Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rook takes care of his body.

He knows it’s one of his greatest assets and the better it functions, the better he can do his job.

Sometimes he’s asked what his secret is and if they persist even after he’s shyly refused to accept the compliment, he tells them: do a little every day. So it becomes less of a conscious decision and just another part of daily routine.

He stretches. He works out. He cooks.

Sometimes, he splurges on fast food, after a stressful day or when it’s just there or when he feels like it, sometimes he doesn’t drink in moderation and ends up a giggling mess, sometimes he skips working out because he’s tired or irritated or just doesn’t feel like it. He never feels guilty, easily forgives himself, because he knows he’ll be back to his routine the next day. He’s human.

He takes note of changes in his body. He visits the doctor regularly. He is rarely ill.

Health is important to him. He’s seen older colleagues, smoking and gulping down coffee like it’s water and complaining about shortness of breath and high blood pressure. He doesn’t judge them for it. It’s their body, and this is his own, but he makes the conscious decision to not follow in their footsteps. He likes serving his country, enjoys serving the entire world more. He wants to remain in Rainbow for as long as possible.

He is very limber. When he was six, he did ballet, whining at his parents until they let him, clearly hoping it’s a phase he’ll grow out of. He does grow out of it. It took seven years and even then it’s only because he couldn't find the time anymore. He hasn’t lost his fascination with the graceful, fluid movements, the power hidden behind jumps that look effortless, the sheer determination and discipline necessary to excel. He is never great at it, but he still does some of the routines when no one’s watching.

When he comes out to his parents as gay, neither of them are surprised. He knows his dad silently blames the ballet. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that his first crush on a man developed when he was five, maybe four.

“I actually used to be able to do the splits”, Rook says casually.

They’re sitting at a corner table, two or three conversations going on at once, the people unfortunate enough to sit in the middle switching between them, hearing only incomplete parts of a topic and usually missing the important bits. Rook sits at the head of the table, wedged between Twitch and Mute, all three nursing a beer. It’s their usual arrangement: the young ones on one end, the gents on the other, everyone else in between. No one knows when it happened, but it’s become the status quo and no one wants to upset it.

They go drinking together once a week, whoever’s available and up for it, their group often comprised of completely different people from one week to the next. Some are almost always there, needing the time to unwind, craving social interaction without having to awkwardly dance around the job question or outright lie in a stranger’s face. Others don’t attend at all, don’t want to be reminded of the gruesome events of the past week or are simply sick of seeing the same old faces nearly every day.

Rook just enjoys the company.

Besides, there are those evenings when it’s only a handful of them, and they’re breathtaking, exciting, the material legends are made of. No matter who it is, if it’s four, five, six of them maximum, secrets come out. Stories are told that have never been told before and will likely never be told again. Dares are made. Arguments ensue. On those evenings, it’s vodka and rum and whisky and absinthe and tequila and it changes them for the better. Even if they talk about the worst things they’ve done. Even if they talk about loss and grief and helplessness and rage. They come out stronger. A bond forms. They trust.

Those evenings often leave Rook with bad headaches, a dry mouth and nausea he battles with for the rest of the day but his skin seems to glow from the inside. It doesn’t matter that he dropped the mug his mother gave him when he enlisted with the police because he still has its memory and he knows how much she loves him regardless and so he calls her, hungover, and tells her he loves her too. On the days after those evenings, he loves everyone. The world is beautiful and he’s trying to make it even more so.

This is not one of those evenings. They’re way too many to even properly fit at the table, the volume of their laughing is an uncomfortable pressure on his temples and it’s almost impossible to have a normal conversation. Yet, when Pulse mentions his inflexibility and Twitch chuckles and concedes that she’s spent too much time bent over electronics and probably messed up her back long ago, Rook casually says: “I actually used to be able to do the splits.”

He could’ve missed it. If he hadn't counted on his words having some kind of impact, if he hadn't secretly been focused on him, he would’ve missed the slow slide of piercing grey eyes in his direction. But he notices. He doesn’t return the gaze, doesn’t give any indication that he’s aware and so the eyes stay on him, betraying their owner who is sitting too far away to pay any heed to what Rook’s saying, a wildly gesturing Thermite in between them who should’ve been his focus of attention or maybe Tachanka recounting one of his many stories at the other end of the table. Instead, the grey eyes stare at him and him alone.

“What, are you serious?” Twitch laughs and nudges him with her elbow. “I knew you’re a good runner, but you’re that flexible?”

“I am extremely flexible”, Rook replies with a sheepish grin and earns another laugh before the flow of conversation carries them to a different topic.

But the grey eyes are still boring into his skull, unwavering.

Past lovers have praised Rook for his body, often admitting it won them over even before his personality. In school, he is elegant and light with strong leg muscles, allowing him to easily beat several school records and compete in track tournaments. Now, he’s put on more muscle, made himself imposing, intimidating, strong enough to carry wounded teammates or hostages to safety, strong enough to take anyone down in hand to hand combat, strong enough to fight for peace.

It’s more obvious now that his body is dangerous, lethal even without any tools, trained. Yet he knows it’s always been a weapon.

A teacher bullies one of Rook’s friends. Makes her cry, makes her dread school, makes her hide in bathrooms, makes her grades drop and almost, almost, almost makes her do something irreversible. The teacher is found with her hands down Rook’s pants, face scrunched up in confusion when she finds the prize she was lusting after deflated and a criminal conviction instead of a good time. He’d noticed the way she’d been looking at him. Turns out, his body is excellent bait.

People call him shy. He doesn’t disagree, he takes a bit to warm up to others and can be reserved during that time, but when he’s comfortable, he is loud and witty and easy-going and kind.

He also loses his shyness when he has a goal in mind.

There are fewer people this time. The table is the same, but they’re sitting closer together, only occupying three quarters of it. Most of them are drinking beer, some have recently switched to stronger stuff, they’re relaxed and mostly focus on one central topic. The evening isn’t young anymore but Rook is, and combined with the fact that his last meal was hours ago, it leads to a nice buzz. He is quiet for the most part, content with letting others take the spotlight, and watches Kapkan instead.

