Chapter Text
“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice a low thrum against my lips. “Never been kissed by a man who knows what he’s doing?”
I couldn’t answer. My mind was a blank, white sheet, wiped clean by the shocking warmth of his mouth, the impossible solidity of his body pressed against mine. All I could do was breathe him in, the scent of cold night air and expensive soap.
It had started an hour ago, in the stale silence of my safehouse. The mission was over, the target neutralized. The only thing left was the quiet, and the hollow feeling that always followed the gunshot’s echo. I was pouring a drink, something to blur the edges, when the air in the room changed. It wasn’t a sound. It was a presence.
I turned, and the glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the concrete floor.
He was there, leaning against the doorframe as if he owned it. As if he owned the very air. He had my face, but… more. His hair was dark where mine was blond, his eyes a deep, knowing brown instead of my pale blue. He was broader, his shoulders straining the fabric of his black sweater, a predator’s confidence in every relaxed line of his body.
“Hello, Yassen,” he’d said. His voice was mine, but pitched lower, a vibration I felt in my bones.
I’d reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. “Who are you?”
A slow, devastating smile. “I’m what you could be if you stopped pretending. They call me Cossack.”
The name was a punch to the gut. A codename from a life I’d buried. He stepped into the light, and I saw it all—the slight scar through his eyebrow I’d gotten at fourteen, the exact shape of my mouth, but set in a smirk I would never allow myself.
“This is impossible,” I whispered, my own voice sounding thin and reedy next to his.
“Is it?” He gestured around the barren room. “You hide in these cold, empty boxes. You think denying yourself everything makes you strong. It just makes you empty.” He took another step, and I held my ground, a lifetime of training locking my muscles. He was close enough now that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell that clean, sharp scent. “I feel what you feel. I want what you want. I’m just not afraid of it.”
He reached out, and his fingers, calloused and warm, brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. The touch was electric, a jolt of something so foreign, so terrifyingly wanted, that I shuddered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a revelation.
And that’s how we ended up here. With his hands framing my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, his dark eyes seeing straight through all my walls and defenses.
“Let me show you,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t a takeover. It was an invitation. His lips were soft, moving over mine with a patient certainty that unspooled me completely. I’d had kisses before—clumsy, rushed things in the dark, obligations more than desires. This was nothing like that. This was a conversation. A question asked and answered with the slow, parting of lips.
A low sound escaped me, a helpless gasp. He took it, his tongue meeting mine, not thrusting, but tasting. Exploring. The hollow inside me began to fill with a tremor, a heat that started deep in my belly and spread outward. My hands, clenched at my sides, came up, fingers tangling in the soft wool of his sweater. I wasn’t pushing him away. I was holding on.
He kissed me until my head spun, until the room ceased to exist. There was only the slick, hot slide of his tongue, the slight scratch of his stubble, the intoxicating weight of his body leaning into me. He kissed me until I was kissing him back, until I was chasing the taste of him, my own movements becoming less hesitant, more urgent.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. My heart was a wild drum against my ribs. His eyes were black with want, a mirror of the need I felt coiling tight within me.
“See?” he said, his voice rough now. “It doesn’t have to hurt to feel something.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth found mine again, but the tenderness was gone, replaced by a raw hunger that set me on fire. His hands slid from my face, down my neck, over my shoulders, mapping my body with an intimate knowledge that stole my breath. He knew where I was slender, where the muscle lay taut under the skin. He knew just how to touch me.
One hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, his palm searing against the bare skin of my stomach. I jerked at the contact, a bolt of pure sensation shooting straight through me. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in the scant space between us.
“Do you want me to stop?” The question was a growl, a challenge.
I shook my head, the movement frantic. No. God, no.
A dark smile touched his lips. His hand slid higher, pushing the fabric up, and his thumb brushed over my nipple. It pebbled instantly under his touch, a sharp, aching point of pleasure. I cried out, a short, sharp sound I didn’t recognize as my own. If he saw the scars, he said nothing.
