daredevilkink | Prompt Post #4

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Prompt Post #4

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After that they fell into something of a routine. He went out at night. Vladimir healed and bitched about nothing. He caught four or five hours of sleep, made them breakfast and headed out to work. Vladimir healed and still bitched about nothing. He pinched magazines from the businesses downstairs as Vladimir improved and started staying awake for hours at a time. Leaving them in strategic positions around the couch in the hopes of staving off boredom. Instead, all that got him was a whole bunch of snooping, a rearranged living room and a scathing report of how boring his flat was.

Less than a day after Claire pronounced him an 'asshole on the mend,' Vladimir quickly found and polished off his entire beer supply. Even downing the last few fingers of the expensive vodka he saved for special occasions as he was out trying to track down Owlsley.

They had a good yell about that. Right up until Vladimir questioned why he kept a bottle of his favourite vodka - so hard to find that even he had to order it himself from back home – in the back of his liquor cabinet. He decided to put himself in a mandatory time out after that, trying not to freak out as he attempted to separate where Vladimir's taste buds ended and his began.

Unfortunately, that only lasted about a half hour because, as it turned out, Vladimir cared less about identity-crisis panic attacks and more about just flat out drinking. Because it wasn't long until he was barging into his bedroom. Demanding a new bottle for 'scientific purposes.' And by demanding he meant yelling. Loudly and repeatedly.

He ended up getting so frustrated he found himself yelling right back, pointing out that if the man wanted to get drunk, he could go out buy it himself. Considering that unlike him, he didn't have dirty stacks of millions stashed away to waste on stupidly expensive vodka that the man was just going to binge-drink anyway.

The silence that followed was so close to a pout he could practically taste it.

After a while, the bickering and stilted silences blurred and started to become normal. A new normal unique to the two of them as they tried to navigate where they stood with each other on an almost day to day basis. Coming home in the evening was like opening your tent flaps in the middle of the African safari and playing Russian roulette with the local wildlife.

The man put him on edge. He'd admit that much. Feeling like he was constantly struggling to keep the upper hand as the man practically oozed aggression through his pores like sweat. It got bad enough that he found himself ordering a copy of text-to-voice "Russian: for Beginners" so he could level the playing field. Testing it out whenever Vladimir was being particularly annoying just so he could listen to the indignant spluttering and waves of absolute outrage as he, apparently, namerennoubivali yego yazyk!

He'd started taking his recordings to work with him for the slow days. Finding it far easier to study without the Russian breathing down his neck or throwing stuff at him. A new hobby the smartass seemed to have picked up once moving his arms didn't physically cripple him for the rest of the day. In the beginning it had been a simple test of reflexes. With Vladimir mostly trying to catch him in a lie. Then amused by his host's abilities – testing them to see if he could catch him off guard – probably searching for weaknesses he could someday exploit. But eventually, it turned into something close to…oh god- fond?

The downside of bringing his off the clock studying to the office, however was somewhat predictable.

"I need to learn how to speak asshole," he explained distractedly, fingers skimming the same passage over and over again as Foggy read the cover of the tape out loud, voice wrinkled with uncaffinated confusion. Too deep in contexts and contractions to pay his best friend and his seven or eight immediate, but still mercifully unspoken questions, much attention.

"I don't even want to know," Foggy moaned, long hair whisking back and forth across his collar as his friend shook his head. Heading towards the supply closet for the promise of burnt coffee and the hope that after a few sips the world might make a bit more sense.

And really, wasn't that just the truth?

He wasn't sure how he got from the docks back home. After Nobu and Fisk it took all his strength just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He was deafened, senses muted down to the sluggish beat of his own heart as he rolled onto the roof of his apartment building and dragged himself towards the access hatch.

After that, it all got hazy – unclear. He remembered starting down the stairs. Forgetting about the creaky floor board as he stumbled against the railing, wheezing. Sensing Vladimir stirring on the couch, adrenaline spiking the same moment as Foggy's familiar heartbeat - drunk and grief-stricken – thudded its way up the final flight of stairs and made a bee-line for his door.

After that, everything went black.

