Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
Thanks to anon's suggestions we are now enforcing a past-part fills post
Fresh past-part fills post HERE
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The day had been full of unexpected complications, and Toris could see the strain it had put on the nation. Though he hadn't been reduced to his iconic chanting, Ivan's smile was jerked higher at the corners than usual, his hands kept defaulting to tight fists, and a tense aura had descended on his office.
Everyone except the Lithuanian had avoided him as much as possible-- Raivis had avoided the whole wing of the house. While Toris had been occupied for most of the day, trotting between errands, Ivan had ignored him whenever they had been together.
Just before midnight, Toris laid another stack of unread reports on the already cluttered desk, cringing at the tension rolling the blond. Ivan was dangerous at the best of times, and the worse his mood got, the more likely the evening was to end in blunt force trauma. The German communiqués that he had just recieved were only going to cause him more frustration. The Russian wasn't one to wallow; he usually dealt with his feelings through bursts of violence or, alternately, complete repression. But as long as he sat with all the day's bad news spread in front of him, he wasn't going to calm down.
God knows he didn't want to provoke him, but for the good of everyone involved... Toris scrapped up his courage and stepped around the desk, ducking his head at the other man.
“I-Ivan...”
When he paused in his writing, not yet looking up, Toris took it as a sign to continue.
“Ivan, do you think you might... want to turn in? For the night, I mean.”
Still, no response.
“It's just... that it's gotten late, and I th-thought you might want... want...”
The sentence had sputtered and died as Ivan had spun slowly in his chair, fixing him him with a tense smile and a petrifying glare. Sliding into the even more ominous “full condescension' mode, he tilted his head to the side.
“Da, zaychick moy? What might I want-want?”
“T-to... rest.”
“Oho? Your concern for me is touching.”
Toris deflated, and his master spun back to face the desk.
The brunet stood awkwardly for some time, listening to the shuffling of papers and the shrill sound of every fiber of his body screaming at him to let sleeping dogs lie. Then, carefully, he slid behind Ivan's chair.
He rested his hands on either side of his master's neck.
He squeezed.
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