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Corto's hand hadn't moved from his leg in over an hour.
No, that wasn't entirely correct, Rasputin thought as he stared down the nearly empty glass in his hand - his fourth pint of something foul and beneath him - and wished he could merge into the uncomfortable booth he was sitting in. Corto's hand had moved, just not away from his thigh. Not in a safe direction, not in a way that he could mention in between venomous quips he called his contributions to the conversation. Rasputin wasn't even certain of the precise moment he'd noticed the offensive limb, somewhere between his first and second glass? It was before Corto had him bring in more drinks, so that their overly friendly bartender could stay and not so subtly flirt with his friend and parade her admittedly impressive pair of -. Point was, it was definitely before the drinks because he could remember thinking that Corto would finally take his hand away and he could leave for the bathroom and piss the gallon of alcohol he'd consumed throughout the night. And it'd been a long night. But when he returned to the table, the present company no less appealing than before, so did the treacherous hand.
It was long enough night for Corto to move from his knee, a strong but undemanding grip holding him in place, up to the middle of his thigh, millimeters away from a rather ugly scar Rasputin couldn't even remember where he'd gotten. Must've been from an adventure, he'd like to think all his injuries came from exciting adventures. If his friend could feel the scarred skin over the thin material of his rather expensive pants, he didn't show it. But his hand rested there, burning hot, long enough for him to suspect he'd gotten it on an adventure that included Corto. Maybe it was the drink messing with his mind but the Russian couldn't conjure up a single memory in his mind's eye that didn't have the familiar tall outline of his friend in it.
When the previously passive hand started rubbing little circles in the meat of his leg, Rasputin finally looked over to his tormentor. Corto was chatting perfectly amicably with his friends, a group of intellectuals that clearly had too much time for theory but no actual experience with acting, something which disgusted Rasputin and he made no effort to hide. He didn't understand what his friend saw in them, or how he'd roped him into this little get together either, as he hated making nice with strangers, especially pretentious strangers. The hand on his thigh told him it didn't matter how he'd gotten into this seedy bar, with these expensively dressed people and their pointless discussions, because Corto was here. And Rasputin came wherever Corto went.
Rasputin wished he could will Corto to fucking leave so he could move and feel his lower body again. Sometimes, Corto would lean in to whisper something conspiratorially in his ear, his breath warm and smelling like his girly cocktail, and his nails would dig in into Rasputin's flesh. A woman laughed somewhere to his left and he heard Corto laugh with her, the pressure on his leg briefly letting up, long enough for him to shift his position and move away slightly, bending over the table and feeling suddenly exhausted. Unfortunately, as if sensing his relief, Corto returned his hand, higher now, impossibly higher, his long fingers reaching the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Rasputin took a violent swig of his drink and slammed it down, startling their company.
After that, the unnecessary background noise started filtering out. He vaguely listened to Corto say his goodbyes for each and every one of them, everyone thanking him for truly illuminating conversation, oh we should repeat this as soon as possible my dear! , useless niceties only frivolous vagabonds like Corto had time for. None of them attempted to say goodbye to him and he was just fine with that. Rasputin was certain any more small talk would only end with him putting a few holes in their costly clothes and then Corto would leave. His brain split between wondering why that would be so bad and feeling like Corto owed him something after several hours of this . Only after the last glimmer of an expensive watch was out of sight did he wonder, dumbly, if anyone had noticed Corto's little game. That was coincidentally the moment his friend had decided to pull his hand away.
“You look tired, old man. I think you've had enough.” Corto told him, making an attempt to steal the glass - his fifth? He'd lost count. Rasputin slapped him away sloppily.
“Get your own damn drink and stop trying to swindle me out of mine. I know how you work C- Corto…” His voice faltered, ”...Maltese! Your name is shit.”
Corto watched him with amusement, clearly still set on being a thief.
