Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Isn’t this at all embarrassing for you?” Sokolov asks, haughtily eyeing Jindosh’s laboratory. “To drag your old teacher back to your gaudy hideaway and use that inelegant device on him?” 

Jindosh cannot help but feel irritation with the man. He clenches his fists. “Then, are you planning on cooperating?”

Sokolov laughs to Jindosh’s eternal annoyance. “Are you the last person in the Isles to hear of how I resisted the demands of Corvo Attano during the Rat Plague? Surely, such a learned man as yourself—“

Jindosh could scream with frustration. His fingers flutter for want of action, and then he seizes the loose, linen shirtsleeves of his old mentor—in such an unbecoming state of undress!—and desperately, despairingly kisses those rough lips. 

A fierce desire turns in Jindosh’s gut—a desperate wanting always known but always sublimated into his mechanical marvels. 

“That’s an unusual tactic,” Sokolov replies when Jindosh pulls away. “Artless, perhaps. Too hasty.”

The hurt on Jindosh’s face must show, because Sokolov leans in. “Let me show you how it’s done,” he breathes. 

Jindosh had not quite been expecting to be fucked in his laboratory—Grim Alex was still in the lobby, for crying out—but more than twenty years of repressed sexual desire had a way of changing his plans. He presses his lips to Sokolov’s again, this time more feverishly, before Sokolov could change his mind. His hands search through Sokolov’s clothing for him, relishing in the tender, fragile flesh. 

“I knew you’d come to your senses, you old man,” Jindosh whispers. He swallows before adding, with a note of hesitation, “Anton.”

Sokolov shrugs off Jindosh’s jacket. “If you learned to goad others less, you’d be more experienced,” Sokolov replies wryly. 

Jindosh’s mouth is dry. ”No, no one else would do.” He regrets this confession the moment it leaves his lips. 

Sokolov raises an eyebrow. “Fortunately, that’s not a problem I share.” 

Jindosh swallows again. What could he say? I’ve always wanted you, from the moment I stepped into your classroom. How clumsy. How inelegant. How crudely vulnerable.

”Well, then,” Sokolov continues. “Do you want me to bend you over my knee and give you a good smacking with a ruler? Since you’re so fixated on the Academy.” 

Jindosh blinks. “What? No, I hadn’t…” That’s not really where his mind had gone to in those early morning diversions in the bathtub. There, he’d tried to imagine the weight and pressure of Sokolov between his legs, rutting against him—the towel a poor substitute for the man. The water had always splashed violently around him as he matched his phantom’s pace. Sokolov against his back, humping him through his clothes; Sokolov groaning as Jindosh sucked him off. 

Conditioned by that old, favored memory, Jindosh’s hips slowly, insistently move against Sokolov’s, the fabric a pleasant barrier between them.

“Ah, the Academy rub, is it?” Sokolov replies knowingly. “Some things never change. Well, then, hold onto that desk; I’m too old for the floor.” 

Jindosh wills himself on his shaky legs to approach one of the desks on the rotating sections of his lab, and without looking back, too embarrassed by his own crude desires to look back at Sokolov, bends forward onto the desk, his legs apart. 

Movement at Jindosh’s back confirms Sokolov’s presence—well, the smell of old sweat and alcohol precedes him—followed by the press of Sokolov’s clothed hips against his. Jindosh pressed against the desk to keep from being pushed forward and he moves his hips against Sokolov’s, meeting his rut with one of his own. 

Sokolov’s hands come on either side, bracing himself for the clothed thrusts, and Jindosh’s cock aches against the tightness of his trousers, the movement of Sokolov’s ruts shaking his body and making his heart pound. Still, he clenches his jaw out of habit to prevent his moans from escaping. 

Sokolov doesn’t become fully hard,  Jindosh can feel it, but he fills up the silence with loud, ragged breathing, his eyes closed to focus on the sensations—loud enough that any maid nearby will know exactly what is going on.

Jindosh lets a cry slip out at this thought. And before he can collect himself, the jostling of his body elicits another cry. Sokolov is doing this on purpose, he realizes—he wants to hear him.

The front of Jindosh’s trousers is fully soaked now. He doesn’t understand how he’s near orgasm just from Sokolov rutting against him. He cannot control his breathing—it’s jagged as Sokolov thrusts against him fervently. 

His cries become a steady stream of gasps and pleas to Sokolov, the pressure in his cock too much to bear—heavy and insistent. Sokolov’s weight pressed against his clothed arse, driving himself against Jindosh insistently.

Jindosh is so close he can’t bear it. He pushes frantically against Sokolov as his hand plunges into his own trousers, searching for his cock. His fingers make contract with his reddened, weeping head, and frantically rubbing against it, inelegantly pulling at it in a pattern devoid of all but sexual desperation, he finally comes, the sweet aftershocks animating his body beyond his control. 

Sokolov has won again, Void damn him.