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The door to his father's workshop clattered shut behind him as he leaned back against it to catch his breath. He coughs a few dry coughs but soon he was able to breathe normally and he felt his body relax, not that there was ever time to *truly* relax now. He hasn't felt anything but on edge, even during his most quiet and solitary moments since he's gotten back to town.
Despite that, he still felt some relief to be back at the workshop. He did as he had been required to by the nigh-feudal leaders of the town. He had done as the Kin had requested to gain their trust. And lastly, he had done what he required of himself. He should have a few hours to himself before a new emergency arises.
He strips off his gloves and uses it to dust himself off. One odd feature of the plague seems to be how it leaves soot like debris on his clothes when he's had to brave infected districts.
After he finishes dusting off, he tosses his gloves on his “examination table” as he's taken to calling it. He also strips off his felt smock letting it join the gloves on the table. He'd rather be a bit cold than clammy, sweaty and cold.
He notices the black flecks that litter the concrete floor as he grabs a bottle of chilly spring water. He uncorks the bottle and glugs down the contents gratefully. He walks the short distance to the makeshift cot and sits down. Thirst slaked, his mind wanders back to the meeting in the town hall this afternoon.
This plague is unlike anything he had ever heard about. Clouds of plague whir through the streets at a breakneck pace, they whisper through cracked lips, caressing your ear before speeding off again, leaving a trail of black flecks in its wake.
And when he arrived at the town hall, of course the only person who cared to talk to him in detail was that arrogant capital prick Dankovsky. He seemed more personable and apologetic than before. He looked defeated, knocked off his high horse. But then, Dankovsky tried to recruit him to be his assistant. Which meant to submit to him, to be at his beck and call. First Big Vlad presumed that he will be their family physician and then Dankovsky tried to recruit him to do his dirty work to make some vaccine that won’t even benefit the town.
Of course he argued against the idea. He had to save the town and its people, after all it was his town. But then he heard Dankovsky speak those words with easy authority, “Mind your tone Burakh, I don’t take kindly to rudeness.” His thoughts all coalesced around that moment: Dankovsky’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, his amber eyes transfixing Artemy in place. Artemy was looming over him, yet Dankovsky was in complete control.
A shiver zings down his spine and a warmth starts to pool in his abdomen. It was a familiar feeling. He should have recognized it for what it was when Dankovsky spoke to him today. But his mind was occupied and he didn’t have the time to listen to his body in any way, whether it was hungry or thirsty or tired, or something else entirely. He probably would have recognized it talking to Dankovsky the first time in Stakh’s apartment, if he wasn’t still dealing with the shock of learning about his father’s death.
He had felt this feeling before when superior officers demeaned him then gave him orders. He had felt it when his teachers rapped a ruler against his knuckles. The superiority, the authority, the smirk, a man who knew he was better than you and wasn't afraid to show it. If there was one thing he missed about the army it was men like that. There were much fewer men in civilian life who would dare to put a man of his frame in his place like that.
The warmth in his core trickled down and he felt himself start to harden. He sighed, he didn't want to do this now, in his father's old workshop, on his threadbare mattress 2 days after his death. But his head was a mess, he needed release and Dankovsky somehow knew how to press all his buttons.
He reaches into his pants and pulls his cock out. He starts languidly stroking himself as he imagines himself back at the town hall.
Dankovsky is reading some papers at his desk. He's leaning back in his chair and with his feet on the desk, his clunky boots resting on the mahogany.
Artemy stands there for a moment before Dankovsky deigns to notice him. He puts his papers down and sits upright, elbows resting on the table, fingers clasped. He gives Artemy a once over before speaking in a disdainful tone “So this is who they've sent to be my assistant?”
Artemy responds weakly “Yes, sir.” The frown remains fixed on Daniil’s face as he barks an order. “Stand up straight. Show some respect when your betters are speaking to you.”
Artemy mey quickly corrected his posture to stand at his full height.
“What’s your name? I suppose you get to keep your name unlike all my orderlies with their numbers.” Dankovsky trailed off, before fixing his eyes back on Artemy.
“Artemy Burakh, sir.” He said, trying not to let his voice tremble.
“Listen, Vorakh, do you have any medical qualifications? Where did you go to school? What is your speciality?”
Artemy held his posture as he answered. “I was training to become a surgeon in the capital before I was drafted into the war.”