“I thought you liked my name.” The Spaniard said with mock-hurt, miming a broken heart with the traitorous hand that had only recently moved from Rasputin’s lap. His eyes followed it as he struggled to flip him off, managing only to vigorously shake his fist at the man, making Corto laugh. His friend had the most attractive laugh when he was drunk, and Corto was drunk, that much was certain. He could fake it well enough in front of his sophisticated friends, hell, he'd drink shitty non threatening drinks to appease them, but Rasputin could see the way he swayed slightly, how the blood pooled in his cheeks and spread down his neck, making him blush faintly all over. Rasputin knew a few more sips and his friend would be passing out, snoring softly on whatever surface caught him. He couldn't leave him there at the mercy of the scum that frequented these bars, but he wasn't sure his own level of intoxication would let him even stand up. He kind of missed Corto's hand.
“Hmph, not as much as that witch that kept hanging off your arm the entire night!” Rasputin bit back, before slipping into his worst impression of an affluent woman, “Oh Corto! You are simply divine! Corto, Corto, Corto…” He batted his eyelashes the best he could, clasping his hands together as he did it. Corto lost it there, his entire frame shaking as he giggled like a boy, Rasputin joining in soon after. He was too inebriated to even chide him for insulting women, a sign he was too far gone.
“Her mistake, she should have obviously been singing your name instead - Rasputin, Rasputin! The famous lover of the Russian- ” He couldn't even finish the sentence, only crumpled against his friend while wheezing between laughter. Rasputin loved him like this the best, open and teasing, his dimples freely on display and eyes shining with mischief. It was a shame he got to see this side of him so rarely. Rasputin didn't even know the reason for his friend's heavy drinking tonight, hadn't even thought about it as he himself never needed one. But he was feeling too good to consider bringing it up, much happier to just laugh along with Corto while the man let him.
“I am too drunk for this.” Rasputin said, amused.
“You sound very unpatriotic right now Rasputin. Won't you drink with me a bit more?”
The Russian snorted at the mention of his country, but shook his head, “You might not remember the last time we got this drunk, but I do. I can still feel the Monk’s lashes for ‘ruining his best sailor’ , ha!” He shuddered at the memory. Corto sobered up next to him at the mention of their shared past, staring strangely at him. Rasputin waited patiently as his friend sorted out his thoughts, curious.
“Was this after we'd come back from Martinique?”
“And after you'd promised your hand to that French girl who looked like a horse, just because her name reminded you of a poem.” Rasputin snickered at the image, remembering the way she'd cried when she'd realized that her fiancé’s idea of long term commitment was strictly pillow talk.
“Don't be rude, it was a beautiful name!” He watched as the man struggled to make his drunk brain recall it, “and I shouldn't have proposed… That was a moment of insanity.”
“Not of love?” Rasputin teased, feeling drunk on the body heat pressing into him more than the alcohol coursing through him itself.
“Don't say words you don't know the meaning of Rasputin.” Corto said, voice now low and his eyes downcast. The Russian worried that he was finally falling asleep, thinking about the task of dragging the taller man to his apartment. Corto still hadn't offered his own location to him, a fact that annoyed Rasputin greatly. But his friend was slipping into a more dangerous state altogether - his pathetic sentimentality. Rasputin’s hopes of an uncomplicated evening were dashed and he was painfully aware of the fact his friend would not be moving from his spot until he'd either drank his problem away or, worse, talked to someone about it.
“Out with it. I know you Corto, and this is pathetic even for you.”
Corto sighed, all fight leaving him as he swallowed down the last drop of his fruity drink. “You are right. I'm feeling indisposed. I shouldn't have drank this much tonight.”
“No, you idiot! You should have absolutely drank this much and more, that is not the point. What is your problem? You hate joy?”
“Hah, maybe. Maybe so, Rasputin.” Corto didn't bite, only sank further down in his seat and slyly stole Rasputin’s alcohol to drink. The Russian let him, sensing his friend needed it more than he did. He'd just ask for the money in the morning.
“... Is it another woman again?” Rasputin sagged now too, his buzz soured by this shift in the mood.
“You know me so well, dear friend.” Corto replied sardonically.
“I can leave you here, Maltese.”
“Maybe you should.” His voice was so quiet, barely a whisper, and Rasputin could only hear it because they were basically sitting cheek to cheek. A silence stretched between them, as silent as a bar full of drunks could be at night. Rasputin studied an old white man in a dark green uniform which was torn at both sleeves that was sitting two tables over and scribbling something. His attire reminded the Russian of Greek soldiers and that somehow seemed out of place in this bar, which Rasputin was suddenly having a problem placing on his mental map. He was snapped out of mentally trailing down cobblestone roads by a weak “She'd left too…” and he whipped his focus back to Corto.
