Archive of Our Own

The man at the end of Yassen’s gun looked so familiar that, for a heart-stopping fraction of a second, he thought he’d turned it on Hunter.

He’d been tracking a target into an unlit alleyway when something primal alerted him to an enemy at his back. Weapon at the ready, he whirled round, but the man’s likeness to Hunter froze his trigger finger.

Disarmed in his hesitation. Tackled to the floor. The man strong and solid on top of him.

Even now, struggling for his life, Yassen was reminded of Hunter when they’d last fucked. The same serious eyes had drank in his every expression of overwhelm. Pinned then, too, leaving no room for Yassen to shy away from Hunter’s fierce gaze and merciless plunges inside.

Was that the last time he’d be safely in Hunter’s arms?

Yassen poured every shred of strength into trying to wrench free or injure his opponent. But even Hunter’s training couldn’t save him, the man unyielding, close enough to feel the heat of his breath.

“It’s over,” his opponent panted. “Give up. I won’t hurt you if you cooperate.”

Yassen was still struggling against the bruising force of the man’s hands around his wrists when someone spoke above them.

“That’s my line, actually.”

Yassen’s heart leapt in recognition. Still holding him down, his opponent’s head whipped round to look. Hunter was silhouetted against the moonlight, pointing a gun to the man’s skull.

“You need to let me take him.” The man sounded oddly confident.

In a single movement, Hunter grabbed his collar, dragged him off Yassen and slammed him face-down to the floor. Their opponent tried to twist around but Hunter was on him in an instant, pinning his arms behind his back with his free hand.

“Get your weapon, Cossack.”

Yassen was already on his feet retrieving it. It was a relief to have the cold metal in his hands again as he aimed at their opponent.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Their opponent’s words were muffled against the floor.

Hunter ignored him. “If he tries or says anything else, shoot him in the leg. We need to leave.”

The man snarled as Hunter twisted his arm to a more painful angle before addressing him.

“Don’t move.”

Eyes blazing, he lay still as Hunter disarmed him then took both sets of laces from the man’s combat boots. He bound the man’s arms tightly behind his back and hauled him up. Yassen kept his gun on him as Hunter marched the man to where the car was parked nearby.

There was no-one around to see Hunter put a sack over the man’s head and force him into the car boot. Slamming it shut, he turned to Yassen.

“Are you hurt?”

Perhaps he’d feel more sore once the adrenaline had worn off. “I’m fine.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Yassen took a deep breath. Worse than any pain or shock from the unanticipated struggle was the gaping hollow of failure in his stomach. “I was tracking my target. This man ambushed me before I could make the kill.”

“Did the target see you?”

“No. He had no reason for suspicion.”

“Good.” Hunter seemed to think for a moment. “My target is down. There’s no point trying to catch up to yours now.”

The pit in Yassen’s belly grew, but he followed Hunter’s lead and got into the car. “Who is he? How did he know we were here?”

There was something strange in Hunter’s grim smile. “I’ll find out what he was up to when we’re back at the safehouse.”

Ian’s hands were tightly tied behind him, knees pushed uncomfortably to his chest in the total darkness. Pain pulsed through his lip where it had split on impact with the floor. The air was cold and damp enough to make him shiver, and he’d felt every bump and bend in the road.

At least he hadn’t been shot, though, a threat which had become disturbingly real once John passed
the responsibility to an assassin who’d have no qualms executing it. Or him.

The long drive gave him plenty of time to think. He’d wondered if John had meant for him to escape, but, feeling clumsily around with his fingers, had found nothing in reach. The laces were too sturdy to break. He was still trying to memorise any motion that told him what direction he was travelling in, for all the good it was likely to do.

His assignment hadn’t gone at all as expected. What was John playing at? It was astounding that he hadn’t co-operated, despite being blindsided by Ian’s mission.

He’d had qualms about disrupting his brother’s work without his knowledge but had done his best to ignore them, not wanting to question Blunt while still a relatively junior field agent. The quiet anger in John’s eyes when Ian had told him to give up Gregorovich suggested that’d been a mistake.

He’d been ordered to capture Gregorovich in the short time when John wasn’t supposed to be present. Was that solely to give John plausible deniability with Scorpia, or was there a chance someone thought his objectivity may be compromised where his protégé was concerned?

If so, they obviously hadn’t accounted for John’s uncanny ability to come out on top. Gregorovich had been underestimated by whoever had planned the assignment, too; he’d detected and reacted to Ian almost preternaturally fast. Until stopping and staring like he’d seen a ghost, anyway. For a moment, Ian had been certain he was about to be shot.

There were several reasons Ian could think of for John to have taken him prisoner, and none of them boded well. But there were far worse people to rely on.

The car slowed and came to a stop, the slam of the doors vibrating through his aching body. The boot opened, and he was hauled out and deposited onto a hard surface. Just when he thought his whole body was going to crash into it someone grabbed him by the arm, holding him up. A hand took his other arm, and he stumbled to keep up as he was dragged forwards, completely blind with the sack over his head.

There were sounds of a door being opened. The softness of carpet underfoot, a flight of stairs he narrowly avoided tripping on as he was propelled upwards. Some more stumbling steps forwards.

He couldn’t make out the words of the short, murmured exchange through the fabric covering his ears. Footsteps faded away, then silence. Was he alone?

He waited in the dark, working to keep his breathing even as it collected hot and damp around his face.