“What was a tall, broad shouldered thing such as yourself doing lumbering through the operating theater? I bet you can barely hold a scalpel in those bear paws.”
In his fantasy, Artemy knew he would be hard, with Daniil talking down to him like this. He knew something was wrong with him, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Men- haughty, pompous, arrogant men, were the only things that could make him feel something like this. And these men knew how to take what they wanted from him, quietly in the bunks, pressed up behind him with a hand over his mouth.
His old memories stirred his passion further as he delved back into his fantasy.
In his fantasy, Dankovsky stands up from his desk and comes around to visually assess him once more. “I don't need a brute like you to ‘practice medicine’ but perhaps I could still have use of you.” Dankovsky spit out the phrase ‘practice medicine’ like venom but then a faint smile graced his face.
He pointed to the ground in front of him and spoke a command, simply and clearly. “On your knees.”
It felt like Artemy's legs moved on their own accord, before he could even think about the command. He knelt down quickly, and his knees thudded as he hit the ground.
“You're quick to obey. It's good to know your place.” Dankovsky said as he bent down and lightly caressed Artemy's face. When he stands back up, Dankovsky lightly brushes the toe of his boot against his balls.
In reality, Artemy uses his other hand to caress his balls to simulate the sensation.
The sensation makes him let out a pleasurable sigh. Dankovsky smirked down at him. “Wonderfully responsive. Perhaps they did send me exactly what I needed.” Dankovsky then swished his coat so that his serpent emblem belt buckle was visible, gleaming silver in the light. “You look so practiced being on your knees, batting your pretty little lashes. Well, I think I've finally found something you're good for. Well, see to it you're diligent about the task at hand.”
That was all the permission Artemy needed. He scrambled to unbuckle Dankovsky's belt, but gently unbuttoned his pants. Artemy reaches a hand into Dankovsky's pants and pulls out his cock.
It was half hard, and slightly ruddy, Artemy could already tell it was going to be a mouthful. He secures his fist on the base of Dankovsky’s cock and slowly gives it a few strokes, to give him a feel for it.
Then he slowly eased his way on to Dankovsky's cock. Artemy carefully worked his way up his length taking time, enveloped in the smell and taste of salt, sweat and something purely masculine. In what felt like no time at all his nose was pressing up his fingers wrapped around the base of Dankovsky’s cock.
His cock was snug in Artemy’s throat, and without warning Dankovsky began moving, each thrust of his hips bruising the back of Artemy's throat. Tears sprung to his eyes, but he still tried to match Dankovsky's pace. Above he could hear Dankovsky begin to speak.
“Now that's much better, I set the pace of your work.” Artemy fully gave in to Dankovsky's control and let him grab a fistful of his hair, letting Dankovsky use his mouth as he pleased. He felt a relief and a lightness in having no purpose other than this.
In reality Artemy starts to stroke himself more aggressively, he knows he's close to his climax.
Back in his fantasy, Dankovsky picks up the pace before he abruptly pulls Artemy off of his cock. He gives his spit soaked cock two meager strokes before he's spilling onto Artemy's face. Dankovsky saves the last spurt of his seed to paint Artemy's lips. With a flick of his tongue, he cleans his lips, desperate to taste Dankovsky again.
Dankovsky tucks himself back while Artemy sits back on his heels waiting for his next instructions. Dankovsky looks back at him, eyes clearly drawn to the bulge in Artemy's pants.
“I suppose you deserve a commendation for the good work you did on your first task.” Dankovsky pauses for a brief moment to whet Artemy’s anticipation of his reward. He then gently tilts up his boot right underneath Artemy's crotch. Artemy adjusts himself so that he can grind himself against the proffered boot for a few seconds before climaxing with a soft huff.
“Hmmm” Dankovsky hums, seemingly admiring him before turning around. “You are dismissed for now. I will send for you when I need you.”
And with that it's like the curtain drops on the scene and he is alone again in his father's workshop, cock in hand, covered in his own spend. That was actually the most escape he's had from the demands of his station since he's gotten to town. His dreams are haunted by memories of his past or inscrutable visions of the future. Even sleep is not a respite for him. Regardless he still needs to try and rest, even if his mind felt clear, his body needs it. He wipes his hand on his pants and shucks off his boots. He then swings his legs on to the bed and curls up for warmth. He prays only for a few sweet hours of oblivion.