He got the rest in bits and pieces from Claire a couple hours later while Vladimir glowered in the backdrop. He learned second hand how Vladimir had caught him when his legs had given out halfway down the stairs. How Foggy had been knocking at the door for close to half an hour, talking about the case and Elena – talking about making the bastards pay.

How Vladimir had grabbed the burner and cussed out Claire in whispers until she gave some excuse at work and raced across the city. How he'd snuck up to the roof and tossed a brick down onto a parked car on the street, setting off the alarm, distracting Foggy long enough for the Russian to lock the roof access and make an educated guess through the starred contacts on his phone. Sending the drunk man on a wild goose chase to a hospital on the other side of the city with some excuse about him getting grazed by a car walking home.

The entire time Claire was patching him up, Vladimir said nothing. He existed in the background like a burning ball of barely controlled rage. Body issuing heat that flared and spat every time the man cracked his knuckles. He was a living point of tension, half-feral and worrisomely silent. Yet, the man said nothing when Claire turned on him next, spotting a trickle of red through his shirt from where he'd pulled stitches lunging across the room - catching him before he fell. Muttering darkly about it until she caught sight his expression.

She repaired the stitches and bowed out soon after that. Telling him to call when he woke in up the morning, eying Vladimir wearily. Not once turning her back on him as she collected her things. Telling the Russian to keep him hydrated before he closed the door in her face and locked with a deafening click.

"You are very dumb, moy odin," Vladimir told him after Claire left, rounding on him. Fists clenched despite the fact that he was barely conscious. Scenting fury and the bitter tart of an awkward, grudging fear as the man looked down, bare feet disturbing an uneven layer of bloody bandages and the cut off remnants of his shirt as the taste of his own red curdled in his mouth.

"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya malen'kiy d'yavol," Vladimir hissed, crouching down beside him. Crooked fingers carding firmly through his hair as his lashes fluttered into the hollows. Threatening to stay there as his injuries took their toll. Feeling the trickle of dried blood filtering down like paper rain, powdering across their skin as the taxi Claire called before she left pulled up on the side of the street - honking it's horn to get her attention.

There were words. Words he could have said. Words meant to sooth – deflect. But his head was spinning and Vladimir was still talking. Filling the air above their heads with all the words they weren't saying, just as much as the ones they were.

"Next time I kill you myself, with bare hands," Vladimir growled, speaking into his hair as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss across his temple. Nosing into him lightly as he blinked sightlessly, breathing in the scent of him as the vibrations of each word echoed tinnily in his ears.

He slept tucked close to the man's chest. Vladimir made it rather clear he had little choice in the matter as he shoved him up and wormed his way onto the couch beside him. Humming tunelessly as the steady thrum of his one's heart - soothing and oh so right in its cadence -calmed him down into something close to normal. Reminding him with every beat, every breath that synced up and they shared as one, that he was there, vibrant and alive. Watchful and protective as the man kept his eyes firm on the door. Not going anywhere.

For the first time in a long time, he slept through the night.

"Ach! What is it with you Americans and obsession with bond mark, hmm?"

He must have asked about it again, because he woke up sometime later, still on the couch. Head cradled in Vladimir's lap and halfway through some sort of explanation. Feeling disjointed and mildly lightheaded as he looked up at the red-scored outline of the man's face, content to soak in the roughness of the words as Vladimir talked more to himself than anything.

"Me and my brother heard many jokes about American education system. But in this case, I think true. You don't need to see to know, 'dis you know more than most I think, hmm?" the man mused, using the pause to shove a juice box and straw into his face and force him to swallow it down. Crooning quietly as the man speared the straw at his lips determinedly - a clear order to finish it when he tried to shove it away.

"In Russia, child with mark taught something else. More than book learning. Rodstvennuyu dushu is not just perfect match, but missing half. Other half of heart – soul. So, I listen here," Vladimir replied, pulse hitching the slightest of bits before the man's hand came down unexpectedly. Pressing his palm against his chest, squarely on top of his heart.

The world shuddered around the edges.

He swallowed hard, feeling the warm weight of the man's hand on his bare chest.