Then a hand thudded into his chest, pushing him backwards. The backs of Ian’s legs hit something and buckled, and he barely held back a cry as he fell, powerless to land properly with his hands tied. To his relief he didn’t fall far, feet still on the floor as he landed on what felt like a bed, arms sandwiched painfully between it and his back. Someone climbed on top of him before his body had stilled from the impact, a warm weight straddling his stomach.

The sack was pulled from his head. Ian squinted through a flood of artificial light at John, sat on top of him for the second time that night.

“Hello, Ian. It’s been a while.” John seemed calm, carefree. Ian knew not to trust it.

“Hi, John.” Ian couldn’t look away for a moment. It had been months since they’d been able to see each other, aside from their earlier struggle. It was almost difficult to believe it was really him.

John’s eyes searched Ian’s but gave no clues in return. “That was a dangerous stunt you pulled. It could have gone very badly wrong.”

As if he were a child.

“Everything was under control until you interrupted. Can never resist playing the hero, can you?”

“You’re the one who was interrupting.”

“I had my orders.”

John shook his head. “If you want to blindly follow orders, go back to the army. This job requires you to question everything. You should know better than to underestimate your opponent.”

“I didn’t realise you were my opponent.”

“I didn’t realise you were my brother until I was already close enough to have shot you.”

“You were close enough when you threw my face at the ground.”

John breezed past that. “You were targeting Yassen. Why?”

Better to tell him the truth. “The Department saw an opportunity to remove him. If it was discovered we’d trained a Scorpia agent, there’d be hell to pay. He’s going to be very dangerous.”

He took a breath. Highly unlikely John would have brought them here if he had any intention of sacrificing the assassin, but he had to try. “A cover story’s been set up to explain his disappearance to Scorpia. You just have to hand him over to me.”

“I’ll already have to answer for failing the assignment. Going back alone will only raise more suspicion, cover story or not. And he’s my problem to solve. I have it under control.”

“So under control he almost killed me.”

John’s face took on a stony edge. “He defended himself, just like I taught him. If I’d known about this in advance, there’d have been no risk to you because I’d have made damn sure your mission never happened.”

Perhaps his brother was mindful of what might await his protégé back in England. Interrogation. Imprisonment. “Don’t protect him, John. He’s not a good man.”

“There’s not a good man in this house.”

No point following that line of reasoning. “Look, you might as well let me head off now. I’m already late reporting back. If you aren’t happy, tell Blunt yourself.”

“Oh, I’ll be having strong words with Blunt. But you chose to follow a dangerous order, interfere with my mission with no warning. Choices have consequences, and I’m not sure you understand how badly this would be going for you if I really were an enemy operative.”

Of course he did. He’d done the RTI training, served in the military, even if he’d never actually been captured before. “Just untie me, John.”

John took a small knife from his pocket, twisting it between his fingers. “It pains me to see you being such an idiot.”

For a second, Ian thought John would cut him free. Instead, with a flick of the wrist, he sliced away the top button of Ian’s shirt.

Ian’s breath froze in his chest. It seemed John wasn’t planning to let this go.

Despite the frankly terrifying capacity for aggression that had served John so well in the Paras, Ian hadn’t seen him react in outright anger since they were children. That wasn’t to say people who wronged him didn’t face consequences, though, and John seemed to be counting Ian among them.

He kept his face neutral. “This shirt wasn’t cheap.”

John nodded, knife tracing Ian’s chest as he parted the fabric with it, bracing it against the next button. “It’d be a shame to ruin it.”

A pause.

“If you promise not to do anything stupid, I might let you undress yourself.”

Ian couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter. “And why on earth would I do that?”

There wasn’t a hint of mirth in John’s eyes as he leaned in, a hand supporting his weight at the side of Ian’s head as his face hung above his.

Caged in by his brother’s body, he couldn’t stop a nervous swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing against the blade now caressing his throat. An acrid linger of gunpowder reminded Ian that his brother had killed a man just that evening.

“Because I told you to.”

The soft words sent a shiver down Ian’s spine.

But they weren’t kids any more. He didn’t have to play along with John’s stupid game, whatever it was. He held his gaze.

Ian knew John better than anyone, but he couldn’t fully decipher the undercurrent to John’s placid exterior. Anger, but also something unfamiliar. Something predatory.

“This is ridiculous. We both know you’re not going to kill me.” Even as he said it, his lip throbbed. A reminder of what had happened after misjudging John’s willingness to harm him.

“I don’t need to kill you.” John pressed the blade into the side of Ian’s neck. “I just need to make you do what I say.”

The faintest bite of the knife and a warm, wet droplet slid across his skin. At Ian’s sharp inhale, John’s gaze moved to his mouth, then lingered where he’d drawn blood. For an unsettling moment, Ian was certain he was going to lick it up.

However many ways he could cause pain with a blade or his bare hands, John would know twice that. Ian wasn’t eager to expand his repertoire the hard way, and his brother had never been easily dissuaded. There was no reasonable path of resistance.

Might as well get whatever John had planned out of the way.

He sighed in an attempt to cover his unease. “Alright then. Let me get on with it.”

“Good.” John’s calm smile banished the threat as he stood to flip Ian over. He slid the knife through his bonds before turning to rifle through a hold-all on the floor.

Ian briefly entertained the idea of trying to overpower him while his back was turned, somehow salvage the mission and return to the Department with Gregorovich. He dismissed it in an instant. Even if John hadn’t been armed with backup close at hand, Ian was unlikely to beat him in hand-to-hand combat.

