you’re longing to be loved
but you’re alone.
“I liked the uniform better, Detective Prokopenko,” K murmured, laughing a little under his vodka-tinted breath, his hands plunging under Proko’s fine camel-hair coat and button down shirt, roaming freely over his stomach and chest. His touch was icy cold; it was January, and K never wore gloves if he could help it. Proko’s stomach jumped at the feeling. “But I guess this has its pros, too, huh?”
Proko kissed him instead of replying, tilting his head so he could get better access to K’s tongue, so he could lick over the roof of K’s mouth in the way that always made him shiver like he was the one being touched with ten icicles down low where it burned.
“I should bend you over the hood of my car,” Proko finally heard himself gasp, his head tipped back and K’s mouth working on his throat, sucking a messy bruise beneath the crisp line of his shirt’s collar.
“Mm,” K laughed, teeth against flesh. Wet. “Kinky fucker.” He rocked his hips to punctuate the words.
“Put you in fucking handcuffs. I should take you in—“ Proko kept on, but even as he said it he was plunging a hand down the back of K’s trousers, touching him, dry fingertips rubbing and pressing where he wished he had time to work open, to get in.
As it was, he was lucky to have gotten even this snatch of time away from his partner; Lynch was onto him, he was sure, but hopefully he’d followed the false trails Proko had been working on leaving about cocaine addiction and gambling debts.
(Anything but the truth— that he was a dirty cop, a rat, a traitor, a double agent. That he was owned, and not true blue down to his marrow. Lynch was a third generation Irish-blooded cop. He’d never understand. Never.)
“You’re in too deep for that.” K whispered in his ear, hot and smug, sounding just like Proko had always imagined the devil might sound, when he was young and still attended mass regularly, kneeling in the pews until his young knees ached with the pain.
“I should—“ Proko tried to go on, but K slapped a hand over his mouth and kept grinding down against him even as he spoke, a liturgy of logic and cruelty that was only cutting for its absolute, inescapable truth.
“You should what? Tell your cop buddies about me? About you? How you like to suck mafia cock? If it wasn’t me, it woulda been somebody else, babe. Some other piece of fucking scum, somebody to make you like it.” K had always been cruel, always been mean. It was one of the things that made Proko so unable to stay away. He could find someone else to fuck him as good as K could, as good as K did— cocks in this city were a dime a dozen, especially if you looked like Proko.
Nobody could give him this, though, this gut full of guilt and horror and lust. No mindless hookup was as good as fucking around with K in the back of his car in the dark where they could be caught. He was a fucking idiot for it, but Proko had never claimed to be smart.
(Not book smart, anyway.)
“You’re wrong.” He mumbled, thickly, and rocked his hips needily, grinding against K’s thigh. He pressed just the tips of two fingers into K, digging his free hand into the round of K’s glutes so hard he was sure he would leave bruises on K, too.
“Ilya, babe.” K said, drawing back and stilling his thrusts, making Proko whine for it, hips chasing the friction. “Why the fuck else would you be here?”
It made too much sense; he’d stopped caring about the money early on, stopped trying to convince himself that K was the lesser of two evils. That Joseph Kavinsky was better than his father Yakov had been, though Yakov had been old-regime and never had the hungry gleam in his eye that seemed ever-present in his son’s. He’d taken Yakov down as a fluke, good luck— he’d bubbled with it, floated on it, felt like a golden-age hero.
In his euphoria, he’d been reckless. He’d been so fucking reckless.
K watched all of these emotions on his face, watched the turmoil play out in real-time. It made him look even hungrier, more pleased by Proko’s pain than he had been by Proko’s pleasure. He grinned. It was not a nice expression.
“You’re so fucking stupid.” K snickered. “If all cops are as stupid as you, no fucking wonder they haven’t caught on. Yet.”
Yet. It was a reminder. K held the end of his leash. Nothing would happen to K if it came out that he and Proko were fucking and— and colluding.
Proko wrapped his hand around K’s throat and squeezed.
K shook, laughing breathlessly. His hips stuttered. His eyes glittered, bright in the dark, the luminosity from the streetlights catching and making his irises appear fathomless. Hellish. Black as pitch.
(Proko had dreams about those eyes. Nightmares, too.)
He thought about continuing to squeeze. Thought about choking K to death here in the back of his car, fitting him for a pair of concrete shoes. Making him just another body in Hudson. Rotted, bloated, faceless.
It could all end, right here. Right now.
K twitched, grinding down harder for every second Proko kept squeezing. His face got redder, his eyelids gone half-mast.
(Right here. Right now.)
He let go, K’s breath resuming immediately, great gasping sucks of air as he came in his trousers, blue-tinged lips quirking into a wolffish smirk.
Proko hated him, loved him, ached for him.
“Fuck, that was nice.” K said, sitting up and taking out his wallet. The stack of cash he tossed casually onto Proko’s stomach was thick, small untraceable bills that had been thoroughly laundered before they ever even hit K’s offshore bank account.
This was the worst (best) part. Feeling like some kind of whore. The worst kind of whore. Fucked and abandoned, come cooling tackily in his pants, money a heavy weight on his conscience.
His phone buzzed. Lynch, looking for him.
kavinsky mob back. meet @ station.
you’re making a scene
and it’s gonna get you caught.