Unable to shake the feeling that his entire reality was an inch away from settling.

"In tunnel, I knew," the man shared, voice dry, threatening to crack at the edges like he'd been up all night speaking or was remembering something that pained him. "What is word? Instinct? Da. Instinct. When grow up on streets, you learn. You listen to heart and head or you die. Like prey animal in world of predator – survival of the fittest. Same thing, yes? You listen or you miss cues nature gives."

Neither of them commented on it when the man's hand remained where it was. The weight of it wasn't gentle. But then again, neither of them were men that had much use for gentleness and softer things. They were men who liked being the sharp end of the instrument. Who lived for it. Speaking a language of blunt force and vicious uppercuts while the world told them that love was wrong. Sadistic. Cruel. That the ends never justified the means and that somehow, that moral high ground still meant something while Hell's Kitchen quietly choked on its own decay.

"In Moscow there are dogs, strays that ride subway from country to city to scrounge," Vladimir commented after a while, wide palm flexing across his skin, scarred and calloused as he memorized every inch, every ripple, scar, imperfection, and badly healed break.

"People ask how they know stop. How they learn. How they ride subway back to same den at night. Instinct. Animals listen to what we don't want hear, yes? They not deny what has already been set in stone. Instead, work with what they have. Sometimes smarter than us, I think."

He blinked, listening to the slow breaks in the man's breathing as the Russian eventually started dozing. Filling the room with a soft, rasping snore that seemed at odds with his inherent roughness.

And perhaps for the first time since he'd known him, he allowed himself to consider how brutally honest Vladimir was. Not just to himself, but in terms of the world around him. While he saw Hell's Kitchen for what it could be - what it had potential to be, Vladimir saw it for it was. Taking it at face value and expecting the same. Making his actions and convictions true to himself in a way that was, well, different, but at the end of the day, not completely unfamiliar.

He supposed that should worry him.

Finding common ground with someone like Vladimir Ranskahov.

But strangely enough, it didn't.

_________________

Reference:

"namerenno ubivali yego yazyk" – "purposely butchered his language."

"moy odin" – "my one."

"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya, malen'kiy d'yavol." - "you stupid piece of shit, if you weren't mine I would have thrown you off the roof weeks ago. My mother lied through her teeth when she said everything was supposed to make sense when you found your other half. You make no sense to me, little devil."

"Rodstvennuyu dushu" – "soulmate."

The 'hit by a car' excuse ended up working a bit too well, judging by Foggy's immediate presence once he'd slept off his hangover. He forced himself not to feel guilty as Foggy dove headlong into his mandatory: 'you are my best friend and I am not freaking out, you're freaking out' duties. Fussing over him and ragging on 'awful city drivers'. All too aware that Vladimir was chilling up on the roof with a fresh pack of cigarettes he'd already decided not to ask about, muttering darkly to himself.

He'd admit to being caught off guard about the whole thing. He'd been half-asleep and hadn't noticed Foggy's heartbeat until he was nearly on their floor. Hell, he'd practically shoved Vladimir through the roof access and slammed the door. Vibrating nervous energy every time Foggy's angsty pacing took him near the stairs. Making him literally meters away from having to make an excuse about why there was an angry looking Russian wearing his university track sweats and nothing else, chain smoking on his roof.

Foggy left, eventually. Hating himself immediately for feeling relieved as he followed the sound of his footsteps out the door and onto the street. Telling himself it was for his friend's own good. That it was better this way. Safer. Not believing a word of it until Vladimir distracted him by lighting his sixth cigarette in under two hours. Making him forget about the lies he was forcing on the people closest to him in favor of dragging himself up to the roof to stop his stupid soulmate from developing lung cancer.

Vladimir was not cooperative.

Days passed like this.

Vladimir popped Karen's balloon after only half a day of it bobbing around the apartment. He tripped him on the way to the bathroom in retaliation. Vladimir cussed him out and threw one of the kitchen knives clear across the room. Embedding it into the wall inches from his right cheek.

So, naturally, the next logical step was declaring a full out domestic blitzkrieg.