Shaking his head at the bizarre request, Ian undressed himself. What was about to happen? A humiliating “interrogation” for Gregorovich’s benefit, perhaps? More importantly, whatever it was, to teach Ian a lesson.

After stripping to his boxers, Ian hesitated, unsure of just how unclothed John wanted him. Then he pulled them off.

John could only humiliate him if Ian allowed it. After daily sessions in the gym, his body certainly wasn’t lacking in any way. And if he could throw John off his game, all the better. He stood tall, making no attempt to cover himself.

But John gave nothing away when he turned, now holding a length of cord and a dark silk tie, to see Ian fully nude.

“Lie on the bed. Facing the headboard.”

He did as John said, the duvet soft and cool beneath him, then watched as his brother looped the cord through the bars of the footboard and fastened his hands to it.

“There might be more appropriate partners, if this is what you’re into,” Ian said, injecting a faux nonchalance into the words as John bound his feet, legs straight, to the headboard.

John’s smile gave Ian the uneasy feeling the joke was somehow on him. He was tempted to kick him in the nose as he pulled the knots tight, ruin the bastard’s irritatingly perfect face.

There was no slack to allow Ian movement, stretched out between both ends of the bed with his arms tightly above his head and legs pressed together.

“Open your mouth.” Ian sent an unimpressed look John’s way, then, at the raise of an eyebrow, sighed and did as told. John placed the tie, presumably one of his own, in Ian’s mouth. After knotting it behind his head to gag him, he slipped a pillow beneath Ian’s head. Ever the gentleman.

Cold dread coiled in Ian’s stomach as John surveyed his handiwork, face serene but menace in his eyes. He leaned down and brushed his lips across Ian’s forehead before leaving the room.

Well, that settled it.

Ian was utterly fucked.

Yassen stood, arms folded behind his back, stripped bare in the second bedroom as commanded.

Hunter had been silent the whole way back. Yassen hadn’t been able to read him in the dark of the car as they drove deeper into the Czech countryside. He’d thought Hunter was planning to interrogate the prisoner, but the indistinguishable voices through the walls were too quiet, too free of pain for any serious interrogation.

Nerves fluttered in his stomach like moths. Perhaps there’d be a punishment. Or a swift, violent fuck for Hunter to vent his frustration. He’d take it without complaint.

But it wasn’t only Hunter’s immediate reaction that mattered. Yassen had proven deadly by now, but Scorpia only tolerated so many mistakes, and Hunter’s opinion held sway with the Scorpia council. If they decided he wasn’t up to their standards, dismissal would take the form of a hole in the ground.

He forced himself to take slow, steady breaths. Hunter would know what he needed.

Yassen straightened as the door clicked open and Hunter entered, holding a dark strip of leather. It was as if the very atoms of Yassen’s flesh pulled towards him, restless for his touch.

Hunter’s eyes flicked over his body in approval before he spoke. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Yassen swallowed. “I failed. I accept whatever I deserve.”

The back of his neck prickled as Hunter stepped behind him. A broad hand wrapped around his throat, thumb tracing his carotid, then squeezed. A caress and a threat in one.

No one else would ever be allowed to hold Yassen’s life in their hand again.

After lingering a moment, Yassen’s blood thrumming beneath his palm, Hunter released him and looped the leather around Yassen’s neck. Precise fingers buckled it fast.

They’d started sleeping together soon after Yassen’s first kill, choosing the collar on a trip to Berlin a month later. Its smooth weight had seemed natural from the start; reassuring, even.

Yassen kept his arms behind his back, gaze fixed blankly on the wall, already sinking into submission’s soft embrace as Hunter returned to his front to contemplate him.

The worst hadn’t happened, at least. Hunter hadn’t left him collarless and alone.

“Why didn’t you shoot when you first saw the prisoner?”

So he’d been watching. Embarrassing though the answer was, Yassen couldn’t keep a secret from Hunter with the collar against his throat.

“He reminded me of you. It confused me for a moment.”

If Hunter was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I appreciate your reluctance to kill me. And I have every faith you'd have completed the assignment, were it not for the complications. Nevertheless, you were almost captured. Your target escaped. Kneel.”

No anger in his words, no sternness in his command. Yassen dropped fluidly to his knees, keeping his arms behind his back as Hunter unzipped his jeans and took his cock out. He touched himself idly as he spoke.

“It’s better we don’t report this. I’ve got the information I need from the prisoner, and there’s no threat.”

Who was he? Someone from Hunter’s military days, perhaps? The way the prisoner had spoken to him, the low voices, and now this – everything pointed to them knowing each other.

His mentor continued. “I was leading the mission, so I’ll take any flak from the Council for the failure. But there must be consequences if you’re to learn. I’ll discipline you myself.”

The pit of failure deepened at the thought of Hunter paying for Yassen’s mistakes. At the same time, relief rushed through him to take responsibility for his actions, to have an outlet for the emotions swirling inside him.

Hunter held his semi-erect cock out to Yassen. Though repetition had etched his preferences into Yassen’s mind, getting on his knees for him was still as heady as the first time. Wetting his lips, Yassen leaned forwards.

Starting with light licks near the base, he moved slowly up the soft skin of the shaft towards the head, Hunter hardening all the while. It was hard to suppress a moan once he got to the tip and Hunter pulled back the foreskin, revealing the smooth head already beading with precome for Yassen to lap up.