The Russian is sitting across from him, loose and languid, leaning back in his chair and listening. Sometimes he laughs, his attentive grey eyes crinkling. Right now, he is looking at Fuze who is emphatically railing against some celebrity or other.

“- even shaving his chest, like a… what is it, it’s something sexual…” He’s gesturing wildly, looking for a word while a few others are giggling.

“You mean a fetish?”, someone asks, and someone else: “A kink?”

“No, you heathens, what do you call guys that do this shit?”

“Metrosexual?”, Twitch offers and Fuze slams his hand on the table, making them jump.

“That’s it, like when you’re attracted to trains.” More laughing. “I could never do that. Talk about degrading.”

“I shave my chest. And my legs”, Rook says, playing with the bottle in his hand. He feels the attention shift to him, but only one pair of eyes matters. “I’ve been swimming a lot recently. It’s supposed to help.”

“Let me feel.” Twitch has definitely had enough, Rook has seen her steal some of Fuze’s vodka earlier. He allows her to basically dive under the table, push up one of his trouser legs and feel his skin. When she emerges again, she ignores the wolf whistles. “Silky smooth. I bet you’re like that everywhere.”

They laugh, Rook feeling his cheeks heat up yet the whole thing is forgotten as soon as Doc claims that some British Queen expected all her underlings to shave their legs because she found hairs sticking through tights disagreeable, which predictably starts an argument between all present French and British operators.

The only one who hasn’t moved on is Kapkan. It’s his turn to watch Rook now, his face stony, betraying no emotion. It doesn’t need to.

Rook doesn’t look back at him, but his heart beats a little faster.

Kapkan often talks at length about hunting. The thrill of it, the victorious feeling when you caught your prey, the different ways to stalk animals or various types of humans, the intensity of waiting for the perfect moment. He makes it sound like there’s a whole science behind it and maybe there is. His obsession possibly goes a little far. When they’re out on missions and he manages to snare their enemies, incapacitate them, ambush them, his grin is feral, his eyes are wild. He enjoys it. Maybe a little too much.

All of Rook’s lovers are sweet, like honey, so viscous you have to wade through them, best consumed in small doses or with drinks. They’re sticky and clog your mouth, refuse to leave you, their touch can only be washed off in a long, hot shower. Rook used to not mind. He was used to being around nice people, sensible, moral people who never had to fear for their lives. Joining the police, joining Rainbow changed him, but he doesn’t mind this either.

There are things he keeps. He talks to his parents. He meets up with old friends. He takes care of his body. He sometimes does his ballet routine. He cooks. He smiles at cashiers. He thinks of himself as friendly, as nice.

His lovers he doesn’t keep. He has lost his taste for honey somewhere along the way.

Nice people don’t hunt or at least not the way Kapkan does. They don’t revel in killing. They don’t smile at crimson blood on their hands. They don’t consider eviscerating something or someone a victory.

Rook has never hunted before. He thinks he wouldn’t like it but hearing Kapkan talk, he gets curious.

He thinks about trying it out. Just this once.

They’re five. It’s Castle, Jäger, Fuze, Kapkan and Rook. It is perfect. Castle is known for being laid back, Jäger often brings up the most obscure topics and Fuze generally disagrees with everyone on principle. Fuze and Kapkan immediately order a round of vodka and ignore the half-hearted protests. It burns in Rook’s throat, makes him grimace and earn Fuze’s gleeful and unrepentant teasing. They’re seated at a different table, a smaller one, more intimate, the lighting dimmer and warm, yet Rook shivers slightly every time the door opens. It’s not just the cool air from outside.

It takes an hour for them to start talking. What they do before that doesn’t deserve that title, it’s a pre-show, foreplay, idle chitchat. Someone almost died yesterday. They don’t mention it during the first hour, doing an awkward dance around it that is only an imitation of what everyone else is doing. Since everyone else is merely imitating the others too, it ends up lifeless, lacking soul, embarrassing – a parody.

The second hour is a premonition of what the rest of the night is going to be. Jäger spills a drink over himself and curses loudly in German, prompting genuinely worried looks from other patrons, Fuze admits to having shot a civilian before for no other reason than that he was annoying the crap out of him, Castle tells a story about a recruit who was rolled down a hill in a duct taped portable toilet that is so vivid and nasty that Rook chokes on his cocktail and Fuze’s eyes tear up from laughing.

At some point, they land on the topics of swallowing pills and Jäger claims he couldn’t take any as a child unless they were shoved into large pieces of fruit which he then swallowed whole.

“That doesn’t make any sense. Your gag reflex would stop you”, Fuze claims so arrogantly, as if his words could undo Jäger’s childhood experiences, that Rook can’t help but contradict him.

“Not necessarily. You can learn to control it and a lot of people don’t have it in the first place.”

“Nonsense. It’s basic biology. If you don’t have it, you’ll choke to death.”

“I’m still sitting here, aren’t I?”

Nothing.

It’s not that the conversation doesn’t continue. Jäger calls Fuze a moron and Kapkan agrees – but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Kapkan is listening to them, he's participating in the ongoing dispute. What he isn't doing is looking at Rook, not even a glance in his direction.

Nothing.

Rook excuses himself. Not right away, he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He’s only half listening to the others before he heads to the bathroom. It’s fine.

It’s fine.

He’s washing his hands when someone else enters the room, too preoccupied to notice it, freezes when strong hands reach around him, gripping the sides of the sink, effectively trapping him without a single touch. He can feel the solid presence looming behind him, literally breathing down his neck, a body capable of murder and maiming even more than his own is, strong and lean and dangerous and he suddenly forgets how to breathe. He stands there, staring at his hands, unmoving, at the mercy of the man behind him.

“You’re doing this on purpose”, says a low voice, caressing the short hairs at the nape of his neck, making his legs weak, his mouth dry. He doesn’t reply, neither confirms nor denies. It isn’t needed. “If you keep running that dirty mouth of yours, I’ll have to stuff it.”

He just stands there, then gathers his courage and looks up.

Kapkan is staring at him intently in the mirror, watching his face unblinking, his cool eyes betraying nothing of the fire Rook is sure roars within.

He has to make a choice.

