Fic - To Console Is To Be Consoled (War & Peace)
Title: To Console Is To Be Consoled
Pairings: Dolokhov/Anatole/(Helene)
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3,329
Summary: More War and Peace filth. Set after episode 4, following Pierre's confrontation with Anatole. It's all evilmaniclaugh's fault you know.
--
Having delivered his ultimatum, Pierre stormed out through the Kuragin house barely looking where he was going. Turning a corner he almost walked straight into someone coming the other way, and had stammered a flustered apology before he realised who it was. Dolokhov.
Irritated that he'd accidentally acknowledged him, Pierre tried to push past but Dolokhov promptly sidestepped to remain in his way, eyeing him curiously with an amused smirk.
"What have you been up to Petrushka? Such flushed cheeks and heavy breathing. If I didn't know better I would say you'd just come, but by all accounts I hear that's unlikely."
Spluttering with fury, Pierre ignored the insult and focussed on the unwarranted familiarity.
"Don't call me that," he spat. "Don't you ever call me that again, you have no right."
"I shall call you what I like," Dolokhov drawled with equanimity. "I'm sure you have a few choice names for me, after all."
"I do not even think of you," Pierre said hotly. "You are nothing to me. What are you? Less than a man, a worm. You are no gentleman, and I will thank you not to address me."
Dolokhov tutted reproachfully, watching with interest as Pierre's face went first deathly pale and then bright red. "I seem to remember a time you were pathetically grateful for my friendship Petrushka. They say money is the root of all evil, it certainly seems so in your case. How quickly a man forgets his friends."
Howling mad, Pierre flew at him but unlike Anatole, Dolokhov did not so much as flinch and Pierre drew up again abruptly. This close, Dolokhov smelt of stale sweat and sweet tobacco, and Pierre, a man of fastidious bathing habits, was suddenly repulsed by the idea of touching him. He jabbed an accusing finger at Dolokhov's face instead.
"We are not friends," he hissed. "You took my wife."
Dolokhov gave an elegant shrug. "Me and half of Moscow. Think of it as getting in early, before the rush."
Pierre made a strangled noise, and for a moment considered trying to order Dolokhov from the city as well. The only thing that stopped him was the sick suspicion that Dolokhov would simply laugh in his face - or punch him in it. It was one thing standing behind a pistol as gentlemen, but Pierre had seen Dolokhov in enough fist fights to know this time he would surely come off worst.
"Stay away from the Rostovs," he declared instead. "Don't think I don't know you had a hand in this business."
"Or you'll what?" asked Dolokhov, raising an eyebrow enquiringly. Before Pierre could compose a suitable reply, Dolokhov saved him the trouble. "Oh don't worry, I couldn't have less interest in the wretched girl. Either of them. Even Nikolai is unaccountably avoiding me these days." He gave Pierre a feral smile. "They're all yours. For all the good that will do you."
White faced and tight lipped, Pierre finally succeeded in getting past him and made his escape from the house with considerably less self-assurance than he'd entered it, cursing Dolokhov's ability to get so far under his skin.
Meanwhile, Dolokhov went in search of Anatole. Pierre had obviously come to cause trouble, and if there was one thing that entertained him, it was precisely that.
He found him in his bedroom suite, pacing furiously and clearly in a state of high emotion. He looked up as Dolokhov entered and hastened to him in relief, wearing an expression that was close to pleading.
"Fedya!"
"Whatever is the matter? My dear fellow, you're shaking." Dolokhov frowned, grasping Anatole by the shoulders to study him, then pulling him into his arms.
"Rage. It's pure rage," Anatole told him, although he accepted the embrace gratefully. Dolokhov made agreeable noises, not at all convinced it was but knowing of old how sensitive Anatole's pride could be.
"Pierre was here?" Dolokhov prodded. Anatole pulled away, running his hands through his hair and looking, Dolokhov thought, delightfully mussed.
"That little - weasel," Anatole growled. "Do you know what he's done? He's only damn well ordered me out of Moscow. Who does he think he is!"