“You’ll feel better for it too, Yassen. It’s an opportunity to make me very pleased.”

The saltiness was divine. But knowing it was Hunter was even more delicious. Yassen wrapped his lips around him, sucking gently as he slowly bobbed his head up and down. A loud exhalation was Hunter’s only reaction. Sliding his tongue along the underside, Yassen took him deeper. Hunter had taken his hand off himself now, only Yassen’s mouth holding Hunter’s solid length in place.

A light hand landed on his face, skimming over his skin. Daring to glance upwards, Yassen saw Hunter’s eyes fixed on him, dark and hungry. A thrill shot through his belly and cock. He closed his eyes as gentle fingers massaged the back of his neck, the soothing touch and the steady slide of his mouth along Hunter’s cock becoming meditative.

Everything was blissfully simple at Hunter’s feet. No fear. No doubt. No decisions.

Not weapon.

In these moments, Hunter’s satisfaction was a bright sun on the horizon, Yassen’s contours and shadows fading in its glow.

Hunter’s voice broke into his trance. “It’ll be a challenge, but you’re up to the task. I’ll ease you into it. I only need you to trust me.”

Yassen did. There was a bone-deep security in relinquishing control to someone who knew just how far to push him.

Hunter caressed the graze on his cheek, a mirror to the scar on the other side of his face, something ugly lurking in his eyes.

He understood. Only Hunter should mark him.

Pressing lightly at the back of Yassen’s head, Hunter guided him further onto his cock. Yassen relaxed his throat to let Hunter slide down it. No easy task, but as with all of Hunter’s lessons, practise had made perfect.

Hunter groaned as Yassen swallowed him all the way down, only stopping once his lips touched the skin at the base.

“Good, Yassen.” His strained voice and the praise infused Yassen’s veins with golden light. He held Hunter’s cock deep in his throat then, when fingers wrapped themselves in his hair and lightly tugged, smoothly glided back up to the tip.

He met Hunter’s eyes. Smiling, Hunter ran his fingertips across Yassen’s scalp, sending stardust down the back of his neck. Yassen swirled his tongue around the head, tasting another salty burst. Savouring it just like the soft touches, the gentle warmth radiating from Hunter now; the calm before the storm. Not that there was no enjoyment to be found in the brutality his mentor sometimes fucked with.

Hunter trailed his fingers down Yassen’s neck, bringing them round to hook his thumb in the metal loop at the front of his collar, using it to pull Yassen back down. The leather pressed at the back of his neck, his cock throbbing at the overt expression of ownership.

This time was even smoother with Hunter fully coated in saliva. Lips stretching to accommodate the increased girth towards the base, he took Hunter deep again.

Hunter held him there by the collar. “Keep me down a little longer this time.”

For Hunter, he would do anything. He ignored his throat’s protests. Ignored, as the seconds ticked by, his need for air. Resisted the urge to bring his hands from behind his back and push away. Hunter made a strangled sound as Yassen swallowed to tame his gag reflex, his throat constricting around solid heat, before letting him come up for a gasp of air.

“Good boy, Yassen.”

He’d die before he tired of hearing his name on Hunter’s lips.

One last thrust in, fingers combing through Yassen’s curls, then Hunter was pulling out and zipping himself back into his jeans. He bent down to loop a finger through Yassen’s collar and angled his head to meet his mouth. A hot tongue flickered against Yassen’s lips then pushed in to stroke against his, dripping with debauchery. Then he pulled away, leaving Yassen breathless.

At Hunter’s wordless gesture, Yassen rose and followed him.

Ian’s time alone had given him a chance to inspect the room and work out why it felt familiar. The sloping ceiling, the pine furniture, the cream walls, the scent of dusty books in the chill air – it all reminded him of John’s student bedroom at Oxford. He’d visited a few times, the two of them passing out in the single bed after messy nights at bars and parties.

The rattle of rain on the window blended with the patter of Ian’s heartbeat. He couldn’t see the door; with his head at the bottom of the double bed, it must be directly behind him. It made the back of his neck itch.

Like in the car, there was no way for him to escape. What did his brother have in store for him?

Only the quiet creak of the door and two quieter sets of footsteps told him he was no longer alone. All thoughts ceased when the two men came into sight.

One John Rider, clothed, and one Yassen Gregorovich, decidedly not clothed. Other than a rather fetching collar, contrasted starkly against his pale skin. John didn’t so much as glance at Ian, but Gregorovich’s step faltered as they made eye contact. Uncertainty flitted over the young man’s face.

Ian connected dots in rapid succession. John had said he had the situation with Gregorovich under control. It seemed he planned to demonstrate his control over Gregorovich himself, dragging the youth into whatever game he was playing.

At least Ian wasn’t the only one with his kit off now.

Standing at the corner of the bed furthest from Ian, John slid his hands down Gregorovich’s flanks, stopping at his slight hips and pulling him tight against him. John manoeuvred them onto the bed through a deepening kiss, pressing Gregorovich to sit against the headboard and kneeling between his legs. Ian tried to ignore the obscene, slick sounds of tongue on tongue, the occasional moan, the heat radiating from their bodies scant inches away.

Ian almost didn’t notice John taking a small tube of something from his jeans pocket as he parted from Gregorovich. Alarm jolted through his stomach as he realised what it was. Was John really going to screw Gregorovich right there beside him?

Now John wasn’t kissing him, Gregorovich sent a wary look Ian’s way. John immediately took his protégé’s chin in hand and tilted it towards him. “Keep looking at me.”