“So sensitive,” he murmured, his voice full of dark wonder. He lowered his head and his mouth closed over the taut peak through the cotton of my shirt. The heat, the dampness, the gentle suction—it was too much. My knees buckled. He caught me, his arm a steel band around my waist, holding me up as his mouth worked me over, laving, nipping, until I was writhing against him, mindless with a need I’d never dared to name.
He laid me back on the cool floor, following me down, never breaking contact. His weight settled over me, solid and real, pinning me in the best way possible. My hips arched up of their own volition, seeking friction, seeking him. A deep, approving groan rumbled in his chest.
He kissed me again, deep and claiming, as his hand trailed down my stomach, his fingers deftly popping the button of my trousers, easing the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. The cool air hit my heated skin, and then his hand was there, sliding into my underwear, and—
His touch stilled. His eyes, dark and intense, locked with mine. I saw the flicker of surprise, then a slow-dawning, overpowering heat. His fingers traced the unexpected, sensitive folds, so different from his own anatomy.
A wicked, possessive smile spread across his face. “Well,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. “This is a surprise.”
Chapter Text
My breath catches in my throat, a sharp, shallow thing. The concrete is cold against my back, a stark contrast to the wildfire he’s igniting with just his fingertips. He doesn’t move, just lets his hand rest there, a hot, impossible weight against my most secret self. His dark eyes hold mine, and in them, I see my own shock reflected back at me, twisted into something far more potent: a raw, unfiltered hunger.
A surprise, he’d said. The word echoes in the silent, charged space between us.
Then his fingers move. Not thrusting, not taking. Exploring.
A single fingertip traces the outer line of me, a feather-light caress that makes my entire body jolt. A sound, a pathetic whimper, escapes my lips. I want to clamp my legs shut, to hide, to retreat back into the cold shell I’ve lived in for so long. But my muscles refuse to obey. They are liquid, molten under his touch.
He makes a low, humming sound in the back of his throat, a vibration I feel through his chest pressed against mine. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper against my cheek. His breath is warm. “So… perfectly made.”
His thumb finds the apex of my folds, pressing in a slow, circling motion. Oh, God. My head falls back against the hard floor, a dull thud I don’t even feel. All my awareness is there, focused on that tiny, deliberate point of contact. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, shoots through me. My hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk, pushing up against his hand.
A dark, satisfied smile touches his lips. “That’s it,” he coaxes, his voice dropping even lower. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
He dips his head, catching my mouth in a searing kiss. It’s not soft or patient anymore. It’s deep and claiming, his tongue mirroring the relentless, circling motion of his thumb. I am being unraveled from both ends, kissed into a stupor while he coaxes my body into a frenzy it doesn’t understand.
I am clutching at his sweater, the wool scratchy under my desperate fingers. I am moaning into his mouth, sounds I have never made before, animal noises of pure sensation. The hollow feeling from after the mission is gone, burned away, replaced by a pressure that is building, coiling, tightening low in my belly.
His finger slips lower, gliding through the slickness he’s drawn from me. The sound is obscenely wet, intimate. My face flames with a heat that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with a lifetime of suppressed shame. But the shame is a weak, distant thing, easily drowned out by the sheer overwhelming rightness of his touch.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. Our breath mingles, ragged and hot. He watches me as his finger teases my entrance, circling, pressing, but not entering. The anticipation is a physical ache. A plea is on my lips, but I have no words, only a ragged gasp.
“Tell me what you want,” he growls, his voice thick. His eyes are black pools of intent. “Use your words, Yassen.”
I shake my head frantically, my vision blurring. I can’t. I don’t have the words for this. All I can do is rock my hips again, a silent, desperate prayer.
He tsks softly, a mock scold. “You have to ask for it. You have to want it enough to say it.”
His finger presses just inside, a tantalizing inch. The stretch is exquisite, a faint burn that only intensifies the dizzying pleasure. A broken sob escapes me.
“Please,” I choke out, the word tearing from a place I didn’t know existed.