They got into a screaming fight that tipped over furniture and popped two stitches a piece. Ending almost as quickly as it started with three black eyes, more than a little blood and them laughing about it later over luke-warm take-out and a six pack of cheap beer.

Vladimir's voice was almost fond when he launched into a brutal play by play. The feral pleasure of it all too obvious in the man's words as he clapped him on the shoulder and grinned fiercely into his beer bottle. Drowning out the silence that could have existed in its place with playful banter and long strains of too-fast Russian. Making him forget about the hours that passed far too quickly, realizing by default that he'd become a bit too accustomed to the pleased chuff the man made in the back of his throat when he was happy.

He pretended not to notice.

Not for Vladimir's sake, but for his own.

He didn't think he could handle what existed behind it quite yet.

Or maybe never.

The next morning he woke up to the smell of Vladimir cooking in his kitchen.

"You went out," he accused, letting his nose lead the way as the Russian slammed a bowl of Kashaon the counter closest to him. Spooning in a liberal dose of creamed honey before turning back to the bacon he had frying on the element.

"Your food is shit," the man commented without heat, flipping the bacon unconcernedly as the fat from the pan spat and sizzled across the stove top.

He raised a brow, unsurprised.

"That's what you said about my apartment and clothes," he reminded, slipping onto one of the stools and dragging the bowl closer. Picking up the comforting smells of buckwheat and rye as he mixed the honey into the thick porridge.

"Because are shit," Vladimir affirmed, clicking off the element. Tearing off a wad of paper towel to line the plate as he let the bacon fat drain. "Apartment and clothes. Being hero doesn't pay bills, da?"

"You said it, not me," he muttered, taste buds singing as he took another spoonful. Refusing to give the prick the satisfaction of knowing how much he was enjoying it as he forced himself to go slow. Keeping his mind mostly closed as a wave of shared images and memories nudged enticingly at the very corners of his waking mind. Reminding him of moments he'd never experienced, meals he'd never shared. Mornings shoving elbows with Anatoly, scarfing down third helpings of breakfast as a tired, worn looking woman smiled down at them warmly.

Of course, considering his bowl was quickly snatched and refilled once his spoon started scraping the bottom pretty much confirmed that was all moot point anyway. Especially when the plate of bacon materialized between them and they brushed fingers vying for the first slice.

They managed to get through the meal without stabbing each other. Which was actually pretty refreshing. A change of pace that made room for a lazy debate about breakfast foods and the difference in quality between a French Press and a regular drip. Smelling the saturation of caffeine that entered the Russian's blood stream as Vladimir's voice lost its usual blur of morning-tiredness and perked up like ruffled feathers. It was only when he popped the last piece of bacon into his mouth and made to get up that everything changed.

Vladimir caught his hand in mid-air, large hand curling around his wrist, stopping it inches away from sucking off the grease, only to replace it with his own. The sound he wanted to make was wrecked and damning as the man took each finger into his mouth and slowly and quite deliberately licked them clean.

He remembered to breathe – barely.

"What was that for?" he rasped after it was over, shaky and over-stimulated as the air ghosted across the wet skin. Ears burning an embarrassed-warm, still ringing with the sound that'd issued when Vladimir had pulled off his pinky finger with an almost obscene sounding pop. Scrambling to regain some semblance of control over himself as a raw sort of smugness thickened the air while Vladimir grabbed their dishes and dumped them into the sink.

"Took last slice of bacon," Vladimir grinned, shrugging bare shoulders like he couldn't tell that the Russian wasn't about half an inch from leaning over the table and undressing him with his teeth. Seeding the air with the pin-pricks of arousal as the man breezed out of the room. "I take my share, da?"

He didn't get up from his seat for a long time after that. Desperately willing his hard on to subside as Vladimir stole his towel and started the shower. Humming something that sounded completely obnoxious and crude under his breath as the air tinted humid and close.

His life was very strange.

It was a week and a half before he was well enough to patrol again. Claire told him he was pushing it. Vladimir practically shoved him out the window himself. Grumbling about bored animals and their tendency to bite when they go stir-crazy. He got home late, tired and hungry, but with barely a bruise to show for it. And while he hadn't made much progress on getting more dirt on Fisk, he had to admit it felt good to get out there again – on the streets. His good mood carried him through the window and past the empty couch before he screeched to a halt and realized what was missing.