Ian stared at the ceiling as John lubed up his fingers. A choked-back sound from Gregorovich told him John had slipped at least one inside.

“Don’t try and keep quiet. He doesn’t matter.”

Gregorovich became more vocal as the minutes passed, seemingly encouraged by John’s murmurs as he fingered him. Despite Ian’s thorough inspection of the blankness above, his traitorous body was starting to respond to the young man’s quietly pornographic sounds.

Was the cord tying Ian brought along for their assignment, or for sex games? Perhaps John had already used it to bind Gregorovich – and what a pretty picture that would be. It had been a while since Ian had taken anyone to bed, and Gregorovich, much as Ian was trying not to notice, was strikingly attractive. Especially while naked, collared and moaning.

Ian had been too preoccupied to dwell on it at the time, but pinning the young man beneath him, dark eyes wide with fear and fury while he struggled, had been guiltily appealing. Gregorovich wasn’t weak and John had clearly taught him to fight well. It had made subduing him all the more satisfying.

His eyes drifted across slender limbs, delicate bones, plush lips that almost begged to be used for terrible things, to where Gregorovich’s hands clutched the wooden bars of the headboard. Wrists wearing the bruises Ian had given him…

Fuck. Ian was definitely getting hard, and there was no way to hide it.

“Up.”

Gregorovich obeyed, cheeks lightly flushed, mouth red and wet, standing next to the bed as John sat against the headboard. Both skilfully ignored Ian’s gaze.

On some level, he knew what must be coming next, but it was still a shock when John unzipped himself and took out his cock.

He’d caught glimpses of it before, but not like this. Not half-hard and reddened, swelling in his brother’s hand as he stroked himself, eyes roving over Gregorovich’s body. Ian couldn’t look away, transfixed as John swiped a thumb over the tip to spread glistening precome.

After motioning for Gregorovich to sit astride him, John’s hands squeezed and spread Gregorovich’s toned arse. Gregorovich’s hole was pink and open from the fingering. Had John done that for Ian’s benefit? He hastily averted his gaze.

In Ian’s peripheral vision, Gregorovich lifted himself and took John’s erection in hand, lining it up with his hole then sinking down with the smallest of sounds. It was slow progress but, breathing heavily through a movement that surely wasn’t free of pain, the young assassin didn’t stop until his body was flush with John’s.

It reminded him of when he was thirteen and he’d walked in on his brother in bed with a girl. Ian’s teenage hormones had translated that into a kaleidoscope of wet dreams over the years, spurred on by the sounds of John fucking when their parents were out.

The shock of John exposing himself was wearing off. With Ian’s rapidly-hardening cock on full display, it was pointless pretending he had no interest in being a voyeur, albeit one with no choice in the matter. Besides, this situation clearly wasn’t throwing John off his game. Why should it bother Ian?

If he just looked at the point where hole stretched around cock, he could all but forget who said cock belonged to. It was almost a fuck you to his brother to keep watching. Unless, of course, John was intending for Ian to enjoy himself, hoping he’d be tormented by his own enjoyment.

Well. Shame was certainly present, but Ian’s morals had become rather flexible a long time ago. Watching his brother fuck was far from the worst thing he’d ever done.

John’s fingers pressed into Gregorovich’s hips, guiding him as he fucked himself on John’s cock again and again, John watching idly while the young man worked up a sweat. The mattress dipped repeatedly, Ian’s body rocking along with it, the lull of the rain layering with Gregorovich’s soft gasps. The flex of the muscles in Gregorovich’s back and arse, the contrast of his lithe slenderness against John’s broad form, appealed on a primal level.

Ian’s arousal was building rapidly, the ache of his bound arms already less urgent than that of his neglected cock.

John pulled Gregorovich in for a kiss, then whispered something in his ear. Grevorovich’s body stiffened.

“You can do this,” John murmured, pulling away.

Gregorovich hesitated, then nodded and dismounted John. Taking a deep breath, he turned and straddled Ian’s legs instead. He seemed to study Ian’s face.

What did he see there? Presumably he didn’t even know Ian’s name, let alone his relationship to John.

With Gregorovich looking down at him now, Ian was struck with what he’d only gotten a hint of earlier; something lethal lurked in his gaze. Perhaps Blunt had been right to try and take him off the board, shoddy though the plan had been.

His cock didn’t care about any of this though, visibly twitching as the sight of Gregorovich hovering over him, hard and sheened with sweat, sent a wave of arousal through him.

“He wants you.” John handed the lube to Gregorovich. “You can touch him.”

Face guarded, Gregorovich drizzled it onto his palm then wrapped slender fingers around Ian’s length. An experimental squeeze. Ian bit back a moan as the touch spread pleasure through him like a wildfire.

Ian was only certain of what was about to happen when Gregorovich positioned himself above Ian’s cock. As Gregorovich pressed his slick hole onto him, John made eye contact with Ian for the first time. He smiled; the kind a cat might give a mouse before sinking its teeth in.

Gregorovich slid onto Ian with apparent ease. Still tight, but fucked looser by John. Ian tipped his head back, eyes closing with a groan muffled by the gag. The wet, squeezing heat and, oddly, the knowledge that his brother’s cock had just been where Ian’s was now was overwhelming, and he had to take a moment to compose himself before opening his eyes. If he were Gregorovich’s age, it might have been enough to tip him over the edge.