He likes Castle a lot, enjoys Jäger’s company, is always entertained by Fuze. It could be one of those evenings. It is starting to be. He thinks of the way his heart is light and his tongue loose and his mind peaceful the next day, the way the sun will shine even if it doesn’t, the way Castle will smile at him the next time he sees him after this evening, the conspiratorial wink Jäger will give him the next time one of the topics comes up that they’re going to discuss at length, freely, fearing no judgement or ridicule, allowing others to see into their heart.

Rook returns the gaze steadily, takes a moment to focus all his willpower because it’s unbelievably hard just to keep looking into these calm grey eyes and opens his mouth.

“I managed to suck my own dick once”, he says.

Kapkan looks at him.

He made his choice.

If it was any later, he’d be afraid of waking his neighbours, now he’s just afraid of them sticking their head out into the stairwell to see what the commotion is about. His fingers are shaking and he almost drops his keys, prays to whatever higher entity is out there that he doesn’t. Kapkan has no patience, no respect, no decency, he is glued to Rook’s back, rough hands shoving under his t-shirt and into his trousers, too fast, too much. Rook loves it.

A strangled gasp escapes him when deft fingers find one of his nipples and dig into his inner thigh at the same time – he didn’t even notice his alarming state of undress, button open, zip down, underwear showing. Another prayer: please don’t let anyone leave their flat right now. He doesn’t want to do anything about it, is impossibly hard, basks in the feeling of being caged in by muscular arms, of being moved around only because Kapkan wants him to. He is pressed against the door of his apartment, the metal of his zip dragging over it uncomfortably loud while he desperately tries to unlock his door, fumbling with the keys, producing even more noise.

Kapkan seems to outright refuse to touch his dick, running his hands everywhere over Rook’s body but the place where they would bring relief. Everything about him is distracting, even if he weren’t crowding him into the unyielding flat surface that is the barrier between having to fight Kapkan’s advances and eagerly giving in to them, even if they weren’t touching at all, Rook would hardly be able to think straight.

The slightly taller man smells of brisk night air, stuffy bar, cloves, and unadulterated lust. Rook doesn’t know how else to describe it, it drives him wild, turns his thoughts into butter, goes straight to his crotch. Kapkan’s breath is on his ear, his hands now on his hipbones and what if the adorable little girl next door uses this moment to pop out of her flat?

One of Kapkan’s hands is in his briefs, rests against his rigid erection and grabs his balls in exactly the same moment the key slides into the lock. The door swings open. They don’t move. Rook is being held in place, held upright, doesn’t dare upset the moment. The fingers begin massaging slightly, sending shocks of pleasure down his legs, so he looks down. His trousers are undone, nearly pushed over his hips, he can see his own cock straining against the fabric of his underwear and there’s the naked arm that’s wrapped around his waist and reaching into his clothes. The sight alone is intoxicating.

After a few heartbeats, the grip loosens, but Rook catches the wrist before it can withdraw, pushes it back down. Kapkan gets the hint, keeps his hand where it is, and slowly walks them into the small apartment. They manage not to stumble and suddenly they’re inside, Kapkan kicking the door closed, shutting out the rest of the world, allowing them to keep whatever comes next a secret if they want to. The soft movements of his fingers create a minute amount of friction between his dick and Kapkan’s lower arm, it feels amazing nonetheless, so he is hesitant to change their position.

A mistake.

Two fingers pinch his nipple, another finger further down slips a bit lower and forces out a moan that seems to echo, sounds entirely too noisy in his ears. He is gone this far already, barely any stimulation and he’s moaning like a whore. Maybe he’s looked forward to this a little too much. Or just enough. Kapkan apparently doesn’t mind, because his lips latch on to the side of Rook’s neck, adding to the sensation, one hand still on his nuts, the other pushing down his bottoms. Rook gingerly toes off his shoes and socks, kicking them away, then steps out of his trousers and pants.

When Kapkan finally lets him go, his skin feels cold where they were previously connected, he is off-balance and considers whether he is in over his head. But he bravely turns around, weathers the storm raging in Kapkan’s eyes and withstands the piercing gaze. It feels like a small victory, looking at him, he almost never dared before, didn’t want to spook him, didn’t want to spook himself.

For a fraction of a second, Kapkan doesn’t seem to know what to do, just stares, both intimidating and intimidated and Rook knows he’s not the only one who wants this so badly it hurts.

Then their lips collide, eyes slide shut, bodies press against each other. Kapkan kisses exactly like Rook thought he would, possessive, unrestrained, deep. In between gasps, he claims Rook’s mouth, runs his tongue over the insides of his teeth, always one step ahead. His lips are full and surprisingly soft, the kisses the exact opposite, Kapkan trying to shove his tongue down his throat and Rook generously letting him, offering no resistance and caressing the invading muscle with his own.

It’s elating. Rook feels drunk and forgets about the rest of his body for a while, revelling in the sloppy kisses that make his mouth feel raw and wet and used. It’s all they do for a while; when they’re not sucking face, they’re sucking air in through their teeth, and then suddenly all feeling comes back. Rook is painfully aware of the thick textiles in his fists, the cheap laminate flooring under his soles, the denim against which his penis is rubbing, the fact that he is standing here half naked.

His mind still partly dwells on the making out but the other parts move his hands further down, gripping Kapkan’s arse through the jeans, feeling it tense under his questing fingers. The gesture pulls their lower halves closer together, and oh.

Kapkan wants him.

It’s not a surprise, shouldn’t be, but his thoughts get hung up on this fact for a bit and by then Kapkan has mirrored him and is groping him shamelessly, feeling up his arse and squeezing and Rook lets out another moan into his mouth. He’s received a number of compliments about his backside, some pleasant, some salacious, but Kapkan speaks with his hands, appreciates the roundness with a firm grip, digs his fingers into the flesh roughly. No kid gloves for Rook.

When he feels Kapkan grab the hem of his t-shirt, he immediately breaks the kiss and lifts his arms voluntarily, allowing the other man to undress him fully. Kapkan reacts with a small grin. “You’re gagging for it, hm?”

There’s one thing he doesn’t know, one thing Rook is going to let him figure out for himself: it’s not his show anymore. The moment he crossed the threshold (not necessarily the one to the flat or to the house, possibly the one to the men’s bathroom at the bar), he’s given up all control. He might catch Rook off-guard but effectually they’re in his territory now.

