#smacks them together like barbie doll and wrestler doll

[sadistpet]

@mencnfire: (from volgin to raikov - i feel this is looong overdue and i hope you dont mind this v shippy thing T-T c.c)

a soft brush of the backs of knuckles atop skin - a refined cheekbone, traced with touch. volgin's gaze follows his own movement, watches for the breaths of the other - ears pricked for a moan, his own lips eager for a taste. his touch is surprisingly soft and yet the scars of his hands would not go unnoticed. old traces of pain carved into the stony skin of a man more monster than human. does raikov see him as much? he ought to. "i will never grow tired of you-" he speaks in his mother tongue, words a purr - a dangerous one. is volgin's love a blessing or a curse? - perhaps the other knows ( his body certainly would ).

it's akin to a fairy tale, the way raikov finds himself melting helplessly, voluntarily, desperately in his lover's hands. his breath hitches, taut chest rising and falling and shuddering with every staggered inhale, exhale. and his eyes are closed, of course, ebony lashes dark against his snow white skin -- nothing is more important to a soldier than his eyes, and ivan would place his in volgin's palms a hundred times over.

❝ nor will i ever grow tired of you, molniya. ❞ he coos on the tail end of a delicate moan. and it's true, oh, how it's true ; he feels as though their veins themselves are laced together in an unbreakable tie. symbiotic. dependent. perfect.

pink lips still bearing the traces of lipstick find purchase in kissing the scarred hand caressing his cheek. he kisses so tenderly his lips may as well be ghosting over the harsh breaks in skin, deep and dark scarred flesh torn across large palms that nonetheless cradle him like porcelain. his own hand settles over volgin's, small and flawless in comparison, slim fingers sliding between the other man's. the subtle thrum of electricity buzzes through his bloodstream, every throb of his heart a reminder of its presence, of volgin’s presence, and how the younger man let him utterly possess him.

perhaps it is a curse. perhaps it was like the fairy tales he occupied himself reading in the library, stories of princesses locked away in towers and guarded by dragons. and were it so, raikov had sunken his teeth deep into the poison apple, impaled his hand on the spinning wheel, and fallen into it willingly. ❝ i love you. ❞ his lips curl into a smile, ice blue eyes opening to meet his partner's gaze. ❝ so very much, zhenya. so much it hurts. ❞ and as if to punctuate his point, he presses those delicately puckered lips into the other's palm, never once breaking eye contact.