them moan. He doesn’t even have to worry because, with a face like that, it’s women that fall at his feet and not the other way around.

Therefore, it’s always hard to focus on the task Sergei is given. He wants to at least play his cards with her and if he’s doomed to fail, then so be it, but at least he’ll be able to tell that he tried. At the same time, though, he doesn’t know what to do. Nor how to do it. He hasn’t put himself out there in so long he fears of making a fool of himself.

But Y/N would never mock him. Or would she?

Anatoly notices his mind is somewhere else and he approaches him one night. “Whatever’s distracting you, forget about it.” Both of them know those words weren’t meant to come out that hash, but there’s no way to swallow them back down.

“Nothing’s on my mind,” is Sergei’s lie.

He still manages to do his job quite well, though, even if he ends up with more bruises than usual–no stitches this time, however, so he’s quite content. It still doesn’t matter, though, because tomorrow he’s going back to his usual job and he’ll be able to see her. And, probably, to know if he’s lost any chance he might have had before he disappeared for all these days.

He’s just got out of the shower when his phone beeps. And as he reads Piotr’s name on the screen, worries and thoughts of failure swarm his mind like locusts.

I gave Y/N your address, hope you don’t mind.

Sergei doesn’t understand those words. What does that mean? Why would she need to know where he lives? Not like it’s supposed to be a secret, of course, but… Unless it’s to tell him to fuck off. That she has Piotr now and she’s happy and taken.

But Piotr would have probably bragged about it. Right?

She heard you came back beaten up and she was worried, was the next message. Piotr might have noticed Sergei was online and that he had read the message, that he was probably still staring at the screen of his phone like the fucking coward he was and thought well of expanding his explanation. Stop dancing around her and make your fucking move.

The last message irks Sergei. He throws the phone on his bed as he hastily puts on his boxers.

Not your fucking business, he writes back before grabbing the first pair of sweatpants he finds in his wardrobe. He doesn’t want to be found there half-naked, not by her–it doesn’t matter he’d like to see her naked and that he’d also like for her to see him naked.

Dickhead. Make your fucking move before she gets tired of waiting for you!

Sergei frowns at those words. He’d like to ask what the meaning behind them is, but he’s too scared. Too scared of deluding himself into thinking someone like her might actually even consider liking someone like him back.

He doesn’t have the time to type a reply because someone knocks on his door and he’s suddenly sprinting down the corridor. It’s not until he opens the front door and hears her gasp that he realizes he should have put a shirt on.

“What the hell, Sergei?” she whisper-yells when she sees the bruises on his ribcage.

He’s suddenly ashamed–of himself, of his job, of his bruises, of his messy apartment.

She pushes him back into the hallway and even when her hands leave his chest to close the door, he still feels that contact.

“It’s nothing,” he tries to apologize–even if there’s nothing to apologize for.

“This is not ‘nothing’! And oh my God, your brow is bleeding!” And with those words, she’s taking his face in her hands again to examine the cut above his left eye.

He doesn’t say anything, not even a word.

“Come on, let me clean it up.”

Sergei doesn’t tell her he’s just gotten out of the shower and that, therefore, the cut is as clean as it can be. He simply leads her to his bedroom and then into the bathroom to pick up the first-aid kit.

Steam is still lingering in the air when she pushes him down on the closed toilet. She kneels in front of him and dabs his cut with trembling hands.

“You disappeared,” she finally says after an endless silence.

He’s facing her back, but he can still make out her features on the fogged mirror. “I’m sorry,” he says back, not exactly knowing what else to say. “Work,” he adds after a while when she’s put the box of the first-aid kit back under the sink.

“I was worried,” she continues and this time she turns around and faces him.

“I’m sorry.”

She nods twice before lowering her gaze, her hands fidgeting with each other.

He wants to speak. He desperately wants to. But he doesn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry, I had to help kill a man’ didn’t sound like the thing you’d want to tell the woman you like.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, looking back up at him and finding him a step closer.

The bathroom suddenly feels smaller.

He nods.

“Would you tell me otherwise?”

There’s a chuckle before Sergei stops to actually think about it. He’s another step closer now. “Yes,” he eventually admits, surprising himself and her as well. Yes, he would tell her. He might not have the balls to tell her he likes her, but he’d probably be honest about his well-being with her.

But when her lips press up against his, he doesn’t have to worry anymore. He’s taken aback at first, surprised by the unexpected gesture, his eyes staring into hers, so close he feels her lashes brush against his cheekbones.

There’s a trembling breath on her part before he drags her closer with a grunt, her eyes finally falling closed, her body pressed up against him as he backs her against the sink. Its edge cuts into her back, but she doesn’t feel it, not now.

She’s putty in his arms and Sergei has to hold back a sob. There will be a time to take all this in, but it’s not now, not with her hands crawling up his bare arms and around his neck, pressing his head closer to hers, the kiss a clash of lips and teeth and tongues.

His hands fall lower, down the curve of her back until they grab her buttcheeks and he pulls her closer against him. He grunts and she moans and hers is the sweetest sound Sergei has heard in literally forever. His fingers knead the flesh and she’s almost purring, her breath quick and ragged against the skin of his face.

His lips slowly leave hers and press kisses along her jawline, his tongue swiping over every inch he kisses. Her skin is smooth and soft and he can’t get enough of it, not even when his mouth reaches her neck and starts suckling on its sensitive skin.

She quietly moans in his ear when he sucks on her sweet spot and he grins against her skin, pressing his pelvis harder against hers. He’s growing harder and he can only hope she’s growing wetter.

When she softly calls his name, he moans against her jaw. “Why did it take you so long?”