The young assassin was moving painfully slowly as he rose and sank repeatedly on Ian's cock, especially compared to his vigorous riding of John. Ian’s whole body was desperate to fuck into Gregorovich, but with the restraints he could barely move. It didn't matter that Ian was penetrating; he was still the one getting used.

The collar around Gregorovich’s neck gave Ian the urge to replace it with his hands, hold him down and fuck him through the mattress. But he was powerless. All the cards were held by John, who stroked himself as he watched. Getting off on his brother, bound and gagged and buried deep in John’s boy. And why that sent heat pulsing through Ian was anybody’s guess.

Gregorovich’s slow, sensual movements kept Ian’s orgasm just out of reach. When was the last time he’d been this turned on? Not in recent memory, that was for sure.

John rose to stand beside Gregorovich. The hand that wasn’t on his own cock went to Gregorovich’s back, stroking up and down it as Gregorovich rode Ian with spine-tingling proficiency. Well-trained, presumably.

Offering his throat up, Gregorovich leaned into the open-mouthed kisses John trailed across a jutting clavicle. He trembled, tensing around Ian as John felt across his chest, mouthed along his neck.

John’s cock was close enough to touch, if Ian wasn’t bound. There was something mesmerizing about watching John’s fingers slide along it.

To Ian’s mixed relief and alarm at the prospect of coming in front of his brother, an orgasm was finally building.

But John must have noticed. He placed a hand on Gregorovich’s neck. “Stop.”

Gregorovich stilled as John massaged the base of his skull. Then, presumably responding to pressure from John’s hand, he leaned over, though still not touching Ian except for where he sat on his cock. His eyes, impossibly wide and brown, flicked to Ian’s then away. Shamefully, the vulnerability there only made Ian more desperate to utterly ruin him.

John took Gregorovich’s arms and moved them to fold behind his back. “Keep your arms there. I’ll end your punishment early if you come.”

He rubbed over Gregorovich’s backside before raising his hand and bringing it back down with a loud slap.

Ian moaned, muffled by the tie in his mouth, as the impact vibrated through to his cock and Gregorovich clenched deliciously around him. Gregorovich was silent bar a small noise in the back of his throat, seemingly prepared. Had John done this to him before?

Another slap. Ian was ready for it this time, closing his eyes, biting his lip to stop himself from moaning at the tightening heat around him. A few more had delightful sounds of pained pleasure wrenching from Gregorovich’s throat. From the impact noises and what Ian could feel through Gregorovich’s body, John wasn’t being merciful.

Opening his eyes, he found his gaze locked with his brother’s. The hunger in John’s eyes sent arousal surging through Ian, and Gregorovich gave a small cry as Ian involuntarily bucked his hips what little he could with the cord holding his body taught.

His brother’s lips curved in a predatory smile. This was going exactly how he wanted, and Ian could no longer bring himself to care.

John brought his hand down again. Ian flinched as his fingertips landed on him as well as Gregorovich, the touch flashing through him. An accident? John’s face gave nothing away.

Gregorovich seemed to be struggling to hold himself up, the muscles in his thighs trembling against Ian’s with each slap, his body lowering ever further. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears inches from Ian’s, but the assassin still refused to look at him. Every blow had his leaking cock bobbing against Ian’s stomach.

“John…” Gregorovich’s voice was pleading.

John paused to stroke Gregorovich’s back, eyes thawing somewhat. The young assassin’s chest heaved.

“You’re doing so well, Yassen. So well.”

Some of the tension seemed to melt from Gregorovich at the words. He exhaled shakily, the hot air rushing against Ian’s chest.

Ian had spent years spent chasing John’s approval before his brother moved out for university. A faint, nameless pang went through him at seeing Gregorovich receive it.

Looping two fingers through the back of Gregorovich’s collar, John resumed the spanking. Now, each time Gregorovich’s body jerked forward with the impact the leather dug into his throat. The choked cries each time John hit him made Ian desperate to be the cause of some of those perfect sounds. And what must his arse look like? Surely a beautiful bright red by now. Ian burned to see it.

Being unable to do much more than grind into him was agony, especially when a particularly brutal-sounding slap caused Gregorovich’s body to give out with a choked sob. Apparently still aware enough to remember John’s warning to keep his arms behind his back, he had no choice but to slump forward onto Ian’s chest. His skin was sweat-slick against Ian, erection pressed into Ian’s stomach. His neck arced upwards where John still held his collar.

Ian could only imagine how Gregorovich felt to be pressed against someone he probably thought was going to kill him barely an hour ago. If John was trying to display his control over Gregorovich, he was making his point well.

“There we go. Almost there,” John soothed, lowering his hand to let Gregorovich’s face rest in the juncture of Ian’s neck and shoulder. His breath came ragged against Ian’s skin as wet heat trickled onto his throat, the assassin no longer able to hold back tears of overwhelm. Ian felt a little guilty to be getting off on this, even though he hadn’t chosen any of it. Even guiltier to know that if he was able to, he’d fuck the boy senseless.

John struck close to Gregorovich’s hole this time and Ian swore into the gag as John’s fingers touched the base of Ian’s cock, Gregorovich’s own rubbing across Ian’s stomach. A few more strikes and Gregorovich was crying out, streaks of liquid heat painting Ian’s skin as he came between them. His chest heaved with dry sobs, the sound muffled by Ian’s skin as his hole convulsed rhythmically around his cock. It was almost, almost enough stimulation for Ian to reach his own release.