He found Vladimir star-fished across the bed, drowsing on his sheets like he owned them.

"Get out of my bed," he rasped, mentally congratulating himself when his voice came out more or less level. Able to tell by sound that the Russian was at least bare chested, scent sinking into the silk like water spreading. A metaphor which was both alarming and comforting. But also annoying. Annoying considering he knew from experience that it would take more than three washes and a whole lot of fresh air to wash that kind of scent out.

If that was what he was in fact wanting to do.

Which was, well, the jury was still out on that one, honesty.

"Fuck off, couch is shit," the man replied, muffled into the pillows. Not even looking up as the Russian shifted with a soft sigh. Voice rough-edged and rich in its accent in a way that made him shiver. Tasting the singular tones of sleep and idle interest as his hips hitched into the mattress like an invitation.

"Vladimir," he started, suddenly feeling a whole lot like the frustrated house wife in one of those 90's sit-coms Foggy had always relished the opportunity to describe during the off hours of their under-grad. The ones with the stupid, useless husband bumbling around, failing at everyday tasks - like putting the toilet seat down and using the grocery money to buy beer for the boys.

"Shut up and come to bed, yes?"

It wasn't until halfway through the night, when Vladimir shifted in his sleep and the full-bodied rasp of bare skin sliding across worn silk sang low, slow and damning in his ears that he realized that the man was, in fact, naked. Dickhead. His cheeks flamed hot. Lips parting as the man murmured something, pushing his face further into the pillows as the line of his thigh firmed against his.

He told himself it was exhaustion that kept him from kicking him out of bed or at least demanding he put some shorts on. As it was, he just sighed – long suffering – and crowded the man off the center of the bed. Somehow ending up draped half on top of him in some half-conscious form of revenge his back only hated him for later.

Asshole.

In the morning - because some things can only be put off for so long, no matter what kind of repartee of avoidance you have at your disposal - Vladimir kissed like pent up aggression. Like a feral lion chained to the middle of a circus ring, yearning for the freedom of a wide open Savannah. He was still half asleep when the Russian rolled them, pinning him to the sheets in a mess of bare thighs and questing fingers.

He exhaled in a rush when the man's stubble rasped down his skin, making him arch and gasp. Forgetting, if only for a moment, all the reasons why he should probably be shoving the man off him and instead yanked him closer. Kissing him back with the blunt of his teeth as Vladimir hummed his approval.

He went to work, lips throbbing. Dick pressed uncomfortably hard against his zipper as Vladimir watched him go, quiet for once - heat signature flickering. Soul singing, yearning for him to turn around and go to him. To take him down. Give it up. To complete the circle nature had already started and take his one into the very depth of himself. To become one. To do whatever it took to fill the emptiness that was threatening to spread into the very heart of him.

But he didn't.

Vladimir wasn't the only one who was stubborn after all.

_____________

Reference:

"Kasha" – porridge: This is a Russian staple and is over a thousand years old. Generally made from buckwheat, barley, rye, oats, (or millet).

He was on edge for the next few days. Both of them were. Unhappy in his skin as he fought the impulse to just slam through the door and pin his stupid soulmate up against the wall and swallow every sound he could coax up. It was a need that was almost visceral. Like sweat dripping down from his hairline or the singular tang of citrus on a hot day. He lived on tender-hooks the longer the days spanned out. Anticipation born to snap clean.

This wasn't natural or even right. He knew that. Resisting the pull? Well, there was no point to it. Hell, why would you? It was innate. He knew what he felt. And he could feel what Vladimir felt. There was no questioning, no second guessing. And yet, he'd stalled right before the finish line. Part of him unwilling to overcome that final hurdle and accept that out of all the people in the world, this was is soulmate.