He chuckles at that. His hand slips into her pants and panties and his fingers press against her core. “Were you waiting for me?” He’s honestly terrified of what her answer could be, but she’s letting him tease her pussy, so it can’t be that bad. Right?

“Yes.” Her answer is a moan and as his forefinger presses against her clit, her head falls back. “Fuck, yes.”

She’s breathing hard and all Sergei can do is drink her in–closed eyes, kiss-swollen lips, flushed skin. She’s a fucking goddess and…

And this must all be a dream. Or his personal version of seven minutes in heaven before he dies for real and goes down to hell.

He removes his hand from her pants and grabs her hips, pushing himself closer against her, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. Her arms wrap around him and all he can do is breathe her in. “Will you be here at morning?”

“I will.”

Sergei needs nothing else: he picks her up in his arms and when she wraps her legs around his waist, he can’t help but buck his hips up against her. When he looks up at her, she’s grinning down at him. She grinds herself against him and he groans at the soft moan she lets out.

He looks up at her and he’s breathless. Even when he lays her down on his undone bed, he has to remind himself to keep breathing, for her eyes are drawing him in, they make him forget his own name.

There’s a question burning the tip of his tongue–Are you sure? Are you sure you want this with me?–but he can’t bring himself to voice it, not when she’s looking up at him with glossy eyes, lips parted, breath short.

She giggles. “Stop staring at me.” Her hands come up to cover her face, but his are quicker: his fingers wrap around her wrists and he gently forces them on the mattress on either side of her.

He doesn’t say anything. He just dips his head down and pecks her lips before sucking on her lower lip, his body better nuzzling between her legs. Her skin is flushed as he kisses her neck; her chest rises and falls quickly against his. He loses himself every time her chest touches his and he can’t stop the slow grinding of his hips against hers.

He’s held back for so long that he can’t stop himself now. He doesn’t want to stop himself. Doesn’t see why he should in the first place.

“I want to see you,” he whispers against her ear and she shivers in his arms. “Can I?”

She moans when he asks that and she pushes her shoulder against him to prompt him to sit up. At first, he’s scared–fuck, she’s pushing him away, he stepped over an invisible line and now she’s done with him, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. But then her hands grab the hem of her shirt and she quickly pulls it off.

Sergei is left breathless.

That’s lace.

That’s motherfucking lace.

His knees, pressing into the mattress he’s kneeling on, turn weak and he almost falls forward, against her.

That’s… that’s probably too much. That lace bra compliments her skin so much that he can now feel his dick throbbing in his briefs. And when she pushes him to lay down on the bed and she climbs over him, his eyes roll back into his head.

“Are you okay?” The tone of her voice is concerned, but he can barely register it, for his mind has momentarily forgotten anything about English.

Her face is millimeters from his when he opens his eyes again. His fingers graze the skin of her sides and up until they skim against her lace bra.

Holy mother of God.

They both moan when he swipes his thumbs across her nipples, turning them into hardened buds a little more with each stroke.

Sergei Yurchenko is in a fucking trance and he can’t look away. Not even when she grinds down against him. His eyes are glued to her lace-covered breasts and it’s almost as though his lungs have stopped working. His mind is empty, his blood has all rushed to his loins.

He seems to come back to reality when he notices her hands are now behind her back, trying to unclasp her bra. “Keep it on,” he groans, bucking his hips upward once before turning her with her back to the bed. “A little longer,” he adds, lips brushing against hers, hands running down her arms.

She holds her breath when his kisses glide down her neck and her cleavage before moving to her breasts. Hands bruising on her hips, his own grinding slowly against the mattress, Sergei wraps his lips around her left nipple and he sucks hard before swiping his tongue over it. He goes on like that for what feels like an eternity, until she’s a squirming mess under his heavy body and she begs him to stop, she threatens to come.

He wouldn’t mind that.

Not one bit.

But he still stops–or, better, he focuses on something else. His lips move down her abdomen, they leave open-mouthed kisses on her right hip as his fingers hook under the hem of her pants. He takes them off slowly, making sure to maintain eye contact with her, and this time he has Piotr’s same shit-eating grin on his face.

Then, when her pants have almost reached her ankles, his eyes catch the turgid nipples visible from under her bra and he groans. He yanks her pants off and has to resist the urge to touch himself.

His calloused hands are coarse against the smooth skin of her ankles, of her calves, of her knees. But she doesn’t move away, she doesn’t cower under his touch. She simply moves her hands against her own skin, from her belly then up, until she’s cupping her breasts, back slightly arching under his burning gaze.

He kneels down, between her legs, and he kisses the inside of her thighs ever so slowly, and softly, and tenderly.

It’s almost as though he’s never stopped having sex and, at the same time, it all feels new. The way she meowls under his touches, or shivers at the feeling of his stubble brushing against her tender skin. She calls his name in whispers, like a prayer, and all he does is smile against her flesh as he inches closer to her core.

Lace panties.

The thought that maybe she’s always worn lace in the hopes of getting bedded by him does cross his mind. And even though there’s no certainty behind it, even though he knows it’s just one of his billion illusions, he likes to think that way.

He inhales sharply against her before leaving a kiss on her.

It’s all so fucking…

Fucking…

Sergei can’t think anymore as he removes those panties from her body and all she’s left in is a damn lace bra.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It feels like dying and coming back to life straight after. He could literally purr at the sight of her, splayed on his bed in nothing but the same lace he’s often–always–fantasized about.

His mind goes to Piotr for a fraction of second–God bless that motherfucker for giving Y/N his address. But it’s all over before he can even realize that thought.