John crouched down next to them, stroking the back of Gregorovich’s neck, murmuring reassurance. This close, Ian could see a fondness in John’s face as he pressed soft kisses to Gregorovich’s temple.

John helped Gregorovich, dazed and boneless, off Ian then sat on the bed, pulling his protégé into his arms. He murmured soothing words, wiped stray tears from his face, stroked across his skin and through his hair until Gregorovich looked to be falling asleep.

It seemed the ending of Ian’s punishment was to be left desperate for climax while the evidence of Gregorovich’s cooled on him. He breathed deeply, willing himself to return to normal. He wasn’t a teenager any more, rendered brainless by arousal.

But he kept thinking of Gregorovich’s tight hole around him. Of John’s dark eyes on him, his commanding tone, the way he praised Gregorovich. Even the proximity of the two men’s bodies fueled the heat in his belly now.

Finally taking his eyes from Gregorovich, John looked to Ian, taking in his persistent hard-on. He seemed amused. “Needy, aren’t you?”

Humiliating, infuriating and somehow arousing in equal measure.

John studied him for a long moment.

“Perhaps we can do something about that.”

Thank fuck. John was taking pity on him after all. Maybe Ian would get Gregorovich’s hand on him, or even his mouth…

John lowered his protégé to lie on the bottom of the bed next to Ian, where he curled in on himself, breathing deep, looking between John and Ian.

Rubbing his fingers over the fabric in Ian’s mouth, John pushed down on his tongue through it. “I’m going to take this off, but you only speak when spoken to.”

Ian shivered at the contact as he nodded. At this point, he was well beyond trying to make John hand Gregorovich over to him. Too risky while his brother was proving so terrifyingly, tantalisingly unpredictable.

John reached down and undid the gag, pulling the damp fabric from Ian’s mouth. Ian worked his jaw, trying to ease the stiffness.

“So, you’re going to be good for me?” John traced a finger across Ian’s throat then placed a hand around it.

Lightning flared in him at having his life in John’s hand. The same part of him that loved spying wanted to know what defiance would bring, what his brother would do. Even after the split lip. Even after the knife. He stared John down with a reckless smirk.

John’s eyes turned thunderous. He tightened his hand around Ian’s neck, forcing his chin up, holding his oxygen hostage.

“I said, are you going to be good?”

And Ian was a teenager again, struggling during sparring practise with a brother whose post-puberty growth spurt left Ian with no chance of winning, John’s growled command to yield and iron-solid pin leaving him inexplicably hot all over.

His vision started to white out, his ears ringing. If he didn’t answer, would John stop? Ian almost left it too late, dipping into darkness, only aware of the fingers digging into the softness of his throat.

“Yes,” he choked out, and the hand released him. Oxygen returned to his brain as John’s fingers skimmed along his collarbones, the touch strangely soothing.

“Yes, what?”

The haze of airless arousal had somehow made everything clear.

“I’ll be good.”

John loosened the restraints on Ian’s feet then got onto the bed, nudged his legs apart and knelt between them, looming over him.

Ian’s stomach fluttered. Looks and touches were one thing, but this was unmistakeably sexual. How far was John planning to take things?

And how far did Ian want him to?

He found himself opening up to take the fingers John pressed to his lips, his split lip stinging at the contact. The faint taste of gunsmoke and salt slid across his tongue, John’s eyes becoming animal as Ian closed his mouth and sucked.

John had won. The game hadn’t started today; it was as if their whole lives had been building up to John making his little brother obey. To making him take everything he gave him and enjoy it. Possibly John was as powerless as Ian to stop this chain of events.

Withdrawing saliva-coated fingers, John trailed the tips of them feather-light down Ian’s chest, through the line of dark hairs on his trembling stomach. Fuck, Ian wanted his brother’s hand on his cock. But he didn’t give it to him. Instead, eyes on his, John used his other hand to part Ian’s arse. Circled his hole with his slick fingertips, and, god help him, Ian actually whimpered.

Would John end things here if he asked? He had no intention of finding out.

John took a moment to work his fingertip in, his other hand stroking Ian’s hip. He pushed in slowly so Ian could feel every thick inch opening him up. That was his brother inside him, and this whole thing was insane, but Ian wasn’t sure he’d ever been so turned on in his life. With John towering over him, all predator, he needed nothing more than to take whatever he offered.

Perhaps this was how it felt to be collared by John.

He’d barely adjusted to the sensation of one finger inside him when John added a second. This time Ian groaned, the stretch an exquisite mix of pain and pleasure.

John looked at his face now, amusement joining the arousal in his eyes. “You really are desperate to get off, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Fuck you, yes.”

John stabbed his fingers further into his hole. “Talk to me like that again and there’s no chance of it.”

Ian breathed through the sharp sting, overcoming his instinct to send a snarky remark his brother’s way.

John scissored his fingers inside Ian, finding his boundaries, forcing them wider. “And what would you do to be allowed to come?”

Ian screwed his eyes shut, hating the truth in what he was about to say, barely able to spit the words out. “Anything. I’d do anything.”

John stroked Ian’s thigh. “Would you take my cock?” A genuine curiosity in his voice. “Do you want to take my cock?”

Ian’s heart skipped a beat. It was excruciating to admit, even to himself, but impossible to deny how the thought lit his nerves on fire.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Good boy,” John murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to his stomach. The words alone, luminous with approval, almost had Ian coming.

John curled his fingers, hitting something that sent bright ripples of pleasure through Ian. His brother’s upper lip twitched animalistically at his startled cry.