The worst part was that Vladimir let him. Every single time he let him pull away – let him walk. He hated it as much as he was pathetically grateful for it. Trying desperately not to think as a war of conflicting voices fought for their right to weigh in. Everything was supposed to make sense when you met your soulmate. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. He wasn't. He shouldn't feel torn. He shouldn't feel guilty for wanting what part of him told him he shouldn't have. He knew who Vladimir was. What he was. Morally it was an easy question with an easy answer. Only the rest of him didn't feel the same. In fact, the rest of him was screaming for it – for him.

Only thing was, despite the surety the bond brought. Despite the permanence of it. The anxiety building in his chest kept telling him he didn't have long to make a decision. And in the end, as it turned out, he should have listened.

He hadn't realized what a steady, comforting presence Vladimir was in his life until he came back from work one evening and found the man gone. Somehow he'd just known. Known his one wasn't out for a quick trip to the corner mart or whatever it was the man actually did when he was out at work or patrolling the streets. There was a feeling laced like heartbreak in his chest that told him otherwise.

The urge to head to the roof and try to pick up the sound of the man's heartbeat – his barking laugh, the slight limp that still hampered his confident strut – was impossible to ignore. Only making it worse on himself when he realized there was nothing. A sick match to the same story that played out inside. Where everything Vladimir owned, everything he'd bought or had on him when he'd dragged him halfway across the city was missing.

Vladimir was gone.

Just gone.

He told himself it didn't hurt. That he didn't feel it, soul deep and throbbing in the center of his chest when he finally went to sleep that night. Breathing the scent of Vladimir fading from the sheets as the days spanned into a week, and only multiplied from there.

He thought he'd be happy. Relieved. Like in rabbiting first, Vladimir had actually done him a favor. Instead, he just felt sick. Withdrawing from work – from Foggy and Karen. And letting his fists fly meaner on the streets. Exercising his demons on those that actually deserved it before he finally gave up and visited Father Lampton. Smile tremulous and brittle on his face as he sipped at his latte, trying and failing to act like every breath he forced himself to take didn't feel like a sucker punch for two.

It was almost two weeks later when he rounded the corner of his street after a long night at Josies - not so subtly drowning his sorrows with Foggy - that the sound of a painfully familiar heartbeat thrum-thrummed from the kitchen of his flat.

It took all his Murdock stubbornness not to run the rest of the way there. Heart pounding in his chest as every cell in his body wanted. Forcing himself to take the stairs slowly, steps measured and deliberate, as he strained every ounce of himself. Drinking in the sounds of Vladimir singing softly to himself, chopping something – mutton, barely two years old, more or less freshly frozen from New Zealand – as a very unhealthy amount of frying onions and double-creamed butter sizzled in the background.

"You left," he accused, closing the door behind him. Hating himself a little bit more at how quickly it came out – how wounded – as he placed his cane in the corner and shrugged out of his book-bag and jacket.

"Da," Vladimir replied carefully, warily. As if suddenly uncertain of his welcome as he reached behind him, flicking off the burner. "Man must make own way in world. I should have taken care of business weeks ago - here and in Moscow. Anatoly rests there now. It was what he wanted. My brother loved the city, even when it not love him back."

"You could have told me," he pointed out, walking slowly across the length of the apartment towards him. Sensing the slight ducking of a head as the man nodded slowly, but didn't back down. Wondering if he was imagining the sanctimonious smugness trickling like running water through the mobster's tone. Half certain the man could feel his relief. Feel how it'd felt to know he'd finally come home and god- he hated that. He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't-

"You needed time to clear head, I think."

This time around, he didn't even give him a chance. He slammed his fist right into the man's gut and kicked him with a high lunge that snapped the Russian's head back. Deferring the first punch, then the second, before the Russian caught him by surprise by ducking and catching him under the chin with a vicious upper-cut.

"Careful! You break vodka!" Vladimir protested when he slammed them back against the counter – an edgy spitting mad to his one's amused calm. Licking at the blood streaming from his nose with the air of a man who'd expected nothing less.

"You represent everything I am fighting against! Everything I hate! Everything I stand for! The things you've done?! How can you expect me to be okay with this!? How can anyone!?" he growled, shaking him as his fists curled into the collar of what felt suspiciously like a dress shirt. Expensive and soft with two buttons left undone at the top.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Vladimir timed annoyingly, voice losing its terseness before tipping into something close to fond. Like he'd come to terms with the way things were going to go ages ago and was just waiting for him to catch up.

