The room was rented, dark, and sterile—just like the agreement.
One night.
No names.
No pasts.
The masks stayed on.
Koschei was already there, standing near the edge of the bed like a shadow. His black mask covered half his face, and the rest of him was in deep black tactical wear—fitted, clean, controlled. He looked nothing like Mikhail. Or so Leon told himself.
Leon arrived second, nervous despite himself, wearing his own gear and a mask that barely hid the twitch in his jaw. He didn't know why he came. He didn't know what he expected.
He only knew he needed this—needed to know why the touch of this man haunted him when he already had someone at home.
Koschei didn't speak. Just walked up slowly and cupped Leon's jaw with a gloved hand.
Leon stiffened. The touch was gentle. Familiar.
Too familiar.
He forced the thought away.
"I want…" he started, but Koschei cut him off.
"No," the Russian said quietly. "Tonight, I take the lead."
Leon hesitated. "That's not—normally I—"
Koschei stepped closer. "Then consider this a learning experience."
There was something in his voice. Not cruel. Just unyielding.
Leon hesitated—but nodded.
Leon didn't resist when Koschei guided him back, unbuckling his vest with methodical precision. He didn't speak—not once—as he stripped Leon down, piece by piece, until the cool air hit his flushed skin. His mask never moved. Neither did Leon's.
Gloved fingers trailed over Leon's chest, deliberate and slow, pausing at the faint scars only someone who knew him would recognize. Koschei said nothing. Just ghosted his thumb across one, making Leon shudder—not from fear, but from the weight of being seen without ever being looked at directly.
Then Koschei kissed him through the mask.
It wasn't a kiss, not really—more a press of lips against fabric, a silent claim.
Before Leon could process it, Koschei had turned him around.
Bent him over the edge of the bed.
He heard the rustle of a zipper, the snap of a glove being pulled tighter, the sound of a small bottle opening. He braced himself, fingers curled into the comforter.
Then he felt it—one gloved hand sliding between his cheeks, slick with lube, pushing a finger in without preamble. Leon sucked in a sharp breath.
Another followed, scissoring him open with practiced ease.
"Relax," Koschei murmured, the first real softness in his voice.
Leon tried. He really did.
But it was hard when everything about this felt like exposure.
When Koschei finally pushed in, thick and slow, Leon choked on a sound he barely managed to muffle. The stretch burned—too much, too sudden—but Koschei didn't stop. He kept going, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Leon trembled, his muscles clenching involuntarily.
Then Koschei grabbed his hips—tight, possessive—and began to thrust.
Measured. Deep. Unrelenting.
Each snap of his hips sent jolts through Leon's spine, blurring the line between pain and pleasure until it all became heat—liquid, unbearable heat. The pressure built fast, unbearable, and Leon couldn't help the noises spilling out of him now—gasps, half-bitten cries, curses whispered into the sheets.
Koschei leaned over him, body flush against his back, and murmured against his ear, "Take it."
The voice was steel. Final. But not cruel.
Leon whimpered and obeyed.
Every thrust felt like a question he didn't have the answer to. Every angle was perfect—too perfect. Like Koschei had studied him. Memorized him. Owned him.
It was invasive.
It was intoxicating.
When Koschei's hand slipped beneath him to stroke his cock, Leon nearly lost it. The glove was still on—slick with lube and rough against his sensitive skin—and it only took a few strokes before his hips were jerking, chasing the rhythm, breath coming in harsh, broken moans.
He came hard—too hard—spilling over Koschei's hand with a strangled sound, his body seizing under the intensity.
Koschei didn't stop.
Kept fucking him through it, prolonging the overstimulation until Leon was shaking, a mess of sweat and tears and raw nerves. He cried out again when Koschei's pace picked up—harder now, deeper, brutal in its precision.
When Koschei came, it was silent.
Just a grunt, a sharp jerk of his hips, and then stillness.
He stayed inside for a moment, chest rising and falling against Leon's back. Then he pulled out, slow and steady, and stepped away.
Leon collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard, his body flushed and leaking and aching all over.
He turned his face into the pillow, trying not to feel humiliated by the wet sounds, the sore stretch, the bruises that would probably form on his hips by morning.
Silence settled again.
When he finally gathered the strength to sit up, he felt something sticky on his thigh. A glance told him Koschei hadn't used a condom. That hit harder than it should have.
Koschei was already dressed.
Back in his mask, his gear, his silence.
Leon stared at him, chest still heaving, a thousand questions forming on his tongue—but none of them made it past his lips.
"I…" he started.
Koschei just tilted his head slightly. "No need."
And then he was gone. Quiet as a phantom. just like that—no trace, no questions.
Leon sat alone in the silence, muscles aching in places he hadn't expected, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
What the hell just happened?