"On whose authority?" Dolokhov asked, amused. He went to the sideboard and poured them both a large measure of cognac. "Here, you look like you could use it."
Anatole threw it back in one, coughed, and nodded his thanks, holding the glass out to be refilled.
"He says he'll kill me if I stay," Anatole admitted, the heat rising in his face at the shame of it. But then, he'd admitted worse things to Dolokhov. Even if the man laughed at him, he had no one else to turn to. "What do I do, Fedya?"
"Well, I hear Poland's nice this time of year," said Dolokhov casually.
"It's not funny!" Anatole shrieked, slapping at him frenziedly. Dolokhov fended him off, laughing.
"Not for you, admittedly." He toasted Anatole and downed his own glass with a smile.
Anatole slumped, the fit of angry passion gone as soon as it had risen. "I'm serious Fedya, what do I do?" he asked wretchedly.
"Well, you have two options," Dolokhov told him. "You can call his bluff, or you can run away with your tail between your legs." He illustrated his words by groping at Anatole's crotch lewdly.
Anatole wriggled out of his grasp, clucking with irritation. "Do you think he's bluffing?" he asked.
Dolokhov gave a hum of consideration. "Speaking as someone he's already shot? Upon reflection, no," he conceded. "On the plus side, he might be said to have used up all his beginner's luck on me, in which case you might be quite safe."
Anatole groaned despairingly and Dolokhov patted him on the shoulder. "Cheer up. You'll just have to go back to the Petersburg house for a year or so, that's all. It's not like you'll be out on the streets. Leave it long enough for the dust to settle. Let them marry her off properly, wait for Pierre to settle his feathers. With any luck he'll disappear up his own Masonic fundament and forget all about you."
"I suppose so. Would you come with me?" Anatole ventured.
"I shall have to return to my regiment soon," Dolokhov told him. Anatole promptly looked despondent and he relented. "But when I return - assuming of course that I do - I shall come to you, if that's what you wish?"
"Well, you'll need someone to feed you, won't you?" Anatole replied waspishly, uncomfortable with the idea Dolokhov might think him needy or in any way vulnerable.
Dolokhov's expression went blank and he set down his glass with a click and turned to leave. Immediately regretting his spiteful impulse, Anatole grabbed at his sleeve.
"Wait! Fedya, wait, don't go. Please. I'm sorry. Forgive me."
Dolokhov sighed, but he made no further move towards the door, and Anatole wound his arms around Dolokhov's chest from behind.
"Don't go?" Anatole repeated softly. "Forgive me, you know my moods."
"Too well," Dolokhov retorted, but he turned back and took Anatole into his arms. "And your whims. I trust your obsession with dear Natasha is now well and truly a thing of the past?"
Anatole looked sulky. "You helped me," he pointed out.
"I find it very difficult to deny you anything," Dolokhov admitted. "But I never thought it was a good idea. Besides, she'd soon have bored you."
"Perhaps." Anatole looked up at him with darkly calculating eyes. "Perhaps I should marry you," he smiled. "You're the only one who understands me, Fedya."
"Not quite the only one," Dolokhov reminded him, and Anatole laughed.
"Well I can't exactly marry her either can I?"
"Not that that's stopped you." Dolokhov gave him a knowing grin and Anatole shrugged, unabashed.
"Distract me?" he murmured. "I've had a hateful day."
"All of which is directly your own fault," Dolokhov pointed out, but even as he spoke he was working a hand down the front of Anatole's breeches.
"Oh have a heart," Anatole complained. Dolokhov snorted.
"I didn't think it was my heart you were interested in."
"True." Anatole's breath hitched as warm fingers finally closed around his cock. "Very well then, be as cruel as you like just - oh! - just don't stop doing that."
Dolokhov shoved him back against the wall and delivered a bruising kiss, taking the opportunity to pull Anatole's clothing open and afford himself better access. By now Anatole was fully hard and pushing demandingly into his hand, and Dolokhov seized him by the shirt-front and propelled them both through the inner doors into the bedchamber.