“Please, what?” he insists, his voice a low thrum that vibrates through my very core. He pushes in a little deeper, and my back arches off the floor.
“Please… don’t stop.” The confession is a raw wound, leaving me exposed.
A flash of triumph lights his face. That’s my boy, he doesn’t say, but I hear it anyway.
He finally, finally, slides his finger all the way inside me.
The fullness is shocking. My inner muscles clench around him instinctively, a tight, foreign fit. A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure male satisfaction. “Fuck, Yassen.”
He begins to move, a slow, withdrawing slide followed by a thrust that goes deeper. It’s a rhythm that steals what’s left of my reason. My legs fall open wider, an invitation, a surrender. He takes it, settling between my thighs, the coarse fabric of his trousers a rough counterpoint to the smooth skin of my inner legs.
His mouth finds my neck, his teeth scraping over my pulse point as his finger pumps into me, again and again. The coiling pressure inside me winds tighter, a spring about to snap. I am panting, my fingers scrambling for purchase on his back, digging into the hard muscle there.
He adds a second finger.
The stretch is more this time, a burning fullness that borders on pain before it melts into a pleasure so intense it whites out my vision. I cry out, a sharp, wordless sound that echoes in the barren room. His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent.
“That’s it,” he rasps against my skin, his own breath coming in harsh gusts. “Let me feel you come. Come for me.”
His thumb finds that sensitive bundle of nerves again, pressing down in firm, rhythmic circles. It’s the final key, the last turn of the lock. The coil inside me shatters.
The world dissolves into a supernova of sensation. My body seizes, back bowing off the cold concrete as a wave of pure, mindless ecstasy crashes over me. I am shaking, convulsing around his fingers, a silent scream locked in my throat as pleasure rips through me in relentless, pulsing waves. It goes on and on, wiping away every thought, every memory, leaving nothing but the raw, shuddering aftermath.
Slowly, the tremors subside. I am boneless, spent, floating in a hazy void. He gently withdraws his fingers, the loss of fullness a small, poignant ache. He brings his hand to his mouth, his dark eyes locked on mine, and slowly, deliberately, sucks his fingers clean.
The act is so boldly intimate, so shockingly carnal, that a fresh, different heat floods my veins. He lowers himself over me, his body blanketing mine, and captures my mouth in a deep, slow kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue—salty, musky, mine—and the possessiveness of it makes something new stir deep within my spent body.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brushing mine with every word. “Now,” he whispers, his voice husky with promise, “I’ll show you something new, Yassen.”
Chapter Text
His whisper hangs in the air, a promise and a threat all at once. Now. The word vibrates through me, sparking embers in my thoroughly ruined body. I am still floating, my limbs heavy, my mind pleasantly blank. But a new current of anticipation is already beginning to flow, cutting through the haze.
Cossack shifts above me, his weight a comforting anchor. He doesn’t move to undress himself, doesn’t try to take more. He simply looks down at me, his dark eyes holding an unnerving patience. He is waiting.
His hand, the one that just moments ago was inside me, comes to rest on my stomach. His palm is warm, possessive. He slides it slowly upward, over my ribs, until his fingers wrap around my wrist.
My breath catches. I know what he wants.
A jolt of pure panic, cold and sharp, lances through the warmth he’s built in me. My training screams, a lifetime of keeping my hands to myself, of using them only as tools, as weapons. Touching him back feels like a transgression far greater than simply receiving his touch.
He feels the tension in my arm. His gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t force my hand, just holds my wrist with a firm, unyielding gentleness. “It’s not a one-way street, Yassen,” he says, my name a low caress on his lips. “Pleasure is meant to be shared. Given. Taken.”
He guides my hand downward, over the hard plane of his stomach, toward the unmistakable, rigid shape straining against the rough fabric of his trousers. The heat there is immense, even through the material. A fresh wave of that musky, masculine scent that is purely him washes over me.
My fingers tremble against the wool. I want to pull back. I want to press closer. The conflict must be plain on my face.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice soft but absolute.