Because when she begs him–begs ‘Sergei’ in the lewdest voice possible–he bends lower and swipes his tongue over her labia. He groans at her wetness and the vibrations make her squirm, they make her beg harder, moans turning into a soft litany as he goes straight for her clit.

He gives it a gentle lick, then a rougher one, and before they both know it, he’s pushed a rough finger into her pussy. All he can think is, she’s so fucking tight. He loves it, it makes him grind harder into the mattress as his lips latch around her clit to give it a harsh suck.

They’re both panting now. And the fact that he is the cause of her quick and labored breathing–his tongue and lips and stubble and fingers, for he now has two thrusting slowly into her–brings his arousal to the next level. To the next thousand levels.

One of her hands moves to the back of his head to push his face harder into her, the other is tugging at her right nipple. Her toes curl and her thighs close in on Sergei’s head, but he doesn’t seem to care as he eats her out. He keeps up his work even when the walls of her vagina start clamping down harder on his fingers and the arch of her back deepens and her moans increase in volume.

Sergei. Sergei. Sergei.

It’s a new mantra. He–a new god being begged and prayed upon.

He feels like he’s going crazy, like he’s going on fire just by pleasuring her.

When she comes–and she comes hard on his face and on his fingers–she’s breathless, thighs a cage around his head and he has to fight his way out of it, a grin plastered on his lips.

He kisses his way up her belly, the valley of her breasts, her neck. His body pushes down harder against hers, hands moving underneath her and grabbing her shoulders, tongue lavishing the sweaty skin of her neck. His hips lull against hers as he breathes her in, kisses her shoulders, the dip in her collarbone, her cheeks, her lips.

It takes her some time to come back to reality, and a little longer for her arms to wrap around his solid, Ukrainian body. She smiles under his kisses, exhaling hard from the nose, and she pecks his lips, presses hard against them because that’s the only thing she’s able to do now, her body and mind and soul still swimming in pure bliss as her body shivers and her core throbs and her nipples, as hard as stone, hurt against his muscular chest. He’s her anchor, keeping her grounded to the ground–or mattress–and she’s glad he’s here with her–for her. She’s glad she forced Piotr to give her Sergei’s address in the first place and she’s glad she’s come, she’s glad she’s kissed him. Heck, she’s glad she’s kept on her lace lingerie for she now thinks he loves it.

And the longer he holds her, the quicker she calms down–and comes back to him. He’s not even aware of his hips ever so slowly grinding against hers until she moans–low and guttural from the base of her throat–and she bucks up against him.

His lips resume their kisses and they glide over her skin, following her collarbones, hands moving from underneath her to slide the straps of her bra down her shoulders.

As he looks down at her, a smile tugging at his and her lips alike, he swears she looks like an angel. The lamps of the bathroom shed light on the side of her face and–fuck–isn’t she the best vision he’s ever had. He stops what he’s doing and he bows his head, captures her lips in a kiss–lingering and bruising and slow and deep, all at the same time. And he doesn’t want to pull away–nor does she.

One of his hands glides down the side of her body, holds her hip in place as he presses harder against her, almost as though he wants to become one body and one soul with her.

He feels like he’s ready to die. And all the mistakes of his past seem stupid and important at the same time, and he’d do them over and over again if they’d still bring him here, in this bed, with this woman calling his name like a prayer against his lips.

But human nature is what it is and his erection is uncomfortable, caged in both his briefs and his pants, pressed up against her dripping cunt. And so, his arms wound themselves around her waist, they push back again underneath her. His fingers unclasp her bra and when she sighs in contentment, he groans and his hips buck forward with the force of an animal.

“Sergei.”

She calls his name again and he loses it–loses his mind and his control over his body and he swears he could come right then and there if she called his name like that again. He hums, forehead falling forward to rest in the crook of her neck when her hands slide down his back, fingernails lightly scratching his skin before slipping underneath his pants and boxers, grabbing his buttcheeks in a steel-hard grip. His hips buck forward of their own accord and he gasps and she moans.

And she arches against his chest, her bra an annoying barrier between the skin of her breasts and that of his pecs.

There’s no time to think, for her hands are trying to push his clothes down her body, but she can only reach underneath his ass. She groans and he sucks hard at the base of her neck, scraping his teeth against her skin before lapping at it with his tongue. And when he’s happy with his work, he holds her tight and rolls over on his back.

The pressure of her weight on his rock-hard dick is almost too much and he groans hard, holding her hips and dragging her back and forth against him for a couple of seconds before she finally yanks her bra down her arms and throws it behind her back.

Tits plump and nipples beaded–she’s a motherfucking vision.

He calls her name and she moans softly, under her breath. His fingers walk on the skin of her arms, they trace her collarbones and slowly, slowly, slowly they reach her nipples. Skin on skin, the contact is amazing: it ignites a fire that seems to travel down her spine and straight to her core and she has to–she has to–grind against him once again before she moves down between his legs. She kisses his V-line, her breath tickling his skin and her lips sending waves of arousal to his already throbbing dick.

All he can think about is her pussy wrapped around him and he has to refrain from manhandling her and pushing into her, for he feels like they have both waited too long, too much, too hard.

But he sighs when she takes his sweatpants and boxers down his legs, letting them fall to the ground. His dick arches back against his stomach and he hisses when its head brushes against the skin of his abdomen.

She moans when she sees him–hard and veiny and leaking pre-cum–and her hand travels down her belly until it stops between her legs. Sergei’s hips buck up into the air at the sight of her fingers teasing her clit and when they make eye contact, they’re both ready to devour each other.

A string of adults-only Russian leaves his lips like fingers counting rosary beads when she settles between his legs, hands running up and down his thighs. Eye-level with his cock, she’s a vision to behold. But when her tongue slips past her lips and drags a stripe up his dick, from base to tip, pressing hard against the vein on his underside, he’s forced to close his eyes.