“I could make you lose your mind.” John’s voice was low and dark as he drove firm digits to spark repeatedly against Ian’s walls.

Ian believed him.

When John eventually wrapped his free hand around Ian’s cock, it was like an electrocution. He arched into the grip as much as his restraints allowed, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as his brother jerked him without mercy.

“I’m going to… fuck, I’m going to come,” Ian gasped, but John didn’t stop. A couple more strokes and it was all over, Ian coming so hard he barely knew who he was, spilling over the tightness of John’s hand to add to Gregorovich’s spend on his stomach and chest. It was all he could do to keep from gasping John’s name as his body flexed against his bonds.

With Ian’s hole still clamping around his fingers, John took Gregorovich by the arm and pulled him closer to Ian. He worked himself to orgasm in a matter of seconds, coming hotly over both of them with a grunt of exertion.

Ian panted, mind hazy, unable to process what had just happened. John knelt over them, embodying a satiated lion as his gaze roved over the two of them lying before him, freshly adorned with his spend. He withdrew his fingers from Ian, stretched, then briefly left the room.

Returning with a towel and two glasses of water, he first wiped Gregorovich off, then Ian, although the two and a half loads were almost certainly smearing into his skin instead of the towel. He handed a glass to his protégé then held the other to Ian’s lips.

Ian gulped from it greedily, the awkward angle causing half of it to spill onto his throat. “You’re an arsehole,” he muttered, not just in reference to the water. John’s lips quirked upwards.

Draping the filthy towel over a chair, John sat at the top of the bed again, beckoning for Gregorovich to join him then folding him in his arms.

Ian was starting to drift off, the events of the last hour and the afterglow of the most confusing orgasm of his life trying to pull him into sleep. Through drooping eyelids he watched John run his fingers through Gregorovich’s hair, the assassin looking as spacey as Ian felt, his arm draped across John’s chest as John alternated between murmuring praise and lazily kissing him.

“Go and shower. I’ll be there soon,” John said to Gregorovich. Gregorovich shot Ian an inscrutable look then got up.

John watched him leave before turning to Ian. His eyes were serious for a moment as he took him in, searching for something. Either finding it or not, he seemed to relax.

He took the side of the duvet Ian wasn’t lying on and folded it over him, apparently deciding now was the time to preserve his modesty, though Ian was too worn out to feel much in the way of shame. The bed dipped as John moved to lie next to him, head propped up against the footboard.

“Can you untie me now?” Ian mumbled, not sure what else to say.

“First things first. What if the Department asks you to try again?”

Ian shook his head, willing his brain into action. He wasn’t sure his brother would be pleased with his response. “I’m not promising anything. I’ll make my own decision if that happens.”

“I’d want nothing less. But if you choose to step on my toes again, I advise you to tread carefully.”

The words hung heavy for a moment, until John stood, picking up his bag and Gregorovich’s clothes. “I’m going to join Yassen in the shower,” he announced. “His refractory period is delightfully short.”

“What happens to me now?”

“Well, you’ll have to walk to the nearest town. It’s about four miles away. I’ll leave a map and the good teabags. I’ll untie you after the sedative kicks in.”

Sedative…?

The water.

Bastard.

“Yassen won’t fail to shoot again. He’s learned his lesson.” John ran a thumb over Ian’s lower lip, pushing down on the split. “But perhaps if you’ve learned yours, I’ll let you fuck him properly next time.”

Ian’s heart stuttered, both at the thought of getting his hands on Gregorovich and of a next time.

John leaned a little closer. “And perhaps I’ll do the same to you, since you were so eager.” He winked, and Ian had no idea if he was joking.

The last Ian saw of his brother that night as he sauntered from the room was the curve of his victory grin.

Some things never changed.

Yassen shuddered in Hunter’s grasp. His mentor pressed against his back, supporting his exhausted body. Hot water ran across his skin, washing away all evidence of his second release.

“How did you find what we did earlier?” Hunter asked, caressing Yassen's hip.

Images flashed through Yassen’s mind. Hunter’s face, soft and open; a nameless stranger beneath him, inside him; Hunter’s gaze flicking between them as he claimed them both.

There was a whisper of doubt at the memory of Hunter’s hand on someone else; a warm glow at the echoes of Hunter’s praise.

“It was challenging. Like you said it would be.”

“Do you feel better for it?”

Lighter, somehow, yes. Quieter. Worthy.

“I think so.”

Strong arms tightened around Yassen. “I know I pushed you hard.”

He inhaled the rich scent of cedarwood in the steam clouding around them.

Had it been part of his punishment, to watch Hunter touching another man? Or was that something Hunter had wanted for himself?

There was still so much he didn’t understand. Who the man was – there couldn’t be many people who’d disrupt Hunter’s assignment, imperil a fellow operative, and be left all but unscathed, deemed not to be a threat. And, like Hunter’s wife at Sacré-Coeur, he was to remain their secret. But if the man knew Hunter, why had he been targeting Yassen?

The more Yassen had looked at him, the more reminiscent of Hunter he’d been; similar enough to be blood. They surely couldn’t be related after what they’d done together, though.

He itched to ask for an explanation. But his mentor had always had secrets. If Yassen needed to know, Hunter would tell him.

Yassen hesitated before asking the only thing that might help him understand.

“Did it make you happy?”

Hunter nuzzled the back of his neck. “It did.”

And Yassen knew he’d do it all a hundred times over.