"Maybe it like stories. Ones that say for man to be truly successful he must be part what he loves and part what he hates. Balance, yes? We are two half's, you and I. Together, make whole. Besides, out there, on streets? You are not winning, you barely break even," the man sneered. "Admit it to self, if not me. But you need me, da? You hate that you do, but cannot help it, yes?"

"You are a criminal!" he hissed, clinging to the words like they still meant something to the both of them as Vladimir shoved his thigh between his legs and firmed it close – rough and unapologetic. Giving him something to grind against before he could even process the shift.

"And yet, here we are," Vladimir chuckled, dark and richly layered as he swallowed loudly. Barely able to stop himself from licking the man's throat as his hips gave into gravity and started moving against him in earnest. Gasping as the firm weight of the man's prick rubbed against his. Confined through the layers that existed between them but no less tantalizing as he scented the air, tasting the salt-sweet of the man's arousal. "God laughs, yes?"

"Shut up," he gritted, self-control a pipe dream as he mouthed into the curve of the man's neck. Wondering what kind of sounds he could coax up if he forced the man to bare it and-

"'Vat? You were hoping 'dis was some kind of mistake? Nyet, malen'kiy d'yavol, you know different now, do you not? A dog is honest when it humps your leg. It is animal with animal desires. We are the only ones that kid itself about what we are. There are no more excuses, Matthew…nowhere to hide. Not for either of us," the man purred, using his given name for the first time as minuscule tremors of uneven pleasure rippled through him.

His fists clenched tight. Fighting to hang onto the dregs of all the reasons why this was wrong, why he shouldn't, couldn't on good conscience do this as the man's breath hazed out – murky and aroused – between them.

The kiss the man stole was brutal, unkind and completely expected. Coming out like a desperate sort of challenge as the bond between them pulsed fitfully. "I don't like you," he hissed into the Russian's lips, shoulders hunching, every inch of him wanting it – needing it as Vladimir let him crowd him into the corner. Soaking him in as his one's soul ingrained itself into his senses with barely a ripple of resistance.

"And I don't understand you," Vladimir crowed in reply, voice sounding disturbingly like a victory as he nipped at his lips, laving the sting with his tongue as the man traced the seam and demanded entrance. Hissing and jerking back when he bit the Russian's tongue instead.

Which of course ended up exactly where you think. With Vladimir's elbow slamming right into his ribs the same time the man bellowed like a bull and threw them both clear over the kitchen counter and into the living room. Landing side by side and gasping as the air wooshed out of their lungs in a rush. Effectively calling a tenuous sort of stalemate as they panted and stared daggers at each other.

"We finished scraping like children on playground?" Vladimir coughed, winded as he levered himself up onto his hands and knees and stumbled to his feet. Heat signature flickering between barely curbed violence to arousal before choosing the latter, humming like a downed power line only inches away.

And while the words were flippant, it was the intent behind them that brought him up short. That made whatever was left of his embattled thoughts and almost-regrets heel. Because the man had said it like he'd meant it. Like it was a request he'd actually honor, regardless of the answer. Like if he needed to, he could spend the rest of his life hating him, and the man would understand. Like-

"Oh God, yes," he rasped, garbling a whine between his teeth as the man's canines traced down the dip of his collarbone. Plucking lightly at his nipple through the fabric of his shirt as he dug his fingers into the Russian's shoulder blades and didn't stop until the metallic tang of blood welled up in the furrows as the man groaned in a sinful surge of pleasure-pain that almost ended everything before it started.

This time they attacked each other with their lips instead.

Vladimir broke his couch on purpose when he tossed them on it, taking out the entire back with a violent groan of releasing springs and spilled stuffing. Biting at his lips and laughing like a maniac as the Russian rolled them through it and wrestled him for the right to yank him out of his pants. Sucking him down and swallowing around him like it was the closest thing the bastard could get to an apology.

So, in the end, considering the fact that he ended up cumming harder than he ever had in his entire god damned life, choking the douchebag with his dick when his hips jerked and the man did something absolutely impossible with his tongue, he decided to chalk it up as a win.