His hands wrap the sheets into fists when she starts peppering kisses on his shaft, breath hot and damp against his burning skin. Her fingers tease his balls, her tongue flattens itself against his erection and moves upward until she’s kissing his angry-red head. She sucks on it, and she hums, and lost in the pleasure of the moment, Sergei bucks up and shoves his dick further into her mouth.

But he can’t…

He doesn’t…

“Y/N.” His voice is weak, his hands demanding as they push her shoulders.

When she looks up at him, devil-tongue licking those angel-lips, he’s panting, breath ragged as it drives up his throat.

“I know,” she whispers, kissing up his torso and paying attention to each one of his bruises. Her tongue soothes the stinging away, her kisses leave burning skin behind.

“Condom,” he says–he wants to fuck her raw, but he guesses there’s going to be time for that later. He hopes there’s going to be time for that later. “Bedside table.”

She’s quick at coming back. She sits on his thighs and he stares as she rips the foil open. It’s new for him–to have a woman to wrap him up and not do it himself. Raptured, his eyes are glued to her every movement: the way she pinches the tip of the condom, how she grabs his dick at the base, the way she rolls the latex down his length. And then, the way she perches herself on his shoulder with one hand as the other guides him to her entrance before sinking down on him in one swift movement.

It’s… mind-emptying. It locks his muscles and tenses his body like a bowstring.

She is… “So fucking tight,” he lets out in a huff.

She’s panting above him, lips brushing against the side of his neck as his hands grab her hips tight.

She’s so tight and so wet and so fucking hot he feels himself being tugged into another astral plane. There’s no other fucking explanation for the way he’s feeling–nor for the way she feels wrapped around him like a glove.

They both lay there for a while, breathing each other in, feeling each other’s skin–and each other’s breath on each other’s skin. It’s heaven and hell and purgatory combined and they both wonder why they haven’t done this sooner, why they’ve kept on being cowards for so long.

Because right now… Boy, right now it feels so fucking right. Like they belong there, on that bed, his dick up her vagina, her breasts pressed against his chest, lips blindly searching each other as they both try to breathe.

He holds her closer, hands bruising on her doll-skin. And she lightly bites the skin of his shoulder and when she slightly moves, they both moan and hiss and gasp. It’s a fucking symphony no one but them is able to hear.

Then, ever so slowly, he pulls his hips back, ass pressing down harder into the mattress, before he thrusts back into her. Y/N whimpers, Sergei moans. They lull each other slowly before the fire in their stomachs starts to build again and it becomes a raging hell.

She plants her hands on his pecs and pushes herself up and the change in angle leaves them both breathless. It takes them a while, but when she starts to move, to bounce on his dick, the rhythm increases.

And, once again, she’s a sight to behold. Her breasts bounce with every movement and he can’t stop himself: he reaches his hands up and grabs a hold of them. He massages the skin, tugs on the nipples, and she’s a whimpering mess under his touches. And when his gaze wanders lower…

Fuck–his hips buck up hard and he ends up deep into her and she squeezes down on him, wrapping around him so hard that…

Fuck.

He can’t look away from the sight of her pussy running up and down his dick. He’s fucking entranced and he moans at the sight, moans at the feeling.

There’s no holding back now–not now that he sees his dick shoved up into her, condom glistening with her wetness under the light of the bathroom. He picks up the rhythm, arms wrapping around her body and pulling her back down flush against him.

Her breasts pressed against him feel like heaven; her moans a sinful humming in his ears. It’s his name again–Sergei. Sergei. Sergei. Sergeisergeisergeisergei. Rhythm and volume pick up with each thrust of his hips and his back arches without him being able to stop it.

His hands trail down her back, glide over the curve of her ass, grab her buttcheeks like she’s done with him before–but harder. He squeezes the flesh and he pounds harder and the wet sound of his dick thrusting in and out is the only intelligible sound in the room as he grunts and she moans.

His orgasm strikes him like lightning. Like a punch to his stomach that leaves him breathless. He tenses under her, hips pushing upwards and deeper into her spasming pussy.

She follows him right after and she, too, tenses in his arms and she tries to squirm away for the force of her climax robs her brain of its ability to function. And his hips slowly and sloppily thrusting into her are too much and his throbbing and twitching dick is too much and his arms around her are too much and his body under hers is too much. And she comes again, lightly this time, but she’s still shivering and quivering and whimpering as she tries to recover from the second orgasm of her night. And she tries to breathe so hard it almost hurts and it takes her a while to feel Sergei’s lips and tongue lapping at the flushed skin of her neck.

*

The next morning, when Sergei wakes up, he can barely move. His body hurts and aches and his dick is still sensitive, even more sensitive now that it’s hardened by his morning erection. The muscles in his thighs and arms are sore, the bruise on the side of his ribcage thrums dully through his morning haze.

“Good morning.”

He turns his head quickly at the sound of that voice, skull throbbing through his recovery phase from Vladimir and Anatoly’s job.

His breath gets stuck in the back of his throat when he sees her there: disheveled hair, swollen lips, soft skin beaming in the early morning light. His hand reaches out, traces the profile of her jaw, trails down her neck before it gently grabs one of her boobs and stops there. Its weight is strangely comforting, it brings him back to last night.

And he smiles.

He scoots closer to her, leaves a kiss on each of her nipples before he presses his lips against hers and she giggles.

Her arms are welcoming–and warm, so warm he feels like losing himself in their embrace–and they tug at him until he’s hovering over her, his head dipped down to kiss her cheeks and her neck and her shoulders.