Sprawling on the bed, both men shed their clothes in remarkably short order and came back together for a heated kiss that was more than half wrestling match. They had been lovers, on and off, since approximately six hours after meeting for the first time, but over all the intervening years Anatole had remained prickly about taking what he saw as the submissive part.
Because of this, Anatole tended to turn even the tenderest exchanges into a battle for supremacy and for the most part Dolokhov let him have his way. For one thing nobody else knew, and for another Dolokhov was confident that if it came to a real fight he could probably reduce Anatole to tears in under sixty seconds. And besides, he took genuine pleasure from the act and thought Anatole silly for shying away from trying every decadent depravity the world had to offer.
However sexually accommodating it normally suited him to be, today for some reason Dolokhov felt like being perverse. Consequently, as soon as Anatole was naked he pushed him face down upon the bed and straddled his thighs, holding Anatole's wrists behind his back in one hand, while he rifled the carved cherrywood cabinet beside the bed for what he wanted.
"What do you think you're doing!" Anatole protested indignantly.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dolokhov replied with faux bemusement, his hand closing around a bottle of oil with some satisfaction. Say what you liked about Anatole, his bedrooms were always well stocked to accommodate most forms of debauchery. "I'm going to fuck you of course."
"But - you know I don't do that!" Anatole spluttered.
"Not up till now, no," Dolokhov agreed, holding him down easily from his position on top. "But any man who runs away from Pierre Bezukhov surely forfeits the right to call the shots. It's my turn, I'm afraid."
"Dolokhov! Don't you dare! I'm warning you - " Anatole broke off with a muffled yelp as Dolokhov introduced one oiled finger to his hole, entirely without warning.
It took him so much by surprise in fact that for several seconds Anatole couldn't form any words at all and Dolokhov took full advantage of the time, working his finger deeper.
"Dolokhov you bastard, get your filthy fingers out of my arse!"
"Fingers in the plural you say, you want more than one? Very well," Dolokhov said cheerfully, and with the application of a little more oil, added a second digit. Once more this reduced Anatole to spluttering incoherency, and Dolokhov worked on him with a dedicated concentration for several more seconds before Anatole managed to wrench his wrists free of Dolokhov's one-handed grip.
Anatole braced himself on his forearms and writhed to and fro in an attempt to dislodge Dolokhov, but he was at a decided disadvantage, and Dolokhov just laughed at his efforts.
"I've ridden feistier horses than you," he chuckled.
"You think you can take such liberties with me? I'll have you whipped!" Anatole cried. "Unhand me."
Sitting astride Anatole's thighs, Dolokhov considered him coolly. He decided on balance that Anatole's thrashing definitely fell into the category of provocative wriggling rather than genuine struggling, and as an experiment briefly removed his fingers as ordered. Anatole immediately pushed backwards in search of renewed contact, and Dolokhov stifled a laugh. It seemed Helene was not the only one to find the illusion of being ravished added a definite spice to proceedings. He should have guessed.
"It seems I have you at my mercy," Dolokhov said in a low, dangerous voice, and watched Anatole shiver. He dribbled more of the oil over his hand and circled the pink hole before him with a fingertip.
Anatole gave a stifled whimper and canted his hips higher, unequivocally presenting himself to Dolokhov like a cat being rubbed on the hindquarters.
Dolokhov obliged him, sliding a wet finger back inside and stroking circles as he worked it in and out. This time Anatole remained silent, uttering only wordless gasps and grunts that served to ensure Dolokhov's cock was firmly in the upright, thick and hard against his belly.
Even so, he took his time. For all his teasing words Dolokhov had no wish to hurt Anatole, in fact hoped he would discover a liking for it that would allow them to indulge in such games for some time to come.
They progressed from two fingers to three, Dolokhov corkscrewing them into Anatole's now eager body with a hand dripping in oil, forcing helpless, mewling noises of want from his lips.
"You'll have to change your sheets after this," Dolokhov laughed, watching oil stains blossom on the expensive linen.
"I'll just set fire to them," Anatole panted, and Dolokhov wondered if he was joking. Knowing Anatole, probably not.
