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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Amazingly, the damn dog did not go for his discarded glove on the floor during their episode. Volgin scooped it up, looking it over, before sliding it back on and tucking the end beneath his sleeve. A flex of his hand with the satisfying heavy strain of rubber, he turned towards Ivan. That damn dog's pink tongue was slobbering against his foot.

The ex-Colonel gave the dog a look.

Raikov could hear approaching footsteps. Soon, Volgin was standing over him, not even a foot away. A large hand then rested on his shoulder, slowing trailing towards his hair in a gentle caress.

"Vanya." His voice had recovered its strength, once again a low, confident sound, something perceptively unshakable again. "I will return.

"They killed me, but half of a century is only a minor setback."

"Half a century?" Ivan shook his head. "Back home...," he choked, "I can't wait that long."

Volgin's voice prickled: "Are you going back?"

Ivan didn't dare look at him yet.

"I don't know. I--," fear and confusion, "I don't know how I got here in the first place!"

(Internally, Volgin wanted to know if he could go back himself, correct himself. Kill that worthless American dog before he could...!)

"You don't know."

The hand curled, slowly stroking Raikov's hair with the backs of his fingers.

"But if I do..."

The sentence hung.

"Don't think about it."

It was the most Volgin could offer as advice for the both of them.

His hand slid down to Raikov's shoulder to pull the smaller man towards him, against him. Hold.

"Okay...," it wasn't a guarantee, but a promise to try.

He couldn't always control the thoughts that permeated their way into his conscious.

"I never got that blowjob," he said in the same tone.

Maybe Raikov's discipline paled in comparison to the (for the most part) unyielding rigidity and order of Volgin's, but the elder of the two men could not stand to dwell on his losses; they had twisted his gut enough already. It only made him older.

"You're hinting at something." A lighter tone.

Raikov might have found his head being repositioned and adjusted somewhere crotch-wards.

He couldn't help but smile, still melancholy but fading.

"I meant mine. You owe me one, remember?"

"When did I owe you?"

Volgin tilted his loins forward. Chalk it up to his aging memory. Maybe.

Possibly.

"When you fell asleep in my lap earlier."

Ivan dutifully ignored Volgin's crotch like the plague.

"I was sleeping, Vanya."

(No, he wasn't.)

Volgin's loins remained persistent.

"A promise a promise, Zhenya," he said firmly.

Ignoring was Ivan's specialty.

"Even one made unaware?"

"What about all the promises I made in my sleep that you forced me to keep?"

"Touché."

Raikov was released, and the giant was settling to his knees, his great height putting him into an uncomfortable stoop for the younger man's own groin. He resembled a giraffe carefully manipulating and positioning itself downwards for a drink at a watering hole.

The Major could bask in his tiny victory.

And bask he would.

A little grin grew on his face.

His hand settled on top of Volgin's head, fingers brushing through coarse hair.

Ivan grew hard just at the thought.

And Volgin could very well feel it. And see it filling out.

There was a small growl in the large chest; the Colonel did not like to be bested, brought to his knees like this.

His face pressed against that stiffening package, a hand positioned on each leg. His voice was a muffle, a teasing vibration and warmth: "You know what they say about rubbing it in, right?"

He inhaled the lovely musk that was Raikov, the Raikov he would call over to his quarters at his need, the Raikov with that beautiful snowy body white against his own tarnish and marring, but his own cock quietly hung submissively at half-mast.

Volgin rumbled again, nibbling at the member swelling beneath the layers of clothing.

"Rub it in?" He repeated, leaning back so he could leverage his hips into Volgin's face and rub them accordingly.

Ivan was being a cocky bastard as usual.

And then he felt thick fingers dig into his thighs and yank his legs up with a harsh tug. They were hung around Volgin's broad shoulders, perhaps putting Raikov on his back and allowing the giant a little more control in the wake of... defeat.

Not to mention it freed the older man's hands up a bit, but his mouth was going to tease him with his clothes on, just a little while more, just to make him pay.

Ivan huffed at the undignified yank, squirming himself at an angle so his neck wouldn't be forced up by the back of the couch.

He licked his lips, "I taste better with my pants off."

"Do you," Volgin muffled, continuing to pleasingly vibrate against the moistening center of Raikov's pants. An arm supporting the smaller man, he made motions with the other to slide his pants away, but not quite acted on them yet.

Make him wait a little more...

"Yeah," Ivan grinned, kneading the heal of his boot into Volgin's shoulderblade.

"Come on, dinner's waiting~"

Volgin felt that boot like a horse's tough hide to a whip, but he paused. Maybe lifted his head up a little bit from the other man's loins.

Quirked a brow. Looked at him.

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