They still have a couple of hours before going to work and they plan on making the most of them.

Raw, this time.

*

This is not even my wildest smut, but I’m still wondering: where is Jesus when I need him? 

Tell me what you think of this pls I’m still dying at the thought this is 23 motherfucking pages on Google Doc. Good job for reaching the end btw!! You can now consider yourself my best friend, this is true dedication haha

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask. Same goes for ‘Bratva’)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi

Bratva (people not on the lists but that might still be interested): @sweetvengeancee @theranskahovs @brobachev (this is not Vladimir but maybe you’re interested in Sergei too? @kellydixon01)

[theranskahovs]

Rapture *Sergei x Reader*

Warnings: just a long fic about Sergei worshipping his gf bc uhhh why not?

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: this is a continuation of {THIS} fic. almost every Sergei fic is just part of a long chain lmao. also used a lot of prompts from THIS list. (I didn’t proofread this much so sorry if there’s mistakes)

•••

Anticipation had been building in you all day- you couldn’t wait to get home. In the morning, Sergei promised a surprise for you later in the night. From the smirk on his face and the teasing look in his eye, you guessed it was something sexual. He’d only gotten back from his work trip the night before, but it was so late neither of you wanted to do much besides go to sleep.

Then, a few hours before you got off work he texted you. You assumed it was something general, but what met your eyes was, “Tonight’s all about you. You’ll lose count of how many times you cum.”

When you read it your jaw dropped a slight bit. It took you a second before you came up with a response, “That’s quite a big promise.”

Since you got his text you started thinking about what he had planned, and all the things he’d do to you. If he didn’t fulfill by the end of the night you’d be pretty disappointed- you still had a few hours until you saw him and you were already turned on.

It felt like you were counting down the hours, then the minutes until you could go home. Excitement was bubbling in your stomach when you walked through the front door.

Once you set your bag down and take your shoes off, Sergei asks you to come to him. He’s sitting on the couch and you perch on his lap, giving him a quick kiss. “Close your eyes, hands out,” he tells you.

You do, and a light weight is placed on them. When you open your eyes, it’s a small bag from an elegant boutique you’ve only heard about. Everything in the store is a few hundred dollars past extravagant.

Your eyes meet his and your head tilts in silent confirmation of did he actually do this? “Don’t give me that look. It’s nothing,” he says with a modest shrug.

Lightly you move aside the tissue paper, thinking even that’s gotta be expensive. You reach in the bag and pull out soft material. It’s delicate-looking lace lingerie in your favorite color and style. You look up at your boyfriend again with a gasp of his name. “It’s so beautiful, thank you!” You say, giving him a big hug.

He grins, “Go see how it fits. Then meet me in the bedroom.”

You get off his lap after kissing him again, and he pats your butt as you get up. In the bathroom your finger traces the dainty lace. You send off a quick prayer that it fits, because you’d hate to rip something as costly as your rent payment.

Carefully you slip into the expensive underwear. You’re relieved that it fits almost perfectly. With a smile you admire yourself in the bathroom mirror, enjoying how confident it makes you feel to be wearing such an extravagant garment.

You make your way back to the bedroom and pause in the doorway. There’s tealights and other dim lights spread around, including various strings of fairy lights from around the apartment, a Himalayan salt lamp and other small candles. There’s the petals of a few roses on the bed. You step into the room, admiring Sergei’s work.

“You look amazing.” You jump, startled.

“Is it an anniversary or something?” You ask cautiously, thinking it’s all a bit exorbitant, but not in a bad way.

“It doesn’t have to be anniversary for me to treat you.” He takes your hand, spinning you around slowly to see your full body in his gift. The love in his eyes makes you want to hug him and thank him again, but the lust in his eyes tells you you’re going to be in for a long night.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you down too, so you’re straddling his leg. His hand presses on the small of your back, pushing you closer to him. You close your eyes and tilt your head up, meeting him in an ardorous kiss. It’s slow and sensual and has you anticipating any small touch.

The hand on your back encourages you to move, so you get into an unhurried rhythm of rocking back and forth on his leg. The muscle tenses as you let out a soft moan- after being wound up all day finally you’re getting some release.

You circle your hips, grinding your clit onto him. His jeans are rough where your thighs meet them, but it feels like heaven on your center.

You palm his cock through his jeans, but he bats it away. “No, I’m supposed to be making you feel good.”

Sergei’s fingers dip into your folds, just light enough to collect some wetness but not enough to press against anywhere you want him to. “You’re already dripping and I haven’t even touched you, princess.”

The way he says it makes it sound like an admonishment, and your cheeks flush. He presses sloppy kisses across your neck, sucking at that tender spot. You try to push him back to lie down, but he won’t let you. “You’re cumming for first time tonight on my thigh. No arguing.”

You didn’t have any argument in you. His hands are heavy on your hips as you grind against him. One of your hands rests on his shoulder and the other wrapps around his neck. It’s an oddly intimate position for the way he’s fully clothed and you’re only fucking yourself on his leg.

With every movement a zap of electricity shoots through your clit, making its way down your legs and to the pit of your stomach. You cry out as you cum, the pent up arousal making your first orgasm quick and easy to achieve.

Your thighs shake around Sergei’s leg, and he grips your waist to support you. There’s a wet spot under you, both soaking through your panties and Sergei’s jeans, tinting them a darker blue.

Without warning he picks you up and tosses you down on the bed so you’re laying on your back. You move your hair out of your face as he hovers over you, looking deep into your eyes.

The rose petals are smooth under your skin, and for a split second you worry they’ll stain the light bedsheets. Any care you have for it goes away when Sergei grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and warns you, “Don’t cum until I say so. Alright?”