When Anatole was suitably open and ready, thrashing now from impatience rather than reluctance, Dolokhov turned his attention to his own cock. Running slippery palms up his shaft, he pulled at himself with both hands in succession, over and over until he was having to bite down on his own lip to control himself.
"Ready to be fucked like a virgin nun?" Dolokhov enquired cheerfully. "Ah, if only Pierre could see you now, do you think he would consider this fit punishment for your attempted seduction of his precious Rostova? Proud Anatole Kuragin, about to be ruined beyond measure."
Anatole made a disgusted noise. "Don't mention that man's name in here. Are you trying to give me nightmares? I have to sleep in this bed you know."
"Sleeping is the least interesting thing you can do in a bed," Dolokhov remarked, lining up and taking hold of Anatole by the hips. In his own way, he'd been offering Anatole a last minute reprieve, but it seemed his fingers had done their work well and Anatole was now more than eager to accommodate his cock.
Dolokhov pushed inside him with a deceptive care, sensing that despite his recent acquiescence, Anatole was tensed and apprehensive. Glorying in the feel of it, Dolokhov buried his cock inch by inch into Anatole's tight and clenching heat.
When he was all the way in Dolokhov stilled for a moment and Anatole groaned softly.
"Fuck you Fedya," he whispered. "Fuck you."
"Other way round my boy," Dolokhov murmured, and Anatole gave a choked laugh that held an edge of pain.
"Well get on with it then," Anatole pressed. "What are you waiting for, permission?"
Dolokhov reached around him, burrowing his hand between Anatole's sweat-slick belly and the oil-smeared sheets, and was encouraged to find that his prick was like iron.
Reacting to the touch of his hand, Anatole shifted position to give him better access, and ended up on all fours. Having been given license to behave as he pleased, Dolokhov took up a steady rhythm, thrusting into Anatole with long, slow strokes and matching this with the pull and slide of his hand.
Assailed by the double onslaught and despite the initial discomfort of the experience, Anatole was all too soon on the brink of orgasm, rocking under Dolokhov's thrusts with a series of drawn out moans.
"That's it," Dolokhov crooned, sensing Anatole was close and increasing the force of his wrist. "Come for me. Come for me Anatole. Spill for me."
With a strangled cry of satisfaction Anatole did just that, spurting his release thickly all over one of the embroidered pillows.
Head down and panting, he felt Dolokhov slide out of him, and then hands reached around to throw the soiled pillow to the floor and turned him so he was lying on his back.
"What are you doing?" Anatole asked in confusion, seeing that Dolokhov had not yet come himself.
"I've waited a long time to do this," Dolokhov answered him. "I'm going to savour the moment. I want to be looking you in the eye when I finish."
Dolokhov had seduced many young men in his life, but none now seemed quite as sweet as this final and long awaited conquest of Anatole.
Anatole gave him a lazy smirk. "I never took you for a romantic."
Lifting his knees, Dolokhov slammed back into him with a force that made Anatole cry out. "Romantic am I? I'll show you just how romantic I can be."
Where his initial foray had been relatively gentle by his standards, now Dolokhov fucked into him with single-minded purpose. Fingers dimpling Anatole's skin hard enough to bruise, Dolokhov pounded into him with a will, all the while holding his gaze. Transfixed, Anatole didn't look away for a second and when Dolokhov finally spent inside him, they both cried out together.
Exhausted but sated, they slumped into each other's arms and kissed each other messily.
"Well," said Dolokhov, rather breathlessly. "And what is the verdict from my lord prince?"
Anatole smiled slowly, eyes hooded and sly. "I have to confess, it's not entirely without its merits," he admitted. "Although if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll have you - "
"Whipped, I know," Dolokhov finished for him with a dry laugh. "Do you even own a whip?"
"Helene does. I'm sure I could borrow it."
"Ah."
They fetched a bottle of wine, and had been lying there naked amidst the crumpled sheets passing it between them for some time when the doors to the anteroom burst open and somebody marched in.
Both men started in alarm, then did their best to pretend they hadn't once they saw who it was.