He grants Kapkan some time to drink him in, marvel at the body Rook is so proud of, and then says: “I’m probably going to come as soon as you put it in.”

Kapkan blinks at him and for a moment it’s almost as if they’re sitting opposite of each other, surrounded by colleagues and friends and Rook has just said a thing that sets something in motion he doesn’t even want to control, only this time he can see the cogs turning. He can watch Kapkan picture it, in his mind bending him over some furniture or pressing him into the mattress, pushing in and Rook just helplessly convulsing around him, arching his spine, throwing his head back.

With a growl, Kapkan is on him again, warm hands on heated skin, Rook’s words obviously not missing their target. It turns him on unbearably to see the Russian lose control, even more when it’s because of him, especially when it’s because of something he said. Kapkan sucks on his lower lip as he walks them further into the flat, stopping to allow Rook to guide him to the bedroom. A vague gesture does the trick, they move on and then he decides that his visitor is wearing decidedly too many clothes.

Kapkan’s eyes are stormy as they follow him down to his knees, tinted with hunger and a hint of annoyance. He knows why. It’s very unlike Kapkan to let himself go. He loves it.

This isn’t the first time Rook has performed this particular trick, but it never gets old. He is dextrous and can multi-task like a professional, so he unlaces and removes Kapkan’s shoes and socks while simultaneously opening his jeans with his teeth. He is now eye to eye with the substantial bulge in the other man’s pants and it makes his mouth water in anticipation. Maybe Kapkan will pull his hair, maybe he’ll do short, broken thrusts, clenching his buttocks with each one, maybe he’ll make noise.

He can’t wait to find out.

When his hands are free again, they start roaming Kapkan’s thighs, toned and strong, and Rook nuzzles the prominent erection in front of him, mouths at it through the thin fabric and feels it twitch. It’s got length and girth and he delights at the thought of taking it.

A soft touch distracts him, a thumb tracing his eyebrow, a hand on his cheek. “Wait”, Kapkan says.

He waits. Kapkan is interrupting the flow, Rook’s routine, a mental plan he keeps updating based on action and reaction, but he doesn’t know the reason for the disruption yet. They look at each other and Rook hopes it’s not serious. He can’t read the expression on Kapkan’s face and it worries him.

“Get up”, Kapkan says.

He gets up. They’re in his kitchen, next to his bedroom where he ultimately wants to devour Kapkan whole.

“Lift your leg, like so”, Kapkan says.

He lifts his leg, like so. For some reason, the Russian isn’t satisfied, turns him around to face the doorway into his bedroom, moves him closer to the door, grabs his calf. Rook feels malleable, like he’s a mannequin to be made presentable, but he's curious now. He finally understands when Kapkan cautiously pushes his calf higher and higher and helps, tilts his body so his torso is parallel to the floor, stretches out the leg he’s not standing on and manages about 160° eventually, almost a vertical line of legs. Not bad, he thinks.

“Hold this position”, Kapkan orders, so he rests his outstretched foot on top of the door frame and holds on to the counter to not lose his balance. The position is new to him, at least in this context, and he’s even more curious now. Obviously, Kapkan enjoys experiencing his flexibility first hand, it might however end up being too distracting.

He feels exposed, open, naked, not in a bad way though. He doesn’t mind putting himself on display and if Kapkan’s breathing is any indication, he doesn’t either, quite the opposite. He runs his hands over Rook’s raised, silky smooth leg, his inner thigh, his arse, still ignoring his erect dick. He tests Rook’s footing, pushes him a little, seemingly satisfied. One quick kiss to his upper arm, an approving gesture, then: “I’m going to eat you out for as long as you can stay like this.”

Rook wobbles. He replays the words in his head, frantically, maybe he misheard, because there is no way in hell –

He looks over his shoulder, alarmed, and catches sight of a wide grin. “You’re not the only one with a filthy fucking mouth, French boy”, Kapkan tells him and kneels down behind him.

He draws a deep breath when he feels hands ghost over his body, bites his lip as his cheeks are spread without hesitation, confidently and unapologetically. It wasn’t a question, no asking for permission – Kapkan wants and Kapkan takes and at the first lap over his rim, Rook almost drops his leg, has to claw his toes into the dusty wood, barely manages to find purchase. This is outrageous, this whole thing, what is he even demanding of him, does he really expect him to obey, all of it, it’s –

It’s probably the best thing that ever happened to him.

This is a challenge, no, a declaration of war and he is intent on winning (whatever that entails); usually his lovers ask and please and provide, all that Kapkan provides is an accomplished fact. His pleasure isn’t usually tied to his physical prowess. He relishes the chance to prove himself.

The licks feel like he's being touched with a live wire. The sensation encompasses his entire body, makes his legs tense and the skin on his arms prickle, it’s been entirely too long since someone has done this to Rook and he forgot what it feels like in the meantime. He is hardly relaxed, his hands supporting the weight of his upper body, his legs already starting to strain. He chooses to endure.

It’s hard to concentrate on the way Kapkan’s tongue lazily circles his hole, slicking it up and causing Rook’s eyelids to flutter but even in the moments where he has to divert his attention to correcting his stance, his fingers twitch in response to the stimulation of so many nerve ends at the same time. Kapkan switches to broad strokes with his tongue, leaving Rook hot all over, almost feverish. His hands are starting to get slippery. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up.

Kapkan adjusts his grip on Rook’s buttocks, pulling them apart even further and Rook knows, readies himself mentally only to realise a second later that he wasn’t ready at all. The tip of the tongue that’s been driving him insane breaches him bit by bit and Rook moans helplessly, overwhelmed, forgetting all about his position for the moment, experiencing pure bliss. He has trained his body in more ways than he lets people know, he can come just from being penetrated but as bright as the spark of pleasure is, it’s not enough, not with him being on display like this, not with his legs threatening to cramp up, not with him not being allowed to move.

The result is sweet torture, a stunning, strange kind of overstimulation. He is so sensitive, feels every flick of Kapkan’s tongue, every centimetre of it in him, and at the same time his inner thighs are burning, his arms are on fire. He is reduced to a whimpering mess, unable to grind his hips against that wonderful mouth for fear of stumbling but he wants so much.