You nod, licking your lips. His next touch is a stark contrast to his strict warning, it’s a gentle tracing of your collarbone and down to your nipple. “Lift up,” he tells you, so he can unclasp your bra. Once he gets it off he sets it on the nightstand, and you’re relieved he didn’t rip it in haste.

His head dips to your chest, and he starts pressing kisses and dragging his tongue over all the newly revealed skin. Once your nipples are peaked and your breath speeds up, he moves down your stomach.

Once he gets low enough he spreads your legs. His calloused hands drag along the insides of your thighs, followed by his mouth. He nips at the soft skin, and his stubble grazes it as well. It might just be your favorite feeling.

He presses a kiss to your center over your underwear, and again to your clit. You can feel it through the holes in the lace, and it takes everything in you to not arch your hips into his face.

Leisurely he pulls your panties down your legs, at the pace of a snail. The air of the room hits your core. Even though you’ve done this many times with Sergei, you fight against the urge to close you legs. He smiles up at you, squeezing your thigh encouragingly as he drapes your leg over his shoulder. “You have prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

You chuckle, too embarrassed to say anything. His fingers dance across your mound, then your lips, never quite ending up in the middle. His lips follow the same path, and then he blows on your clit. “Don’t keep me waiting, Sergei,” you say, bordering on a beg.

He makes eye contact with you as his tongue darts across your slit. Your head tilts back and your eyes close, finally you’re getting somewhere.

His tongue flicks across your clit, probably writing the Cyrillic alphabet. Arousal has already begun to pool in the pit of your stomach again; without thinking you circle your hips slowly, trying to get more friction.

Sergei’s hand grips your thigh roughly as your fingers tug on his short hair. “You taste like fucking candy,” he praises, not pulling back much from your pussy. The vibrations go straight to your clit and you groan.

He continues with his light licks, not touching you too much. You try not to suffocate him with your legs each time he laps at your clit extra hard or fast.

Every single movement feels amplified, you’re so turned on and excited that everything is more intense. A familiar warmth is rushing through your core. Sergei sucks your clit roughly and you’re gone, sparks shooting through your body with a ragged moan.

Your chest is still heaving when he slaps the inside of your thigh. You flinch at the sudden touch, and he’s looking up at you with steely eyes. “Did I say you could cum?”

He’s using his reprimanding voice, and you shake your head slightly, still coming down. “If you wanted to cum to bad, you should’ve said so.”

Without warning, Sergei flicks your clit and you let out a sharp gasp. He spits on his fingers, and shoves two in, not giving you a second to adjust. His head dips down again to suck on your clit. Your hands grip at the bedsheets, crushing rose petals between your fingers as you ball the comforter in your fists.

“Sergei!” You gasp, followed by a litany of high pitched wails.

He continues fucking you with his fingers, while trying to press your leg back against the bed. His “punishment” feels more like euphoric torture as your spent body speeds towards another orgasm.

“Fuck, fuck!” You scream. You’re starting to notice that the more orgasms you have, the more intense they get. It’s like each time you’re climbing a flight of stairs, and now you’re nearing the roof of the building.

A light sheen of sweat is building on your chest, it’s taking so much out of you to cum so often in under 45 minutes.

Your walls clench around his fingers as he works you through it. But when you’re done, he doesn’t stop. “Wh- wait-“

“No. You wanted to cum, so now you will.”

His fingers curl to meet your g-spot, and he hits it fast and rough. The sounds are sinful, but you’re trying not to pass out from the pleasure. Your back arches off the bed and he presses his idle hand against your stomach, keeping you from moving. You try to squirm away from him- you’re too sensitive, it’s all too much. Your hand rests atop his on your stomach. You squeeze it, unsure if your silent plea is one of halting or not stopping.

You pick your head up to look at him, and he’s already looking at you. You take in how fast his arm is moving as he’s finger fucking you, and the way his mouth is glistening with your wetness, his stubbly beard damp.

You didn’t think this orgasm was any different than the rest, if not a lot stronger. It hit you like a wave, akin to the tumultuous ocean crashing against a seaside cliff. Abrupt, intense, and jarring. You squeeze your eyes shut, seeing floaters. You weren’t even sure if you made any sounds.

It takes you a minute to come back, and then you realize the sheets are wet against your ass. Sergei’s rubbing your leg soothingly as you open your eyes. Your mouth gapes as you realize his shirt is soaked and so are the sheets.

“Did I just squirt?” You ask in amazement.

He nods, a big grin on his face. “Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His fingers comfortingly draw lines at the apex of your leg, spreading the drops of moisture. He sucks on your inner thigh, leaving a mark. He’s letting you take your time coming down from your peak.

He crawls up the bed, hovering over you as he kisses up your neck. When he gets to your lips, it’s a slow and passionate kiss radiating love. His wet stubble scratches your cheek.

Sergei’s hips press into yours as he lingers above you. Your limbs feel heavy and unbalanced. He sits up on his knees to discard his damp shirt, then the rest of his clothes.

He has you flip over onto your stomach. The rose petals feel cold against your flushed skin, and the sheet sticks to your leg. A few of the tealights burned out, but the room isn’t any dimmer.

You let out a whimper as he presses in. He groans once he’s fully immersed in you. Sergei moves at a leisurely pace, knowing you’ve been through a lot in the past hour.

He moves your hair off your back and kisses your neck tenderly. His hands caress your waist as he speeds up. You have a feeling you won’t be cumming again, but it’s almost a relief. Anything more would just be too intense.

Sergei pulls your hips off the bed, coaxing you to get on your knees. Your body is too tired to even try getting up on your elbows. Sergei lets out a quiet, “Fuck,” as you push your ass back against him.