"Anatole you halfwit, what have you done now? Can't you do anything right?" Helene swept into the room, showing complete disregard for the fact the two men were in bed together. "Pierre in a good mood is mostly unbearable. Pierre in a fit of miserable pique is trying in the extreme."
Ignoring her, Anatole turned to Dolokhov. "Is your sister this annoying?"
"Frequently," said Dolokhov, but he was looking at Helene, appreciatively running his eyes up and down her figure-hugging dress.
"Why have I never met your sister?" Anatole continued. "It would only be polite to introduce us."
Dolokhov smiled, but his eyes were cold. "You go within two miles of my sister, I'll cut off your balls and find you a new career with a very special section of the opera," he said silkily.
Anatole laughed. "Oh, so you're good enough to fuck my sister, but I'm not good enough to fuck yours, is that it?"
"Goodness Anatole, that's unlike you to grasp a concept so quickly," said Dolokhov, then gave a shout of laughter as Anatole jabbed him painfully in the ribs. "Besides," he added, "I trust your sister to make her own bad decisions. Come and join us my dear," he called to Helene, and pulled her down upon the bed.
Helene fell between them with a squeal of protest, but once there she showed no inclination to leave again. Dolokhov captured her mouth in a passionate kiss, and Anatole, with no consideration for the finer things in life, ripped down the bodice of her dress and buried his face between her breasts. Dolokhov's hand travelled up her thigh and beneath her skirts, causing her to moan filthily into his mouth very shortly afterwards.
"So," Dolokhov said conversationally, as Anatole's head disappeared under Helene's dress in the same direction as Dolokhov's hand. "Anatole informs me you have a whip?"
--
Pairings: Dolokhov/Anatole/(Helene)
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3,329
Summary: More War and Peace filth. Set after episode 4, following Pierre's confrontation with Anatole. It's all evilmaniclaugh's fault you know.
--
Having delivered his ultimatum, Pierre stormed out through the Kuragin house barely looking where he was going. Turning a corner he almost walked straight into someone coming the other way, and had stammered a flustered apology before he realised who it was. Dolokhov.
Irritated that he'd accidentally acknowledged him, Pierre tried to push past but Dolokhov promptly sidestepped to remain in his way, eyeing him curiously with an amused smirk.
"What have you been up to Petrushka? Such flushed cheeks and heavy breathing. If I didn't know better I would say you'd just come, but by all accounts I hear that's unlikely."
Spluttering with fury, Pierre ignored the insult and focussed on the unwarranted familiarity.
"Don't call me that," he spat. "Don't you ever call me that again, you have no right."
"I shall call you what I like," Dolokhov drawled with equanimity. "I'm sure you have a few choice names for me, after all."
"I do not even think of you," Pierre said hotly. "You are nothing to me. What are you? Less than a man, a worm. You are no gentleman, and I will thank you not to address me."
Dolokhov tutted reproachfully, watching with interest as Pierre's face went first deathly pale and then bright red. "I seem to remember a time you were pathetically grateful for my friendship Petrushka. They say money is the root of all evil, it certainly seems so in your case. How quickly a man forgets his friends."
Howling mad, Pierre flew at him but unlike Anatole, Dolokhov did not so much as flinch and Pierre drew up again abruptly. This close, Dolokhov smelt of stale sweat and sweet tobacco, and Pierre, a man of fastidious bathing habits, was suddenly repulsed by the idea of touching him. He jabbed an accusing finger at Dolokhov's face instead.
"We are not friends," he hissed. "You took my wife."
Dolokhov gave an elegant shrug. "Me and half of Moscow. Think of it as getting in early, before the rush."
Pierre made a strangled noise, and for a moment considered trying to order Dolokhov from the city as well. The only thing that stopped him was the sick suspicion that Dolokhov would simply laugh in his face - or punch him in it. It was one thing standing behind a pistol as gentlemen, but Pierre had seen Dolokhov in enough fist fights to know this time he would surely come off worst.
"Stay away from the Rostovs," he declared instead. "Don't think I don't know you had a hand in this business."