Kapkan is the devil. Clearly enjoying himself too much, groaning quietly when Rook’s ring of muscle contracts around his tongue, humming to himself and even smiling whenever Rook lets out another desperate sound. He takes note of what makes Rook keen and repeats it until he feels debauched, drained and still not satisfied.

Rook’s neglected cock is wet, throbbing and begging for release, he himself is as well, all senses heightened and all sensations shrill. The merciless muscle at, in, on his hole makes him shudder with every flick now, every push, his legs and arms are bright, blinding pain, the lust rushing through him feels like a warm embrace that’s too tight. He doesn’t know whether he can reach his climax like this but is too proud to admit defeat. His foot starts slipping on the door frame. He moves it back, keeps it still and grits his teeth at the hurt that follows.

Then suddenly, Kapkan gets serious. Rook wasn’t even aware that he hasn’t been so far yet is shown unambiguously and mercilessly when his entire tongue wiggles inside. He cries out, almost loses his grip and pushes against the sudden intrusion. Even worse is the surge of pleasure, because he is so damn close, just needs a little more, yet it is not quite enough, almost, nearly, but not yet. He can feel it move inside him, then it withdraws, pushes back in, opens him, leaves him gaping every time it disappears.

Kapkan is fucking him with his tongue and Rook can’t, he just can’t, he’s drenched in sweat and tears are beginning to form in the corners of his eyes from the sheer exertion of keeping his footing, holding on, raising his leg, and at the same time his sphincter is being penetrated again and again and he can’t even feel his body anymore. It’s as if someone else has taken over, he can look at his hands gripping the worktop so fiercely his knuckles are white but he has lost all sensation in them, he is vaguely aware of the strain in his legs, of the pressure on his foot, his only connection with the floor – but it's as if they belong to someone else.

His hole is still his, though. He can feel everything happening to it as clear as day.

He is pushed over the edge with a high-pitched whine.

The orgasm is so unexpected and powerful, it feels like a kick in the stomach, like falling. He comes undone, untouched, pleasure ripping through him so ferociously that his vision blacks out for a moment, his toes can’t even curl because he doesn’t feel them anymore but his hole convulses hungrily around the last punches of the tongue that caused all this. His cock pulsates, spurting come so forcefully Rook thinks he might’ve gotten some in his hair. It shakes his very core, he feels weirdly skewered, abused and worshipped at the same time. It also feels like victory.

The gut-wrenching lust slowly fades into gentler shocks still capable of making Rook shiver and he becomes acutely aware of his limbs again. He has no idea how he’s supposed to lower his leg, it feels stuck, frozen. The hands on his arse give him a light squeeze and – seriously – a smack, then Kapkan gets up behind him. “Hold still”, he says softly and wraps one strong arm around Rook’s torso and supports him so he can gingerly loosen his grip, the other one around his raised thigh and when Rook tentatively bends his stretched leg at the knee, testing the waters, Kapkan carries him.

He just picks Rook up like a mid-sized animal, steps into the bedroom and places him on the mattress and if Rook wasn’t so overwhelmingly exhausted, he’d be offended. What he is instead, though, is eternally grateful because now he’s lying on his back, his body weight equally distributed, all strain removed from his extremities.

His foot prickles with the rush of blood and Rook produces a series of unsexy old man sounds while he reassembles his body, manages to close his legs, wriggles his fingers. He is past caring, he is spent and comfortable and he’s certain he’s just received the best rim job of his life. Tissues by his bed take care of the mess on his chest (and there really was some in his hair), but they luckily don’t diminish the overall dirty feeling Rook is enjoying wholeheartedly.

Kapkan uses the time he needs to recover to putter around in the kitchen, drinking some water from the sounds of it, but doesn’t leave Rook alone for long. When he reappears in the doorway, he looks like a smug bastard, self-satisfied grin plastered on his face, arrogantly ogling the body he shattered only a few minutes ago. Rook can’t even complain. He’s earned it.

“You should come with a warning”, Rook murmurs and doesn’t care he’s feeding the Russian’s ego because damn.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Ballet.” Kapkan snorts derisively and again, Rook can’t blame him. They do murder people every week, after all. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

His only answer is an amused twitch of an eyebrow. Kapkan steps closer to the bed and all tiredness is forgotten in favour of Rook finally being able to get his hands on him properly. With a grimace, he manages to sit up and scoot closer to the edge, pulls down the jeans and lifts the hem of Kapkan’s top with his nose to kiss his flat stomach. He keeps his hands busy running over soft skin, pushing up into the legs of his boxers, while his tongue dips into the navel. Kapkan takes mercy on him and rids himself of the rest of his clothes, leaving Rook face to face with his sizeable boner. Again. Rook licks his lips unconsciously.

Kapkan’s dick is pretty, if that’s the right word, long and hard, oozing precum and with the foreskin already peeled back. It looks delicious. At the same time, Rook feels he’s allowed some form of revenge, so instead of gulping it down right away (which he would love to do), he nips and licks and kisses Kapkan’s abdomen instead, toying with a nipple, tracing his ribs, feeling all the small and not so small scars that are part of their job description. Rook hasn’t accumulated many of them yet, but Kapkan’s body is a map, a parchment on which past battles are marked.

His own penis gets more and more interested in the proceedings, especially with such a sculpted chest under his lips yet manages barely more than a feeble throb. Kapkan is so attractive that Rook’s mind still reels a little from the fact that he is here, in Rook’s flat, having just made him come with nothing more than his exceedingly talented tongue.

He looks up to see whether the Russian is getting impatient yet, but Kapkan’s expression is a mixture of entertained and fond, as if Rook was a misbehaving puppy he can’t help but adore anyhow. “Where is your lube?”

“What kind of flavour do you want?”, Rook asks back coquettishly and Kapkan laughs, obviously not expecting that sort of reply.

“You’re such a slut.” Though the words are judging, the hand on Rook’s cheek is anything but. He smiles brightly.

“Bedside table.” Rook decides to drop the act since both of them want the same thing and gently tongues the tip of the cock in front of him, catching it lightly with his mouth when it twitches upwards, starts lapping up the salty drops.