His hands grip your hips, pulling you back into him as much as he’s thrusting forward into you. Sergei spanks you, but not as hard as it would be if it was a punishment.

You grab a pillow to put under your your hips to prop them up. Sergei’s beginning to fuck you faster and with more fervor. It feels better to not focus on cumming again, it’s making you enjoy the moment more than hoping for the end goal.

Sergei’s thrusts start to get less precise after a few minutes. With a deep groan he pulls out suddenly, and seconds later you feel the warm cum hit your back.

You drop your knees to the bed so you’re laying flat again and take some deep breaths. You grab the pillow from under you and move it to your head. A sigh is muffled as you press your face into the soft down feathers. You’re too spent to focus on looking for clothes or cleaning up, hoping Sergei’s on it.

Thankfully he is. He returns with a towel and wipes off your back and legs for you. He tosses you a clean shirt of his. It lands on you, but you don’t move to put it on. Sergei leans over the bed and rubs your back, “C’mon, you gotta get up.”

You make a sound of protest, only turning your head to look at him. “I need to wash comforter. Up.” He tickles your side until you take his hand and he pulls you up. He holds the shirt as you put it on.

You wrap your arms around him, pressing the side of your face against his chest. “Wash them later. I want you to hold me.”

“Alright.” He concedes, letting you pull him back down on the bed, cuddling close into his side. “How many times did you cum?”

“I- I don’t even know. Four, five?” All you knew was that it was a lot, and the best thing you’ve felt in a while.

He smirks down at you, “I kept my promise.”

[theranskahovs]

Solace *Sergei x Reader*

+Sergei comforting his S/O when they’re struggling w depression

A/N: the more I write, the more I realize it’s ok to write for me. and I could never get tired of doing it.

•••

With a huff you set your bag on the kitchen table. Fatigue pulls at your muscles, clings to your bones. Your body feels heavy, you’re aching to lay down.

“How was your day?” Sergei asks from the couch. You’ve started making a cup of tea, seeking comfort in any way you can get it.

“Good,” you lie. That makes you feel even worse. Your chest feels pressed on as you take a deep breath, fighting tears.

You pick a teabag to put in your mug and carry it to your room. “Hey-“ Sergei starts to say when you bypass the couch and head the other way.

Not looking at him (you can’t- you’re sure you’d instantly start crying), you tell him, “Don’t.”

You’re glad he doesn’t say anything else or follow you. You just need a moment of solitude. You change into fuzzy socks and oversized clothes, lighting a pumpkin spice candle, too. It’s a few weeks shy of fall, but feels just as much like it already is.

Outside your window the sky is a dark gray, and you wonder if it’ll rain soon. Hopefully. What better setting to be depressed in, you think with a grimace.

You sprawl out on your bed, pressing your face into the bedspread. Thunder rumbles lowly and you smile into the sheet, but it doesn’t have much happiness in it.

Your fists ball into the covers, sniffling. That’s when you realize you’ve started crying. You let yourself wallow for a few minutes- just sobbing. An ugly sound and a sad sight, with red eyes, cheeks streaked with tears and bit of snot on your nose.

You feel like a child. You would’ve thought you’d outgrow your preteen angst stage by now. The realization makes you laugh quietly. You’ve entered your adult angst phase now.

Remembering your tea, you try to drink some of it. It doesn’t help much, but the warmth spreading through you as you drink it is a nice contrast to the numbness.

From your bedside drawer you pull a shoebox. It’s what you call your anti-sadness box. A friend saw the idea on Pinterest and thought you’d benefit from it. Reluctantly you made it, but now you seem to benefit from it often.

Inside you’ve got happy pictures of family, friends, you and Sergei. Small notes from friends reminding you to “open when sad!” Beneath are a few fun size versions of your favorite candy, a journal and an old stuffed animal. You never cuddle it much, but just seeing it is enough.

Sergei knocks on the bedroom door, startling you. “Can I come in, kitten?”

You close the shoebox and blow your nose. “Yeah.”

His face falls when he sees you’ve been crying. “What happened?” he asks, sitting on the bed by you.

“Nothing happened, I just- I’m sad.” Realization clicks as he gets it. You’d mentioned your depression in passing a few times, but never described it to him.

“What can I do?” He looks you in the eye. He’s so sympathetic it makes you almost start crying again.

You shrug, drinking more of your tea. “I don’t even know what I can do.”

You hug him, pressing in close. His hand strokes your hair. “I hate seeing you upset, it hurts me.”

You fight the urge to scoff. You know he means well. “That makes me feel guilty,” you admit.

“Fuck, sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“I know,” you say wearily. “I just want to lay down for a bit.”

You expect him to leave, to avoid the topic of your depression, but he doesn’t. He pulls back the covers, props pillows up and leans back, inviting you into his arms.

His embrace is your solace. He’s warm as the storm outside picks up. Sergei’s arm is wrapped around you, his hand rubbing your hip. You press your face into the crook of his neck, almost curling into a ball around him.

You hear the TV turning on and the sound of your favorite distraction reality show in case you feel like watching it. You don’t, at least not for a little while. But the sound is enough, just like the feeling of Sergei holding you is. It’s enough for right now.

[theranskahovs]

A/N: another period fic bc the red death is promptly approaching 🌞 this one’s a Sergei x reader but the title thing disappeared so it’s no-name now 🤦🏻‍♀️

DAY 7

The week starts with a vaguely unsettled feeling. It’s nothing you can place, but you know something seems noticeably off. You think for a minute, then come to a conclusion. My period is coming soon, that must be it.