“Who has left?” Rasputin slurred slightly and Corto shifted next to him, moving away and pulling himself as straight as the drink would let him.
“The woman I love.”
“Pah, that could be any woman on this godforsaken planet! You fall in love too easily, my friend.” Rasputin barked, unhappy that once again his friend was allowing some woman to dominate his thoughts so easily. “Don Quixote would have more sense than you by now!”
“You can only say that because you have no idea what love is. If you knew love the way I knew it when I was with her, you would not say such things.” Corto told him simply, saying the word love with all the passion and reverence one might save for the confessional. Rasputin let the words wash over him, he inhaled the adoring sentiments and the strange inflection Corto only got when talking about romance, and he spit out poison. Before he knew it, he was wobbling up to his feet and stumbling to the exit, sick to his stomach from it all. He gagged on love and it tasted like acid and cheap rum. Somewhere behind him he could hear footsteps and his name being shouted over, but he could only focus on his breathing and trying to will his stomach not to spill out into the streets.
“Rasputin, you could have just told me if you wanted me to pay for the tab.” Corto was close again, always close, and he sounded winded. He shoved the man next to him with all the force he could muster and heard a gasp and painful thud as his companion toppled over. The air outside somehow felt as thick and humid as the one inside the bar and Rasputin started to sweat from exertion, eyes unfocused in the dim streetlights.
“Fuck…”
“Shut up.”
They must have been a pathetic sight, with him squatting with his head between his legs and Corto sitting on his ass, struggling to get back up, two drunk men in their thirties too intoxicated to get themselves home after a night of heavy drinking. Oh if Corto's friends could see him now! That thought gave him enough strength to drag himself back up into a standing position and he extended a hand to his friend. Corto eyed him warily for a moment, wondering if it was another trap, before deciding it didn't matter and taking the offer. He pulled him up in one swift motion and the Spaniard landed in his arms trying to balance himself.
“Do you really think…” Rasputin spoke privately to Corto, not certain what he was saying himself. Corto seemed lost in his own thoughts, but he didn't move away from Rasputin once he was stable, so the man pushed on, “Do you really think that I’ve never loved anyone?”
“Loving your dead mother or your nanny does not count, my friend.” Corto spoke distractedly.
“Be serious! Answer my damn question!”
This time, Corto took a few moments to speak and Rasputin settled for counting the minuscule blemishes on his friend's face, all testaments to countless fights he'd had over the years. Rasputin’s favorite, if one could play favorites with a friend's scars, was the tiny white cut on the underside of his jaw, which Rasputin knew he'd gotten from him. They'd been young then, and Corto had asked him to shave him while he'd read one book or another, like that was simply another thing their friendship could include. Corto didn't seem that keen on including anyone in his life these days. Except, apparently, women who break his heart hard enough to send him drinking.
“I've never thought about it.” Corto admitted, and when Rasputin looked up to meet his eyes he found the Spaniard's piercing gaze looking back at him, impossibly sober and knowing. He physically shrank under it, feeling like Corto was once again one step ahead of him in his own damn mind. A hand sneaked up on his right shoulder and it felt like a deathtrap, like any wrong turn would end with him bleeding out in agony in a ditch somewhere, Corto long gone chasing after some other fable that didn't include him. Nightmares bled into his thoughts and he remembered why he drank. He also remembered why he couldn't drink himself under the table tonight, why his bladder still screamed at him, why he'd spent most of the bar visit feeling dazed and yet somehow hyper-aware. He couldn't believe he was the one being put on trial right now for an offense he hadn't even committed yet. Rasputin brought down his hands on Corto's hips and snapped them together suddenly, eliciting a shocked gasp from his friend. He would not be judged by whatever god looked down upon this tragicomedy on his own.
