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“You know how it is with us, Ivan. I love how you look at me, all cautious, all scared — it's not a battlefield anymore, where the might of your arms alone is enough to break my spine, Ivan. You know how it is with us.”
He could make Ivan kneel here, lower his proud head, low, to the ground, and serve Sadık's God and serve Sadık then as a boy with curls blond must to.
But you know, how it is with us, Ivan, for we live so much longer — eternally — than humans, and our souls, our selves are so much darker and vaster than people's.
For no human can be so violently in love.
Ivan's flesh dented under Sadık's fingers, and Ivan tried so hard to be brave, and Sadık needed to make it so it was Ivan who was all in about it, but his heart thudded so hotly in his body. He tried to free Ivan's chest from the European cursed doublet he was wearing. White. Blue shoulders. Epaulettes. His hands shook — he tore the cloth open. Ivan's grin glinted before he remembered to keep docile. He tried to take Sadık's fes off. Sadık put his arm away lightly. Lightly. Lightly.
He hated how well Ivan's bones ground under the pressure. He hated how easily bruised Ivan's flesh became. He waved to a eunuch — and his chambers lit up with dozens more candles.
“Let me save my face at least,” Ivan said with a shaking voice when Sadık tore off his trousers. “Like an animal… let me save my face.”
“Put you face down, maybe?” Sadık hissed. He grabbed the said face, Ivan's curls sluiced through his fingers. “Maybe put *you* down, so you could pretend it happened against your will?”
“I don't mind getting fucked!” Ivan bristled. “But you… you are going to insult me!”
“And why's that?”
Ivan grabbed his beard.
“Because the likes of you… you hate me, Ottoman? You hate me. You wished I was slobbering at your feet, don't you? Wished I crawled naked without raising my gaze!”
The likes of Sadık, yes. The likes of Sadık yanked Ivan's leg up and struck his white, soft buttock. Ivan yelped.
“No, please,” Sadık said hotly. “Raise your gaze. Look at me. Hate me too.”
Ivan's lip quivered.
“Going to call me names?”
He forcefully spread Ivan's legs open, baring him. Ivan's hands flew up to cover his face, but — laid back, palms up, fingers curled like beetle's legs. Russian Empire? Not afraid of anyone.
“You are afraid I'm going to insult you,” Sadık said. A eunuch brought him rose oil. The smell made Ivan shake all over. “And yet you came to me, giving me your body and will, and for what? For the scraps of power I have? You are giving me your belly for I am the only one who would want you? The Brit is too… haughty for you. And the French? You'd probably get lost in his lover list.”
“And yet you came running,” Ivan said. He kept twitching, especially when Sadık pierced his flesh open with his slick fingers, and his lip was trembling. Sadık praised him for his bravery, molding his fingers in and stirring him forcefully. Ivan's flesh resisted tautly, especially when Sadık speared him open and stretched him wide.
“Came running,” he agreed, fitting himself in. Tendons on Ivan's neck popped when he clenched his teeth. “Does it hurt? My boys and girls always say it does — before bringing them inescapable pleasure that pulls them under like a ride.”
“Lies!” Ivan barked. “Empty… praises! Oh, I wish you died, died! In Caucasus, in Bayazet, I wish you died!”
He sobbed thinly, from pain or maybe joy. Sadık liked being gentle, but Ivan? The Russian Empire deserved nothing but the whole storm of his passion.
And he did die in Bayazet. Ivan made sure of it. He mounted Sadık's body, and Sadık knew him since.
“It's not a sweet thing to say,” Sadık whispered. He took Ivan on a ride. His young stallion. “You are asking me for a favour, une faveur if you wish, and what do you say? Wishing me death? Ivan, Russie, you are not being nice.”
Ivan sniffled. His soft belly was jumping under the force of Sadık's thrusts.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “What do you want me to say?”
Sadık grinned sharply, drinking in his expression.
“Call me нелюдь,” he said. “Call me счастье.”