“If my junk ends up smelling like strawberries, I’m going to beat your ass”, Kapkan informs him and doesn’t miss Rook’s quick, excited glance upwards to which his expression darkens. “Don’t even think about it.”

Oh, but Rook is thinking about it now. He is about to give the hot flesh between his lips a proper suck when it’s unexpectedly withdrawn, much to his frustration. He really was looking forward to making Kapkan come down his throat. “What do you need it for?”

A meaningful, amused smile is flashed his way. “Lie down.”

Rook hesitates. His plan was to blow the Russian until neither of them are able to breathe – he’s about to vaguely protest but Kapkan has already found a satisfactory bottle in the aforementioned bed stand and now puts his hand on Rook’s throat, two fingers on his jaw and pushes him onto the mattress with a decidedly dominant touch, though not forceful. He settles on the bed as well, between Rook’s legs, sending jolts of residual discomfort through his lower body as it accommodates Kapkan.

He’s really about to object now but as if he senses it, Kapkan slots their lips together. And just like that, Rook is appeased. Dirty kisses never fail to arouse him and Kapkan’s are positively filthy, their tongues toying with each other in between their mouths, the slick slide of lips enough for a tingling sensation in his stomach to return, for his dick to pulse. Rook’s fingernails scratch lightly over Kapkan’s shoulder blades, detect movement but he’s too preoccupied with the way his mouth is being explored to pay any attention.

His second mistake this evening.

Rook’s head is swimming from their kisses when he feels something between his legs. His eyes fly open at the unexpected touch and two fingers enter him, slippery with lubrication. Kapkan is watching him intently, a lazy smile lighting up his face when Rook relaxes automatically, and he adds a third one to Rook’s overly sensitive hole, the stretch noticeable, the fingers ruthlessly pushing out all the air in his lungs. He’s not even capable of producing noise, just lies there, overwhelmed, staring into a grey abyss and feeling his thighs twitch.

It’s too much too soon, yet his first orgasm and the beating his hole received before turn the vague pain into nothing more than a pleasant burn. He is still acutely aware of every knuckle pushing into him, every small movement inside him, has trouble inhaling, grabs blindly for support and claws into Kapkan’s shoulders when he brushes over his prostate. It’s as if Kapkan knows exactly how much he can take, skirting the edge of discomfort, just shy of actually demanding too much.

Just as suddenly, the fingers are gone again with a feeling of having ripped something out of Rook’s guts – this part he was never fond of, the emptiness deep inside him, the loss. He might ask Kapkan to finger him for as long as they both stand it, maybe fuck him in between, push his semen deeper into him afterwards. Next time, maybe. If he’s successful. This is meant to be just a beginning.

Rook expects a change in position, hopes for it since he can hardly keep his legs spread far enough to fit Kapkan in between them. Instead, hands slip into the hollows of his knees, push them towards him. He understands. He will not be able to do it but he gets it. “Kapkan”, he says hastily, though not struggling in earnest, “Kapkan, this isn’t – you can’t –“

“Oh, I think you want me to”, comes the low reply accompanied by a lascivious grin and he’s right, whatever Rook might’ve claimed he couldn’t do is exactly what Rook wants him to do. Kapkan is not letting up, essentially folding Rook in half, almost pushing his knees into the mattress, exposing his most private parts fully. Rook doesn’t understand how his body allows for this, pliant and soft under Kapkan’s demanding hands, the position both embarrassing and exciting him. It’s as if all his want for the staggeringly sexy Russian above him is channelled into an unfamiliar endurance, helping him stretch and twist and stay however Kapkan wants him to.

His thighs are parallel to his chest now, his knees almost touching the blanket he’s lying on, his lower legs uselessly sticking into the air. “Fuck”, says Kapkan with feeling. He seems impressed, ravenous, disbelieving. “Stay like this.”

Obediently, Rook’s replace Kapkan’s hands, holding his own legs in place. For the second time today, Rook is on display, immovable and at Kapkan’s mercy. It’s just as intoxicating as the first time, he’s drunk on the attention he’s getting, delighting in knowing how much he gets to Kapkan, ignoring the strain, the exhaustion in his muscles, the way his legs object to their new position.

A touch between his cheeks. His eyes widen. He looks down and sees Kapkan’s glistening cock in all its glory, pressing against him. He’s going in bareback, and though Rook is familiar with their regular check-ups, knows both of them are clean, habit opens his mouth and forces out a panicked “Wait –” and then an incredulous “oh God” because Kapkan is entering him, at fucking last, probably more than an hour after they got here, and it’s glorious.

Rook feels it in his throat, the push of hot flesh inside him, making a space for itself, reshaping him around it. He gasps and wants to scrabble for anything to hold on to, but Kapkan told him to stay like he’s a naughty pet, so he stays and takes it and stops caring about the noises falling from his lips. The push feels endless, the last few centimetres making Rook shudder violently before Kapkan finally bottoms out. He looks blissful, it’s the first proper stimulation his cock’s gotten so far, after all, his eyes are closed, his head tilted back. Rook memorises the view: their hips flush, Kapkan’s chest rising and falling slowly, his face content. It’s almost peaceful.

Kapkan twitches deep inside and Rook keens. It’s always different without a condom, more intimate, physically hotter due to the lack of layers separating him from his partner, and he’s only done it a couple of times. If his own erection hadn’t come back full force already, the thought of the Russian spilling inside of him would’ve done it.

A loving touch on his cheek, a gentle stroke over his temple, fingertips tracing his jawline. A brief respite from all the mind-blowing stimulation. “You look so good.”

Rook meets Kapkan’s honest gaze with a bright smile. He doesn’t like receiving compliments directly, not usually. He basks in Kapkan’s. “Like this or in general?”

“Don’t be so smug, it’s unbecoming.”

“Fuck me. Come on.”

“Impatient.”

“More like desperate.” Rook is not above begging. He never had to do it before, is used to everyone showering him with whatever he wants but he has the feeling it might become necessary. What did Kapkan say when they stumbled into the flat? It seems so long ago. “Gagging for it.”

Kapkan grins. “You’re trying so hard to please me. I like it.”