I drag my eyes from where our hands are about to meet and find his. The hunger is still there, a banked fire, but there’s something else now. A flicker of understanding. Of… teaching.
“Don’t be afraid of it,” he murmurs. “It’s just another part of me. A part that wants you.”
His words disarm me more effectively than any physical move could. He brings my hand the final inch, pressing my palm flush against the hard length of him.
Oh.
The sheer solidity of him is a shock. He is thick and hard, pulsing with a life of its own under my touch. A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, and his eyes drift shut for a second. The sound, the reaction… it’s because of me. My timid, hesitant touch.
A spark of something new ignites in my belly. Not just passive pleasure, but a flicker of power.
“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice deeper now, faint accent thickening just so. His grip on my wrist loosens, becomes merely a guide. “Feel me.”
Tentatively, I let my fingers curl, exploring the shape of him through the fabric. He is so hard, so hot. I stroke him, a slow, unsure movement from base to tip. The groan he lets out is pure music, a reward that feeds that new, fragile power inside me.
His hips give a slight, involuntary jerk, pushing into my hand. The movement is so raw, so honest, it steals my breath. My own earlier hesitations, my fears, seem foolish now. This isn’t about weakness. This is about discovery.
His eyes open, dark pools of heat fixed on mine. “Don’t stop.”
My movements grow bolder. I stroke him again, learning the feel of him. The rough texture of his trousers, the iron-hard flesh beneath. I press the heel of my palm against him, applying a slight pressure, and am rewarded with another sharp intake of breath from him.
He leans down, capturing my mouth in a searing, open-mouthed kiss. It’s messy, less controlled than before, fueled by the rhythm my hand is setting. I can feel his restraint fraying, and the knowledge is utterly intoxicating.
With a sudden, efficient movement, he breaks the kiss and his own hand goes to his waistband. The sound of his zipper is loud, aggressive. He pushes the fabric down just enough, freeing himself.
He takes my hand again and brings it back, skin to skin this time.
The sensation is staggering. He’s velvet over steel, impossibly smooth and hot. My fingers instinctively close around him, and we both gasp at the contact. His skin is like satin, stretched taut over the rigid core of his arousal. I can feel a single, slick drop of moisture bead at the tip.
“Yes,” he hisses, the word ragged. “Just like that.”
He releases my wrist completely, leaving me to my own devices. For a moment, I freeze, unsure. But the feel of him in my hand, the way his breath hitches as I squeeze just a little, is all the instruction I need.
I begin to move my hand, a slow, tentative slide. Up, then down. Mimicking the rhythm he used on me. His eyes are locked on mine, his expression one of intense, focused pleasure. He is letting me see it all, every flicker of sensation that crosses his face. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking there.
I tighten my grip slightly on the upstroke, my thumb brushing over the slick head. His whole body tenses, a shudder wracking his powerful frame. “Fuck, Yassen.”
His approval is a drug. My movements become more sure, more deliberate. I find a rhythm that makes his breath catch, that has his hips pushing up into my fist. The room is filled with the soft, wet sound of my hand moving on him, his ragged breathing, my own soft pants.
He is magnificent like this, stripped of his absolute control, riding the sensations I am giving him. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. The tenderness of the gesture, contrasted with the raw carnality of what my hand is doing, sends a dizzying rush through me.
I want to taste that groan on his lips. I pull him down to me, kissing him with a newfound boldness. He moans into my mouth, his tongue tangling with mine as my hand works him faster, harder.
I can feel the tension coiling in him, a mirror of my own climax just moments before. His muscles are taut, his kisses becoming more desperate, less coordinated.
“Don’t stop,” he rasps against my mouth, a desperate plea. “I’m so close. Don’t you dare stop.”
The command, the raw need in his voice, is the final key. My hand moves with a purpose I didn’t know I possessed, stroking him firmly, relentlessly. I watch his face, mesmerized, as his eyelids flutter shut and his head falls back. A low, broken sound is torn from his throat, and his entire body goes rigid above me.
split on Chapter 1 Sat 15 Nov 2025 08:36PM UTC
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