“If you speak, I will kill you.” Rasputin growled and with it said he moved and pressed an aggressive kiss against Corto's closed mouth. It wasn't romantic, it wasn't even close to what one might call a good first kiss, especially with the way their noses smashed together, but Rasputin refused to abandon ship now. The hand on his shoulder that had felt like a chain mere moments earlier was now grasping at him like a drowning man, Corto feeling stiff and alert against him. Rasputin dug his fingers into the Spaniard’s hips and Corto opened his mouth in pain long enough for Rasputin to deepen the kiss, feeling a sense of spiteful satisfaction at having forced Corto into an unfavorable position.
Over whatever brief shock had possessed him, Corto slid his free hand into Rasputin's messy brown hair and pulled , hard enough that Rasputin only saw white, yowling like a wounded cat. They breathed heavily against each other, bodies still pressed together because Rasputin refused to let go of him, certain that if he did Corto would just dematerialize in front of his eyes and he'd never see him again. Unfortunately, the proximity did little to hide his already hardening prick, responding shamelessly to the intimacy and violence of the situation. If Corto noticed, he didn't comment and Rasputin couldn't feel anything from his own side. An awful dread clawed at the back of his mind that he'd just shoved his tongue down his completely heterosexual best friend's throat after the man had confessed to still loving a different woman, but Corto's face just split into an easy smile.
“Slow down, Ras.” He spoke slowly, voice rough from the kissing and alcohol, and Rasputin could barely contain the need to buck his hips up at the familiar nickname, “I-- we can't do this here.”
The implied promise of continuing this somewhere else went straight to his cock and Rasputin almost begged to just find the nearest alleyway and finish themselves off, but he bit it back and nodded curtly. He followed closely behind as they cut through the old narrow streets of the city Rasputin was still hazy on, passing a total of two bums and one gaggle of teenagers on their short trip. The moon was hidden behind the storm clouds tonight, and streetlamps couldn't cover all of the passages, so much of the wandering around Rasputin spent stumbling and bumping into things, trying to catch onto his friend that somehow navigated these wretched roads perfectly. He had clearly had enough experience with returning home from the bar drunk and the thought worried Rasputin.
Worst of all, the brief trip still left the Russian with plenty of time to truly think about what was going to happen once they reached Corto's home. His brain felt slow and foggy, but it would not stop filling with images of Corto, some outlandish, some very old. He tried constructing the man naked from various memories of different body parts but none of it satisfied, for he knew his friend was as permanent as his stories. Sun kissed calves dipped in clear azure water, a forearm with drying blood from a fight, a hint of his midriff in the rare occasions when he hadn't been wearing his coat… Rasputin had never realized how much he'd worshiped his friend's body until now, painfully hard at the mere thought of stripping him past the teasing glimpses of naked flesh.
Corto led him up a flight of stairs, taking his hand and all but dragging him up to his flat. None of the neighboring lights were on, a fact Rasputin was thankful for because he was certain any interruptions now would change something between them. He pressed himself against Corto's wide back as the man fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath in Spanish. Rasputin sneaked his hands around his waist and laid his head against Corto's neck, pressing light kisses on the burning skin. Corto made no effort to push him off and by the time the lock had clicked triumphantly, Rasputin’s hands had found their way under the sailor's shirt. Corto laughed as they stumbled inside into a dark hallway, pushing him away so he could turn on the lights.
The first thing Rasputin noticed, beyond the sharp pain caused by the sudden blinding light, was that this apartment was unusually bare for a Maltese residency. There were still exotic effigies and art on the walls, but the place felt hollow and lifeless. As Corto led him to what he assumed was the master bedroom, he could see a few stray beer bottles littering the carpeted floor, but the warm hand on the small of his back distracted him enough to forget it. After all, all this meant was that Corto had even more alcohol in his house that Rasputin could steal afterwards.
The bedroom felt similarly depressing, the unmade bed a nail in the already truly worrying coffin, but Corto pushed him face down into it and Rasputin’s mind went blank. Before he could protest, Corto was moving away, leaving Rasputin in the dark to lay in the sheets that smelled so much like his friend that he instinctively groaned into them. Even the stench of stale alcohol couldn't mask the smell of salt and the sea that clung to the sailor no matter where he went. Rasputin laid there for some time contemplating just falling asleep like this, enveloped by a sense of comfort and safety he'd never admit to sober, but something wet and cold touched the back of his leg and he startled upright.