What follows is a mental double check of that assumption. You’re quickly calculating dates of ovulation and last month and figuring out with a sinking feeling of anticipation- yeah, it’s soon.

Every month you accept that it’s happening, and it will keep happening for a while. But whenever the next month comes, it’s like you go through the 5 stages of grief all over again.

Yet every time you feel a lone cramp, it’s a painful reminder (literally) of what’s to come in a few days. What’s even more frustrating is that the period symptoms don’t even wait until the actual period, it’s like a twisted “try it for a week- at no extra cost!”

After the phantom cramps begin, that’s when you notice the backache, too. It makes you ask Sergei to rub it for you, in hopes of relieving some of the pressure. You fall asleep extra late that night, feeling too uncomfortable to sleep despite being unreasonably tired throughout the tired.

DAY 6

When you manage to pull yourself out of bed (and it takes a while, you feel drained despite the healthy amount of sleep you got) you notice a few new pimples and scowl at them in the mirror. At least you know they’re not from lack of skin care, they can’t be helped.

Another thing that became apparent when you stood up was a pounding headache. A bit defeated, you crawl back into bed and into Sergei’s arms, just wanting to sleep for a few more hours. The headache stayed with you all day, no matter what you tried to treat it.

By this point Sergei’s started to catch onto what’s coming up soon. He’s taking care to be extra loving, while treading lightly.

DAY 5

Not all PMS symptoms are bad, though. Sergei realizes this when he comes home and you practically jump into his arms, attacking him with kisses.

He enjoys how much more reactive you are to his touch. The extra hormones have you over eager and able to cum in half the time. Your moans are easier to elicit. Almost nothing leaves you sated.

He knows to only place gentle touches to your tender breasts as you sit in his lap. When you press against him afterwards, kissing his neck in a way that suggests you want a third round, he knows you’ll be the death of him.

That’s not to say Sergei won’t oblige, he loves how turned on you get for no reason. He’s happy to make you feel good, especially when he knows you won’t be feeling the best in a few days.

DAY 4

Clingy, that’s the only way Sergei can describe your behavior today. You practically won’t let him go. You try to cuddle as close to him as possible, not satisfied if there’s inches of space between you.

You want him to hold you close and for a long time. Something about hearing his heartbeat and feeling his body heat is so comforting.

He secretly rolls his eyes at the way you cry over anything, even a dog in a commercial. If you see it, you instantly snap at him. He’s careful to hold back when you’re irritable. He knows you can’t help it, but your mood swings frustrate him, especially when they’re unwarranted.

DAY 3

Cravings are one of the more common symptoms, and oh do they hit you. No matter how healthy you’re trying to be, you can’t fight the cravings for your favorite unhealthy food.

Then it moves onto anything and everything that’s sweet, then salty. Not only do you want to eat anything, but a lot of it.

Sergei wouldn’t dare make a comment about it. Even the well-meant, “Guess you’re extra hungry tonight” has you raising your eyebrows at him.

“Why?” You ask, a bit defensive already. “Do you think I’m eating too much?”

Sergei mentally hits himself, shaking his head.

The opposite is even more annoying to you, when you’re too bloated and nauseas to eat. It has you wishing your period would come early just so it’d be over sooner.

DAY 2

The mood swings are back and with a vengeance. First is the urge to clean and organize like crazy. Almost akin to nesting. It’s like you know the next week will be filled with a lot of doing nothing, so it’s best to have everything perfect in preparation for it.

Then comes the depression. The sadness and withdrawal for no reason other than fluctuating hormones. More crying over cat videos and happy things.

Next is the anxiety. A sense of unease and jitters that are probably made worse by eating a lot of chocolate.

Sergei never knows what to do- does he give you space, or is he giving you too much? So he simply plays it by ear, hoping he’s doing the right thing.

DAY 1

You wake up at 5 a.m. with a sense of dread. Pain radiates through your lower stomach. You know the culprit instantly.

Half asleep, you shuffle to the bathroom, praying there’s not a big mess you’ll have to clean up off the sheets. Luckily, there isn’t. You feel like you owe it to a goddess to make a sacrifice.

You take some pain killers, put in the bathroom by you in advance, and you’re proud of your planning. You grab the heating pad and get back into bed, knowing it’ll be a tough week ahead.

“Everything ok?” Sergei asks. You jump, startled. You tried not to wake him up.

“It started,” you say, discouraged. Sergei just hands you a pillow to put between your knees, and rubs your hip and back gently.

You sigh, already falling asleep, thankful he’s such a great boyfriend.

[kind-wolf]

...as he kneels down again, already grabbing you by the ankle to slide your right foot into your shoe.

I'd kick him in the face when he's already at the perfect height.

Something lights up in his eyes, and you can almost feel his new determination to survive when he meets your gaze.

Nawww!

Vladimir’s hushed Russian unsettles you more than his failed attempt at a reassuring smile.

Really? The smile -coming from him - would unsettle me more.

Homer is not the guy’s real name, of course.

Is the dude a Simpsons fan or what?! 😄

...He places a flower behind your ear,...

😐

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

🤣

You’re the only one facing them, Sergei and Vladimir sitting at the other side of the table.

Shame on them! What kind of rookie mistake is not facing the door?!

Your hand wraps tightly around your knife.

Nice!

Revenge starts being brought up.

Yeah that sounds like Vlad! And that would probably be the only thing to give him purpose again. It's the only way he knows how to live.

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.

I doubt it. 😬

*** *** ***

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, buck 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―tit 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 fun 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 now 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 no.”

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 in―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 it 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 there and it, 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 targe 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. He 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 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 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, eying 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 man 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 did 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 fleshly 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 love), 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 more 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 swear, 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 bags. 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. 💌