Ivan Vanko is dreaming. He rarely sleeps for more than a few minutes at a time, not since his term inside Butyrka had cured him of the habit, preferring instead the wary meditative state that had long ensured his survival. To sleep is to trust, and in the damp, lightless depths of the gulag, to trust is nothing short of suicide.
In his cell at Hammer Industries, Ivan Vanko sleeps like a child.
He is monitored at all times, by closed circuit video when his well-armed nannies are not physically at his elbows or dogging his heels. He doesn't mind; no one watching the feeds will ever be able to recreate his work. He takes notes in shorthand polyglot, equal parts Yupik and Orthodox Slavonic. He diagrams in hieroglyphs learned by feel within Butyrka's rigid criminal underworld and peppers them with notations in reverse Cyrillic.
He enjoys watching Hammer's frustrations grow, day after day; his employer no more a threat to Vanko than an impotent ringmaster worrying after a rogue lion set loose in the stands. He dreams of Justin Hammer on his knees, lips slick with saliva as they wrap around his cock and slide, suck, slide along its swollen length. Vanko imagines the prissy young whelp fighting for air, watches him swallow his natural reflex to gag at the length, the girth, filling the back of his throat and sees, with vivid clarity, the desire in every taut, straining muscle. Hammer is desperate, lips raw and cracking, knees bloodied from hours spent crouched, submissive, on the freezing concrete floor.
Ivan Vanko is not easy to please. He reaches out, plucks the battered, oil-smeared glasses from Hammer's face and crushes them in his hand. He feels the shards of glass and plastic penetrate his palm, breathes deeply at the anesthetic sting when his blood begins to flow. He cards a finger through the young man's hair, staining it with rust and thicker, darker grease from his own beloved machines. Hammer's mouth parts ways with his cock just long enough to take two fingers, three, against his tongue and lick them clean.
Vanko moans, a low, inarticulate rumbling from deep inside his chest. Outside the dream, contorted against the too-short sleeping bench, he writhes, body and mind dissatisfied with the internal tableaux. The image shifts, feed gone to static like the space between channels on his childhood television set. When the noise clears, it is not Justin Hammer stripped to the waist and shivering but Tony Stark, a hint of arrogance still lurking in the lines of his mouth.
Vanko smiles, brilliantly, wondering what new and wondrous designs Stark might show him. A pipe in the ceiling has sprung a leak, showering the not-quite-iron man with a font of ice cold water. A fitting baptism, Vanko thinks, stepping forward to push the man unceremoniously to the floor. A spark flares in Stark's eyes as the edge of the drain brands its image roughly into the musculature of his shoulders and Vanko grinds his heel into his chest. He wants this, Vanko thinks, watching Stark's eyelids droop and the outline of his cock emerge through his slacks. He's wanted this since I held his life in my hands and gave it to him as a gift.
He steps back, kneeling beside Stark on the floor that grows colder, rougher, in his imagination with each passing moment. He traces the edge where metal meets flesh, where one man had fought time and death to a standstill and rewritten the laws of his own form. A jagged piece of gravel bores into his kneecap as he grasps Stark by the arms, first one and then the other, stretching them over his head with swift efficiency of motion. Wet skin slides beneath his hands, chill and unresisting. He binds Stark's wrists together with the rosary that has long been a constant companion, metal links twisted taught against flesh, prayer-worn beads carving their wordless benediction beneath his fingers.
Stark's mouth falls open as Vanko stretches his arms to their natural limit, straddling his hips while his hands push hard against Stark's wrists. He can see the muscles jumping beneath their thin veneer of pale, unblemished skin and he wants to mark that broad expanse as his own, claim it where no one could interfere. He leans in, tongue laving a path from shoulder to elbow, punctuated here and there with small, lingering bites. He tugs on a patch of skin stretched paper-thin between his teeth, gratified to hear a sharp staccato of fiercely indrawn breaths from Stark's lips.
Vanko marvels at this unexpected turn of events. Tony Stark, wunderkind, darling of the people and enemy of the state, lies panting beneath him, completely at his mercy. Hips thrust up to meet him, insistent, wanton, and he clamps his knees down like a vice to either side. His tongue traces a circle in the hollow of Stark's palm and trails down across his scalp, his eyelids, his cheeks to press his lips, hot and insistent, against Stark's television-perfect mouth. The kiss is violent, unsatisfying, and Vanko withdraws as Stark's tongue finds the scar beneath his eye, explores the rift that time and state hospitals were unable to close. Shuddering, he pulls back to survey the unspoiled kingdom laid out before him. He waits, watching the flush build in Stark's cheeks, watching him struggle for a breath with Vanko's hands still crushing his wrists against the floor.