“Take it, Rasputin. I've been saving this bottle for a special occasion,” Rasputin could hear too much melancholy in those words, “but this is as good a time as any to open it.”
“Don't think this makes us even.” Rasputin grumbled as he took the bottle, immediately taking a swig of it. The scotch tasted strong and buttery and it burned pleasantly, obviously containing more alcohol than anything he'd had tonight. If they wanted to, they could finish off this bottle and simply part ways. Corto refused the bottle when offered so Rasputin quickly dismissed the thought.
“This must have cost a fortune.”
“It was a gift from an old friend, so I wouldn't know.” Corto said as he sat down on the bed next to Rasputin. The frame creaked under him and the Russian noted the lack of distance between them - Corto's thigh was firmly pressed to his, the heat radiating from it as bad as the scotch he'd been given.
“Some friend… You could introduce us?” Rasputin took one last sip before he put the bottle down. Feeling buzzed properly again, he closed his eyes, content. He'd forgotten the simple joy of sitting with another and sharing a drink alone.
“Ras… Did you really come here to talk about this?” Corto's lips ghosted over his ear and he suppressed a shiver at the sensation. Thoughts of camaraderie abandoned, he turned his head to meet the man in a hungry kiss. Corto tasted like his girly fruity drink and… Was that toothpaste? Had the devil actually brushed his teeth before coming back here? Rasputin colored in the dark, knowing his friend was tasting only the swill he'd drank on his breath. Corto moaned against him, but it was not a sound Rasputin had heard from a partner before, a deep growl that left nothing to ambiguity. The kisses were sloppy and uncoordinated, teeth clacking together often as they tried to figure out how this works. Nothing about kissing Corto was familiar and Rasputin struggled trying to document everything that was alien - except it wasn't, kissing Corto felt like the most natural thing in the world - but his brain couldn't get past the euphoria he was feeling. He sighed contentedly into the other's mouth, trying to get as close to divinity as his friend would let him.
Rasputin let his hands wander lazily down the sailor's body, cataloging all the surprisingly soft edges, delighted to finally be allowed to touch. Corto's muscles shifted under his hands, a body poised with power melding under him to grant more access. Had Corto always been so willing? Had Rasputin wasted so many years yearning for a single night like this for nothing? He dragged Corto’s lower lip between his teeth and the man gasped, hands in Rasputin’s hair tightening at the sensation. They dropped, clumsily trying to get the Russian’s shirt off of him, Corto apparently as eager as him to get closer.
“Wait- Let me-” Rasputin struggled out as they wrestled to get undressed, Rasputin's head stuck in the wretched clothing and Corto giggling dumbly at the sight. Finally free of it he threw the offensive shirt away and pushed the still laughing drunk man onto the bed. Seeing Corto disheveled underneath him, cheeks red and his lips swollen from the kissing, looking back at him with a mix of easy humor and defiance, Rasputin was transfixed. He planted his scarred palm flat on top of his chest, hypnotized by the way it heaved up and down and the way his heart seemed to race in perfect unison with his own. Corto covered it with his own hand, the one that bore his grotesque luck line. Rasputin’s head swam.
“Rasputin, what are you doing?”
“I-” He had no idea how to finish that sentence. What was he doing? His brain supplied nothing, so he bent down to press a light kiss on his friend's mouth and slid the scarred hand further down. Chest to chest, he could feel the sudden sharp intake of breath and muscles tightening in the Spaniard's abdomen, both feeling the anticipation. Rasputin’s cock throbbed as he buried his hands in the thick pubic hair, having spent so many nights imagining it from the short glimpses he'd caught over the years.
Corto still wasn't hard. Rasputin's hand trailed reverently over the soft flesh and he took it in hand, perturbed. He searched Corto's face but the man stubbornly wasn't looking at him, seemingly fixated on some point in a far off dark corner of his room.
“Corto?” He asked, more curious than anything, still amazed that he'd even gotten this far with his friend.
