majorbonerkiller | FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

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FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

Well Ivan certainly didn't remember leaving the door to his apartment wide open, just beckoning squatters to come shit on his carpet--or even worse, eat his food.

Not that they weren't all squatters here anyway. Ivan crouched down near the door frame, pulling out his tranquilizer gun. He peered over the threshold, and took a chance, hoping his dog was still here--and still alive.

"Galina! Here girl!"

When he heard the familiar patter and panting he sighed in relief, ruffling her ears when she was close enough, "Good girl." Curse himself for smiling at a time like this.

Slightly more confident now with his canine comrade, Ivan entered the dark apartment, keeping his footsteps quiet and his tranquilizer at the ready.

And he almost immediately tripped over his own dirty laundry, screaming in the process of mid-falling terror. Luckily his amazing acrobatic skills (catching himself on the dresser) came to the rescue.

Moving forward towards the center of the room Ivan could hear--breathing. He baited his breath, trying to hold back any instincts to just start shooting up the place. He was fueled by a sort of cocktail of terror and anger--how dare somebody come waltzing into his apartment thinking they own the goddamn place?!

He padded closer, towards the sounds of life--they must be on the couch, since he just knocked his knee on the coffee table and had to hiss in silent agony a moment before going on.

Finally steadying himself he located the perpetrator's head after several seconds (a whole minute of squinting) and pressed the muzzle of his gun against it, "Get up!"

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Ivan followed him, initially fuming silently until...

He punched him in the shoulder for daring to take a spoonful, "Stop eating my food."

Pomp.

"I don't eat as much as you." He held up the spoon, up past his shoulder and wiggled it, cleaned with sticky Volgin-spit. The giant Soviet rounded the corner to survey the small kitchen, eying about what was there. Curling an arm around the bowl, he brought another out to probe and search.

Mutter: "I saw a spice rack in here, somewhere."

"But I was in the middle of eating that," Ivan glowered at the spoon.

Galina suddenly bounded into the room, then out the other end. Ivan focused his attention on her until she left, then looked back to Volgin.

"What was that?" He referred to the mutter.

"You could do better."

Volgin amazingly ignored the dog, tearing open a cabinet and taking a few things out. Spices, pepper... He was making his way to the fridge as well, intent on something.

Ivan's interest began to pique as he saw Volgin pull out some flavour enhancers--as he liked to call them.

"It was just a snack," Ivan commented. A snack in a large, macaroni filled bowl enough for two.

Or really one, given Ivan's ravenous appetite. Two consisted of what could Volgin sneak away in small spoonfuls.

As it was, it was not... bad (coming from a man who had eaten tree bark and leather ~~and a bullet casing~~ for survival reasons), but in the grand branching tree of possibility, his particular time line allowed him to possess the ability to improve it.

"I learned something," he quickly chuffed, as dedicated to his work as anything he found worth putting his efforts into.

Volgin surveyed the fridge, grabbed a few things, and set that aside, finally relinquishing the bowl with it. He took some time to think, before taking a whiff of the bowl's contents. A powdery pepper container was snapped up, and the giant whiffed at that, then the macaroni again.

Ivan's mouth had begun to water as he watched the Colonel toy with his food and spices. Then something profound occurred to him--, "are you cooking me something, Yevgeny?"

A grin spread across the small Soviet's face threatening to tear it in two. His eyelids fell half-mast, his arms crossed, and Ivan went into the usual tirade of false superiority, "well, I do deserve it after the mess you made. And I guess I'll let that whole incident of you falling asleep in the middle of giving me a blowjob pass~ For now."

He licked his lips and sashayed closer, peering over the bowl to try and guess what Volgin had planned.

Volgin was very aware that cooking typically was a task relegated to women, but this... Ivan might have been aware of the circumstances that occurred back at Groznyj Grad, he would think. If not, anyone that questioned him, especially in regards to his masculinity, was taking it directly to his knuckles.

Raikov received an affirmative grunt.

But, Volgin was more interested in this simple task of making this bowl of macaroni into a tongue-based orgasm than whatever Raikov, any Raikov, thought anyway. Another round of sniffing, then the giant Soviet thought again.

Then, he took a strategic bit of this, a dash of that. Stir, sniff. A little more of this, add that. A slight taste.

Ah.

A sagely nod, when Volgin turned towards Raikov, and almost right into him, when he immediately found him nearby. His previous mood seemed to be completely dispelled, if his gestures and little mannerisms were any obvious indication. How intriguing.

"Don't need to heat it up now." Volgin turned away from the bowl and mess of spices he scrounged up. "I think it'll do."

Ivan stepped back out of the collision zone. "Yevgeny...," he sounded absolutely romanticized, making grabby hands for the bowl before snatching it away and taking a whiff.