Vanko listens to him beg, machine-milled grin spreading from ear to ear. Listens to Stark moan with each shuddering breath, hears the raw, aching desire build in his bones and struggle to break free. Feels the throbbing pulse along his cock, painfully erect and pressing up against the fabric of his hand-tailored, one of a kind suit – feels it against his lips while he works his way along the shaft as slowly, steadily as he can bear. Anything worth having, after all, is worth taking the time for perfection. A knot of tension burns along his spine, settles below his solar plexus and waits, wanting.
He needs more. Vanko finds his workbench a step away in the darkness, lifts his newest design carefully from its frame, caressing the supple length of steel and polymer with exacting, reptile patience. His feet are bare; he stands in half an inch of frigid, stagnant water but he itches to bring his masterpiece to life. Itches to show Tony Stark just what he is capable of, and more. To discover, slowly, what Stark might be capable of in return. He trails the whip along Stark's torso, beginning just below the neck and teasing, flicking the tip back and forth the way a cat on the prowl might sway its tail. Stark arches into the touch, nipples stiff and swollen, and Vanko leans in, kneels down to work his tongue against them. Right, then left, then right again, dragging his teeth across sensitive skin until the moan breaks from Stark's mouth like a revelation. More.
Ivan Vanko takes his time. Lazy movements of his tongue, exploring the crevices where Stark’s ingenious battery attaches to his flesh, his bones. Deft fingers find the catch; slide out the miniature sun to lie clicking, whirring in his palm. He grins, setting the fancy toy aside in favor of more exciting possibilities. A gaping hole gleams in the center of Stark’s chest, an orifice begging to be plumbed, and Vanko applies himself to the task spread out before him. He works the tip of his tongue into the warm, metal grooves, tastes the acid- and smoke-stains left by the reactor. He feels the drumbeat of a heart restrained, hears the grunts as vibrations through metal and bone, falling away into something like a bark, something deep and penetrating and wild.
The front of Stark’s slacks are damp, ruined, and not from the rusted-through pipe. His breath comes in short, harried gasps and Vanko pulls a section of the whip taught between his hands, pressing it lightly against his throat. Stark's breathing stops altogether, eyes squeezed shut, and then resumes, slower, with a desperate, hitching rhythm that nearly brings Vanko off to hear it. Vanko's cock is hard, has been hard since before Stark arrived in this midnight fantasy, and now demands release. The pressure building at the base of his spine is mirrored in the pressure he applies to Stark's throat, and before his accomplice can become a victim, Vanko pulls the whip away. His hands freed, he unbuckles his belt, slips out of his jeans and boxers all at once to straddle Stark's hips. The silken fabric of the suit, slippery with fluids, slides gloriously against his erection and he laughs, deep in his chest.
Stark's eyes are open; he stares at the numberless designs revealed across Vanko's flesh. Some cover scars, some are scars in their own right, fought and killed for; earned. "Can you recount your own accomplishments so easily, or so well?" he breathes, thrusting hard against Stark's fabric-bound erection. "Do you know what they mean?" Vanko asks, repositioning his hand on the whip's fluid shaft and bringing the tip up to Stark's bruised and swollen mouth.
"No," Stark whispers, flicking his tongue out for the taste of captive lightning, a force of nature here contained. "Good," Vanko hisses approvingly, not ready to share his secrets even in the safest, darkest bunker of his mind. He guides the end of the whip between Stark's lips, watches his tongue slide along its electric possibility and when those lips clamp down, when Stark's throat works hard to take it all in and pulls, he comes like a comet unchained.
Ivan Vanko opens his eyes, stares directly into the camera scrutinizing his efforts. He opens his mouth in a silent moan as his hands finish off the work that dreams had begun, short quick strokes to bring him through the last turns and dives of the rollercoaster. He hopes Hammer himself is watching; hopes the arrogant, obsessive little monkey chokes on the sight of the mess he’s just made. Raising his hand to the camera, still slick and dripping, Vanko flicks his fingers in the direction of the lens and laughs.