“It's the drink, just ignore it. Let me touch you instead.” Rasputin almost whined at the invitation, rolling off of the sailor to let the other man envelop him in his warmth, hand immediately finding his weeping prick. Corto nipped at his throat lazily as he stroked him, obvious experience making up for clear lack of focus in the other man. Rasputin didn't even attempt to restrain himself, moaning and cursing in the same breath while Corto just maintained his pace, his maddeningly slow pace that had the Russian clawing at the sailor's back. His hips stuttered and shaked as he tried to chase his release, but Corto just held him down with his weight and teased his tip with his palm, sending frustrating little spikes of pleasure that only made his eyes water.
“Corto- Corto, go faster, I can't! I can't cum like this you bastard!” Rasputin was not going to beg. He might be drunk and already making a fool of himself but he had dignity. Corto loosened his grip even further, fingers slick with precum barely pulling on his foreskin.
“I'm so sorry Ras, you know how it is with alcohol.” Corto apologized, not sounding sorry in the least, “Hard to work my fingers properly…”
“Fuck you Maltese! I'm not some virginal noble darling of yours you need to tease before you fuck! Grip it harder or-!”
In the tiny sliver of moonlight that fought through the drawn curtains, Rasputin could clearly see two rows of pearly white teeth bared at him in a predatory smile, an expression that both terrified him and excited him so much he involuntarily bucked his hips up hard, just in time to hear Corto whisper into his ear, low and true:
“Then why are you wet like one?”
Rasputin felt his balls tighten and he was certain that if he hadn't drank as much as he did a mere hour ago, he would have spilled himself pathetically then and there, friction be damned. Corto gripped the base of his cock hard, seemingly fascinated by the way it twitched in his hand and then he took his traitorous fingers and brought them to Rasputin’s lips.
“We're not done yet. Can you do this for me?” Corto asked him and Rasputin stared at him dumbly, head still swimming from being denied his release so cruelly. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what his friend wanted from him now. Still, he nodded, hoping that whatever Corto had planned included finally letting him cum.
“Open your mouth.” Rasputin obeyed without a thought. He grimaced as Corto slid his fingers inside, tasting himself on them. It was by far the most disgusting and erotic thing he'd ever done in his life and he couldn't decide how to react. The prodding digits grazed against his tongue and he sucked shamelessly, moaning around them. He wished, not for the first time tonight, that Corto was hard, because if sucking his fingers felt this good he couldn't even imagine what having a throbbing cock inside his mouth would be like. The Russian searched for Corto's eyes, startled to find his friend staring at his mouth with half lidded eyes and the same sentiment reflected in them.
“... You're very good at this, Ras.” Corto breathed out without thinking. He withdrew his fingers finally, Rasputin's tongue chasing after them as saliva dribbled out of his mouth obscenely. Rasputin watched wordlessly as his friend struggled with his belt and pants and slowly it came to him. Corto couldn't possibly… With only a shirt on now, the sailor laid on his back and Rasputin’s eyes followed, watching with a kind of horrified excitement as Corto clumsily circled his entrance and swiftly buried a single elegant finger inside himself without so much as a gasp. His other hand was keeping his legs open, a look of pure concentration on his flushed face. Rasputin, for who knows what time that evening, thought his friend was the most erotic being he'd ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on in the world. He could hardly breathe as he watched Corto fuck himself expertly, one finger becoming two becoming three, each addition making Rasputin dribble onto the sheets from desire.
“Ras-- fuck- Rasputin, get the oils from the nightstand over there.” Rasputin didn't move, staring mesmerized at the way Corto's body seized up and trembled as he filled himself. How many times had his friend done this? Did Corto pleasure himself like this often, mewling around his fingers as he stroked himself to completion? What did he fantasize about as he did it? Rasputin hoped foolishly that he'd thought of him, an idea materializing suddenly and violently, of the Spaniard gasping his name and begging the empty space for his dick. But in the back of his mind, he wondered, green with envy, if Corto had fucked himself like this in front of other men, if he'd stretched himself between their legs and let them take him like this, willing and frenzied.
“Rasputin, I swear to Christ! Get the oils or I'll finish myself off and kick you out of bed!” Corto hissed out impatiently and Rasputin startled into motion, grabbing around at the nightstand to get the necessary things like his life depended on it. He struggled briefly with his own pants, almost falling head first onto the carpeted floor, before he stood at the end of the bed, looking down at his lifelong friend spread and waiting. His ears burned from Corto's expectant gaze, the entire situation feeling truly unreal.