And you’re not?, Rook thinks and wants to say, is interrupted by a slow slide that feels monumental, like a landmass coming into motion, like a glacier. It’s agonising how unhurried it is, as if Kapkan hasn’t been hard since before they got here, as if they have all the time in the world. He closes his eyes and feels, knows exactly when the glans passes his ring of muscle, the ridge getting caught momentarily, making his toes curl. It’s easy to imagine the amount of control necessary to stick with movements this teasing.

If Kapkan wants to show off his iron discipline, it’s entirely redundant for everyone but himself maybe, his tongue has brought Rook to a sensational orgasm despite all distractions, Rook believes him that he could keep up this excruciating tempo for the next half an hour if he wanted to, even if there’s sweat beading on his forehead, even if he’s biting his lower lip so hard it’s a miracle he hasn’t drawn blood yet.

The next time Rook feels the head of Kapkan’s dick enter him, he clamps down hungrily, the only offensive action he can take. Kapkan stops, glancing at him with uncertainty. He does it again and the next thrust feels as if Kapkan is rearranging his insides, the fact that it came involuntarily fast an undebatable victory for Rook. Kapkan curses under his breath in what sounds like Russian, so Rook tightens around him until neither of them can breathe and whispers: “Please.”

Kapkan’s resolve crumbles. With a strangled groan, he picks up the pace, pushes harder into Rook’s tender hole which can’t help but contract around the intrusion, still sensitive. Rook moans half from the discomfort and half from a deep-seated lust that’s being catered to. It’s the same as before, he wants to wrap around the attractive body above him so much, touch it all over but all he can do is endure and enjoy. A faint pain resides in his thighs, a reminder that he’ll pay for his transgressions tomorrow, though it’s manageable right now.

What isn’t manageable is Kapkan. His hips move steadily against Rook’s, the sensation of his cock penetrating, gliding into him continuously adding to his pleasure. He is being impaled over and over again with barely any resistance, each deep thrust leaving him panting and relishing the feeling. He’s vulnerable, open, defenceless, and he trusts Kapkan with every fibre of his being, trusts him to not take advantage, to take care of him, to push them both over the edge. They’ve saved each others’ lives before, communicated without a single word, spent time talking as well as in companionable silence. Kapkan is strong and driven and ruthless and he looks just about ready to fuck Rook into his mattress, young, innocent, naive, adorable Rook with his knees in his armpits, his rock-hard penis bobbing in time with Kapkan’s thrusts, his stretched hole –

Kapkan nails his prostate with a forceful shove and he wails, pleads: “Oh yes, right there, Kapkan, God, there, you’re so – please, again –”

And so Kapkan does it again and Rook is gone.

He rocks his hips into Kapkan’s helplessly, chasing that wonderful sensation that’s somehow like his sweat being licked off by pure electricity, like his toes dipping into a storm, like his mind being high on happy pills. Kapkan’s self-satisfied smirk almost doesn’t register and when it does, he couldn’t care less because he’s floating and his lower body is being stabbed with something amazing. The pleasure is intense enough that he forgets about his own awkward position, even arches his back during a few particularly vicious thrusts.

The whole thing is carnal, sinful, Kapkan’s losing himself as well now, bruising Rook’s hip with his vice-like grip, slamming into him as if he never wanted to take it slow, as if he never wanted to make Rook suffer. Ultimately, it’s an egotistical act, their movements only serving to maximise their own pleasure and it just so happens that it’s like fireworks for the other person as well.

Rook is being claimed inside and out, he can only stare up at Kapkan powerlessly while he thrusts into him so hard his balls are slapping against Rook’s backside. He can’t believe he wanted to possibly end the evening on a blowjob, can’t believe he once thought he’d never lose his taste for sugar, can’t believe he hasn’t done this sooner. He did notice Kapkan’s lingering gazes whenever he bent down, changed, stretched after working out.

Right now, his body doesn’t feel like a weapon. Instead, it feels like an instrument Kapkan instinctively knew how to play, how to extract the sweetest melodies from it, how to compose an entire song on it. It doesn’t feel like bait. It feels like a tool that helped him get what he wanted.

He extracts one of his hands, feels the painful burn in his thigh as it bends back into a more normal position, only adding to the barrage of sensations besieging him. His foot is numb, but he manages to wrap his leg around Kapkan’s waist, moving in sync with him, and closes his fist around his swollen cock. It’s begging for release and he can only imagine how Kapkan must feel.

Like this, he has more freedom of movement, so he grinds against the godlike erection pummelling him while he pumps his own dick in time, eliciting a loud growl from Kapkan. They’re both close, he can feel it in the way the Russian’s hips keep losing their rhythm, stuttering and slowing down in an attempt to prolong their lovemaking. His hand speeds up its strokes, desperate to catch up with the other man, his balls already drawing up and –

Oh.

There’s another hand in his groin.

Kapkan is cupping his balls again, massaging them, feeling them between his fingers and the added, unexpected stimulation has Rook throwing his head back and whining and screw his neighbours, their daughter sometimes throws tantrums so elaborate Rook has trouble falling asleep – so they can listen to him relishing the best fuck he’s had in this flat, maybe in his life. Kapkan pulls at the skin and hits that special spot deep inside him and moans unselfconsciously, and that’s it.

“Kapkan, I need you to come inside me”, he hurriedly gasps, “right now.”

And if that’s not incentive enough, Rook tenses around him as tightly as he can, and Kapkan’s eyes are desperate and then he does as he’s told, nails biting into Rook’s thigh, mouth agape. His dick rams into Rook for the last few times before pushing in to the hilt and pulsing inside him, the feeling of warm come flooding Rook’s insides enough to push him over as well.

They rock into each other while their climax overtakes them, their surroundings fading in favour of the bright, sparkling pleasure crashing down on them. It concentrates in Rook’s groin, sending out jolts to the rest of his body, numbing his mind, making him shiver and shake and his muscles contract and cramp. The sensation is divine, every throb of his cock accentuated with overwhelming relief, every contraction of his sphincter around Kapkan’s dick accompanied by delightful shocks.

It’s a revelation, for as much Rook will curse himself the next day, right now he’s never felt better. He’s drenched, fucked out, sticky and still shuddering at each small movement inside him but he’s satisfied. He can’t help the smile that steals on his lips while he tries not to move, not to upset the moment, calm his breathing.