Couch desecration notwithstanding.

"You know, you never told me…"

It was only really in the aftermath that he remembered to ask about it. When he was lying flat on his back, spread out like a starfish. Feeling more like he was breathing for two with Vladimir sprawled out on top of him. Pinning him comfortably to the mattress as the Russian's prick twitched valiantly in the cradle of his thigh. Sated and breathing obnoxiously loud as the man nosed into the scruff of his neck and generally seemed uninclined to roll off him any time soon.

"Told 'vat?" Vladimir grunted, stubble rasping against the sensitive inner of his neck as the Russian burrowed deeper. Hips rolling slow against him without any real purpose than to continue the gentle friction as his breathing hitched damningly. Making him smack him on the ass in retribution for the smirk the man pressed into his skin.

"You never told me what I said," he reminded, nails tracing idle patterns along the dips in the Russian's spine. Feeling, not for the first time, somewhat cheated at not being able to see himself on his one's skin. His mark. When Vladimir could see his etched clearly into the pale of his inner arm.

"Back in the tunnel. I know what you said. About knowing in spite of it…but the bondmark, well, it's different. It's proof you can see, touch. So, what was it that made you so sure I was…yours? What was it that I said?"

He frowned when a full minute passed. Listening to the man's heartbeat as it hitched slightly. Steady and strong, but shallowed intermittently by half-starts and long pauses. Like the man was thinking his answer through before putting it to voice.

"Not said yet," Vladimir admitted, the truth of it keen as the man stretched out on top of him – muscles flexing. "I think long on 'dis. When sleeping. Between nurses needles and glares, da? When I was alone in tunnel, I knew, felt pull – pull to you. But was dead man, so thought I go out with bang, yes? The song I sing then was your mark because if not I would be dead, yes? Was most important thing in moment…would not be here…vmeste without it."

"But my mark? One that sits below – here," the man continued, taking his hand and guiding it to the arch of the Russian's right hip. Letting him feel his way across the skin, automatically trying to see if he could find some trace of what it was – what it said as he ran his fingers back and forth across the pebbly, scar-studded skin. "You not said."

"But someday I think you 'vill," Vladimir hummed, pleasure, surety and affection clear in his tone - almost like the man was smiling as he spoke. Gifting the words with a snapshot of sensation he was able to translate in his mind's eye. "Soon maybe. I wait, yes?"

He blinked.

But what, oh-

Oh.

That son of a-

He sucked in a breath. Mind flicking through half a dozen different emotions. Frustration. Fondness. Before he decided to settle on hopeless and shook his head. Shoving all thoughts of the future aside for a moment in favor of taking the man by surprise and bucking him off his perch.

"Mudak," he grunted, the word deliberate and clear but lacking the Russian's natural brogue as he rolled them over. Taking all the covers with him as Vladimir just laughed – playful and darkly affectionate - as he teetered on the edge of the bed. Naked as a jaybird and twice as cunning as the man's heartbeat thrummed up another notch. Filling the air with a sudden burst of anticipation

And really, that should have been his first clue.

Because before he could anchor himself to the mattress, Vladimir pounced. Taking him down with him as they slipped off the mattress and on to the floor with a creaky thump and a jumbled mess of tangled limbs and sheets. Shouting at each other until he shut his stupid soulmate up with his lips and tongue and strongly considered suffocating him with a pillow until the man reached up and fumbled with the bottle of lube. Grabbing their pricks and distracting him with the beginning of a slow, torturous glide before ringing around his entrance with a slick finger. Murmuring something absolutely filthy in his ear as the Russian's cock fell heavy and leaking into the small of his back.

His ass smarted for days after that.

And only part of it was because of the fall.

_________________

Reference:

"Nyet, malen'kiy d'yavol": "No, little devil."

"Vmeste" – "together."

"Mudak" – "asshole."

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Prompt Post #4

Re: {Fill} The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal) - 3/5

{Fill} The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal) - 4/5

{Fill} The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal) - 5a/5b

{Fill} The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal) - 5b/5b