“I always knew you'd be the woman.” Rasputin grumbled while he tried to hide just how badly his hands were shaking as he slid the condom over himself.
“We're in luck then. You wouldn't make a very good one.” Corto said with a lazy smirk, hands now teasing his nipples absentmindedly, “Now come on and fuck me like one finally.”
Rasputin growled at that and slathered some lube over his prick, shivering from the cold, and he pressed his tip against Corto's entrance. The man under him closed his eyes and sighed contentedly as Rasputin pushed himself slowly into the warmth. It was too overwhelming. Each centimeter felt like torture, his cock being pressed from all sides by his friend's slick insides. He buried himself to the hilt, his bony hips pressing into Corto's soft flesh. Rasputin breathed heavily through his nose, not daring to move immediately lest he end up spilling right then and there. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been inside someone, let alone someone as tight and eager as Corto, and he felt lightheaded.
Corto's voice brought him back.
“Ras, you can move.” Corto's scarred hand enveloped his own, the one that was clutching onto Corto's hip like a lifeline. The Russian pulled out experimentally, and then thrust inside roughly, their skin slapping together obscenely. Corto hissed a low ‘ yes’ at the sudden sensation, his own flaccid member moving between them as Rasputin started up the rhythm. He twisted and sighed under him, hands braced on Rasputin's heaving chest as the man slammed into him mercilessly. Rasputin had never fancied himself a considerate man, especially not when it came to sex, so when Corto ground out a high pitched ‘ harder, Ras, please ’, well, Rasputin couldn't say no. He fucked Corto like he was trying to break him, like nothing mattered more in this universe than the man underneath, and Corto accepted him eagerly. When he hit something inside him and Corto spasmed around his cock, Rasputin saw stars. He almost wished he'd forget this night entirely simply because he knew he'd be ruined forever with this knowledge, this experience of being balls deep in his friend while they kissed like they wanted to devour each other. Nothing would compare to this ephemeral pleasure. He felt powerful.
“I bet you- Ah! Your woman couldn't fuck you like- like this!” He growled into Corto's ear, accentuating his statement with a particularly rough thrust which dragged a guttural moan out of his friend.
“Rasputin, what are you even- God, what are you talking about?!” Corto bit down on his neck to stop more embarrassing moans from spilling out.
“Your woman! The one who left y-”
“If you finish that sentence I'll leave you here alone, stop talking.” Rasputin obliged, gripping Corto's hips hard enough to bruise so he could shove his prick inside all the way to the base, hard.
At some point, the Spaniard locked him inside with his legs, thighs holding him in place as he pushed inside, increasingly erratic and incoherent as he chased his orgasm. He knew he was saying things, moaning, cursing, pleading, but he couldn't hear himself, couldn't hear anything above their shared heartbeats and the sound of wet skin slapping against skin. Corto met every thrust greedily, his nails scratching long red lines in Rasputin’s back, eliciting pain that only made his prick fill up even more. The sailor's own cock was still disappointingly soft between them, but it was leaking precum from its tip now too. He could hear Corto whisper ‘ the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak’ in between grunts and Rasputin almost stopped thrusting at the surreal statement. Later, they'd have to have a conversation about appropriate and inappropriate times to quote the Bible, but for now he just silenced him with a hard kiss and angled himself the way he knew drew Corto wild.
Corto came first, oddly quiet and restrained, the only proof of anything happening being his body going rigid and the lukewarm wetness that spilled between them, ruining Corto's shirt. Rasputin's hips stuttered as Corto clenched around his cock, the intensity too much for him. He drove himself into the warm insides one final time, Corto's name the only thing on his lips, and he ejaculated into the latex, feeling exhausted.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, Rasputin’s softening member still inside, both of them trying to catch their breaths. Rasputin felt absolutely spent and he immediately started drifting off, the combined high of the best orgasm in his life and the copious amounts of alcohol he'd had making him tired beyond belief. Corto was the one who moved first, grumbling about his ruined bed sheets and clothes and crawling from out under him to dispose of the condom and the lube. Rasputin was content to just lay there and not move until some higher power physically carried him out of bed. The last thing he felt before slipping into unconsciousness were Corto's arms dragging him into an embrace.