This was fantastic.

He can’t wait to do it all over again.

Kapkan looks about the same as Rook feels, exhausted and slightly disbelieving, as if he’s wondering how exactly he ended up here and what he’s supposed to do now. He carefully pulls out of Rook, making him wince regardless and helps him stretch out his legs again, which leaves Rook whimpering and in not unsubstantial pain. His misery is somehow amusing to Kapkan and when he asks in his most adorable love-me voice: “Want to carry me to the shower?”, it only earns him a laugh and a shake of the head.

The Russian leads the way to the bathroom and once Rook feels human enough, he follows him on wobbly knees and with a foretaste of what he’s going to feel like tomorrow. He’ll have trouble just standing straight. Under the steady stream of hot water, Kapkan pays him next to no heed but allows him to lean against him for support. Rook appreciates the gesture even though he knows exactly what the other man is doing – slowly distancing himself, both from Rook physically and what they just did mentally.

After a relatively quick shower that gets rid of the sweat, come, lube and spit, Rook is propped up against the door frame, watching Kapkan sift through the clothes they discarded and pull on his underwear, pick up his trousers. They haven’t talked so far and everything in Rook screams at him to ask Kapkan to stay, dive under the covers with him, not treat him like a split-second decision or even worse, a mistake. With most other people, Rook would do so. It’s different with Kapkan.

Predictably, he murmurs – without even looking at Rook – so low it’s hard to hear him, but because Rook knows, he makes it out regardless: “You understand this was a one-time thing, right?”

There’s so much wrong with his statement that Rook almost laughs.

First of all: was. As if Kapkan isn’t still in his apartment, mostly naked and avoiding his gaze like a recently sobered up teenager who lost his virginity to the local mattress. As if he can’t still feel Rook around, under, next to him. As if his skin doesn’t remember Rook’s touch.

Second: this wasn’t a one-night stand. If Kapkan treats his one-night stands like this, Rook would love to meet his previous lays and ask them why they didn’t chain him down for all their sexual needs because he’s got it all. He’s assertive and gentle at the same time, a combination that’s hard to find in the first place and then he’s attractive on top of that. This was not the kind of sex reserved for strangers or not meant to be repeated.

Third: You understand, right? Rook has heard that one before. Humans have a natural tendency to agree, to avoid conflict, avoid others disliking them. The question is so loaded it needs to be transported by truck.

He doesn’t know why Kapkan is so shit at this. Even if he really didn’t want to do this again, he could’ve shown some tact.

“Mhm”, Rook says as neutrally as possible. Kapkan throws a glance in his direction to gauge his mood. Evidently, he has no idea what it is because he looks worried. “Are you leaving?”

The first sign of weakness: hesitation. “I probably should.” Actual unwillingness or politeness in disguise? Maybe Kapkan figures he shouldn’t hurt Rook’s feelings any more. He doesn’t know that he hasn’t yet, not in the slightest.

Rook leaves him hanging for a few seconds, increases the danger of the situation, bluffs an imminent outburst. If he got upset, Kapkan would have an excuse to leave – no wants to deal with an emotionally unstable guy who can break your neck in ten different ways. Then he replies conversationally: “If you stay, I’ll let you fuck my face tomorrow morning.”

Kapkan halts.

The way he’s handled both of Rook’s excellent orgasms indicates that he likes to be in control, likes to mix discomfort with pleasure, enjoys it when Rook follows his orders and endures. It’s an offer he won’t be able to refuse.

A moment of uncertainty.

Then Kapkan drops his trousers.

He snores and steals Rook’s blanket and complains groggily whenever Rook tries to cuddle, so they sleep with their backs pressed against each other, Rook undoubtedly not getting enough sleep because of the noise and the missing duvet, but he has never felt so safe.

In the morning, he lets Kapkan fuck his face.

There are secret glances that probably no one but Rook notices – Jäger and Castle get up simultaneously to buy themselves some drinks and stay absent conspicuously long, talking in hushed voices at the bar and returning with unusually bright expressions. At some point, Fuze flashes the two a grin that he normally reserves for his comrades. Rook notices. He doesn’t suppress the twinge of envy, but consoles himself by thinking back to the previous week, reminiscing and convincing himself effortlessly that he was right to leave the three behind.

Kapkan is sitting across from him, listening to the nonsense Fuze is spouting this week and pointedly ignoring Rook, like he has done the entire week. Rook knows that Kapkan’s been asked what the two of them did when they left the bar and he also knows that Kapkan has cleverly avoided directly answering any questions. He thinks himself smart but at least Castle is aware Rook is gay and who knows what else he’s aware of, and he’s pretty sure the trained special forces operator is able to connect the clearly labelled dots. Rook keeps this knowledge to himself.

He’s not offended. He’s too content for that. Memories and the shirt he stole from Kapkan’s locker and anticipation keep him calm and collected, attentive. He still notices Kapkan looking at him. He wonders what they’re going to do tonight.

Ash is part of the group this evening and as usual, some of them are talking about sex – not even necessarily Ash herself, her presence and low-cut t-shirts and leisurely manner and easy laugh and something about her face prompt these kinds of discussions, make them ask questions they wouldn’t normally ask. Twitch is also present, boisterous and unable to keep up with Ash’s alcohol consumption yet still trying valiantly, cheeks flushed and beaming whenever she looks at the woman next to her.

Rook notices this, too.

It’s too easy, really, he could cut in at any time and seal the deal but he waits patiently for the perfect moment. He understands Kapkan a little better now. It really is thrilling to wait.

Two hours pass by and he notices the way Kapkan is staring into his empty glass as if it holds answers to Earth’s mysteries. He turns to Ash and says: “You know, women aren’t the only ones who can have multiple orgasms.”

And in the outrage that follows, he notices grey eyes narrowing at him, almost accusingly.

When he reaches his third climax of the evening (this one not dry), pressed against the wall in his kitchen, legs wrapped tightly around Kapkan’s hips, impaled on his cock and gasping for air, he’s glad he decided to try it out. It’s fun.

He doesn’t think it’s an art though.

He thinks hunting is pretty easy.