"Smells good...," Ivan scooped up a spoonful to try. As his lips closed around the metal handle, and Ivan pulled out the utensil from between his lips--he smiles broadly, chewing, swallowing licking his lips.

"Mmm...Delicious!"

And then began shoveling the rest away.

Just what Volgin wanted to hear, just as he was going to check on the state of his satchel again and make sure the damn dog did not help herself to anything else. The floor was still patchy white with shredded toilet paper.

The dog better not have run off with his satchel.

Ivan followed behind Volgin, assuming he was going to the couch. Even if Volgin went elsewhere Ivan was still planting his ass firmly down on the plush cushions.

Galina, meanwhile, was rummaging through Volgin's satchel, chewing up anything that looked or smelled remotely interesting; which was everything.

Seeing that furry head wedged into the older man's bag had him barking something rather vulgar himself, charging at the offending dog once again and more than likely having any attempt at looting from the smaller Soviet rendered a complete bust.

"Get out of there!" The satchel might have been too heavy for the husky to lift and play "Keep Away" with, but she was welcome to try.

Galina growled at Volgin as he approached, grabbing a box of poptarts and running back off to Ivan's room before he could touch her. She even managed to kick the door shut on the way in.

Ivan seemed oblivious to both of them.

Clever dog.

Volgin snapped his gaze back at Raikov, blinking, a little unsure if the door had closed on its own by coincidence or that the dog consciously had done it herself.

But he grabbed his bag and charged at the door anyway, not willing to lose anything else to the younger man's four-legged, nosy bitch.

Ivan finished eating, and he set the bowl down on the coffee table for now. No long oblivious, he turned around to see what the ruckus was.

"You better leave my dog alone, Yevgeny."

Galina could be heard tearing apart a box of poptarts on the other side of the door.

"No, I'm not."

Because that dog was not going to get away with destroying his things! And Volgin could salvage a few... ... okay, maybe not. He was going inside to confront the dog on principle, minus a box of poptarts at the end of all this, which he unfortunately found those tragically tasty.

He was thinking of a poptart right now, as he stormed into Ivan's bedroom.

(Likely, these new-age sweets were how the Colonel had a little more around his waist to spare in the first place.)

Ivan held onto the arm rest, leaning over to shout. "If you don't leave her alone, Yevgeny--!"

Wait, he had a better idea.

"Leave her alone and I'll give you something special~" He put on his best prostitute voice to boot.

"My things!" Volgin growled, despite the fact that they were very much not his things until he slipped out of the Nexus with them.

Now where was that dog?

Ivan threw one of his boots at Volgin's head. "YEVGENY!" Pay attention to me.

Galina barked and ran past him during this dull distraction.

Pompf! Volgin jerked back towards Raikov, blinking, if surprised that it had been a boot and not a fist or one with an actual foot inside it.

"The dog is eating your food," he stated with a rough grunt, snapping his arms out in an attempt to catch the nimble husky as it swiftly darted by.

Ivan froze.

Time stopped.

Somewhere miles away a child cried.

"What?" Ivan, fixated and with a terrifying aura, practically visible around him, whistled harshly; Galina darted over, box still in mouth.

"Drop it."

She wagged her tail; Ivan pointed to the ground, "Drop. It." With a small whimper Galina dropped the box and Ivan scooped it back up, patted her on the head, and opened up a packet of poptarts.

"Mmm," he mused as he bit into one.

Volgin puffed his breath, narrowing his eyes at the offending dog as she so obediently (yet hesitantly) relinquished what was his prize. He quietly slung his bag around his large shoulder instead, approaching the beast.

(He was tempted to send a swift boot into its side.)

"The dog had those," he stated in that dry voice again, never mind his entire life prior to his inheritance hinged on not being picky when it came to matters of food. Dog drool was not a deterrence when it came to the ravages and aches of hunger.

He shrugged, finished the poptart and setting the box on the table. Galina hoped up onto the couch and curled up against Ivan's side, resting her head in his lap; he returned the gesture with lazy pets.

"Ugh...how are you going to clean this shit up...?" Ivan groaned as he gestured loosely to the settled white mess around them.

"Actually," Volgin was reaching into a pocket on his person, "I should go soon." He produced a case of his favorite cigars (they still made them! they were expensive to import on his paycheck!) and taking one, clipped it and started to light up.

The giant was backtracking towards the front door.

"What time is it?"

"What--you're not going anywhere!" Ivan sprung to his feet and kicked Volgin square in the shin--with his bootless foot, causing the younger Soviet to hop around on the other. "Ow ow ow!"

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gratuitous description of Ivan eating a spoonful of pasta

food porn

I can get behind that objective

/insert bloodninja vegetable porno log here

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