"Or you'll what?" asked Dolokhov, raising an eyebrow enquiringly. Before Pierre could compose a suitable reply, Dolokhov saved him the trouble. "Oh don't worry, I couldn't have less interest in the wretched girl. Either of them. Even Nikolai is unaccountably avoiding me these days." He gave Pierre a feral smile. "They're all yours. For all the good that will do you."
White faced and tight lipped, Pierre finally succeeded in getting past him and made his escape from the house with considerably less self-assurance than he'd entered it, cursing Dolokhov's ability to get so far under his skin.
Meanwhile, Dolokhov went in search of Anatole. Pierre had obviously come to cause trouble, and if there was one thing that entertained him, it was precisely that.
He found him in his bedroom suite, pacing furiously and clearly in a state of high emotion. He looked up as Dolokhov entered and hastened to him in relief, wearing an expression that was close to pleading.
"Fedya!"
"Whatever is the matter? My dear fellow, you're shaking." Dolokhov frowned, grasping Anatole by the shoulders to study him, then pulling him into his arms.
"Rage. It's pure rage," Anatole told him, although he accepted the embrace gratefully. Dolokhov made agreeable noises, not at all convinced it was but knowing of old how sensitive Anatole's pride could be.
"Pierre was here?" Dolokhov prodded. Anatole pulled away, running his hands through his hair and looking, Dolokhov thought, delightfully mussed.
"That little - weasel," Anatole growled. "Do you know what he's done? He's only damn well ordered me out of Moscow. Who does he think he is!"
"On whose authority?" Dolokhov asked, amused. He went to the sideboard and poured them both a large measure of cognac. "Here, you look like you could use it."
Anatole threw it back in one, coughed, and nodded his thanks, holding the glass out to be refilled.
"He says he'll kill me if I stay," Anatole admitted, the heat rising in his face at the shame of it. But then, he'd admitted worse things to Dolokhov. Even if the man laughed at him, he had no one else to turn to. "What do I do, Fedya?"
"Well, I hear Poland's nice this time of year," said Dolokhov casually.
"It's not funny!" Anatole shrieked, slapping at him frenziedly. Dolokhov fended him off, laughing.
"Not for you, admittedly." He toasted Anatole and downed his own glass with a smile.
Anatole slumped, the fit of angry passion gone as soon as it had risen. "I'm serious Fedya, what do I do?" he asked wretchedly.
"Well, you have two options," Dolokhov told him. "You can call his bluff, or you can run away with your tail between your legs." He illustrated his words by groping at Anatole's crotch lewdly.
Anatole wriggled out of his grasp, clucking with irritation. "Do you think he's bluffing?" he asked.
Dolokhov gave a hum of consideration. "Speaking as someone he's already shot? Upon reflection, no," he conceded. "On the plus side, he might be said to have used up all his beginner's luck on me, in which case you might be quite safe."
Anatole groaned despairingly and Dolokhov patted him on the shoulder. "Cheer up. You'll just have to go back to the Petersburg house for a year or so, that's all. It's not like you'll be out on the streets. Leave it long enough for the dust to settle. Let them marry her off properly, wait for Pierre to settle his feathers. With any luck he'll disappear up his own Masonic fundament and forget all about you."
"I suppose so. Would you come with me?" Anatole ventured.
"I shall have to return to my regiment soon," Dolokhov told him. Anatole promptly looked despondent and he relented. "But when I return - assuming of course that I do - I shall come to you, if that's what you wish?"
"Well, you'll need someone to feed you, won't you?" Anatole replied waspishly, uncomfortable with the idea Dolokhov might think him needy or in any way vulnerable.
Dolokhov's expression went blank and he set down his glass with a click and turned to leave. Immediately regretting his spiteful impulse, Anatole grabbed at his sleeve.
"Wait! Fedya, wait, don't go. Please. I'm sorry. Forgive me."
Dolokhov sighed, but he made no further move towards the door, and Anatole wound his arms around Dolokhov's chest from behind.
"Don't go?" Anatole repeated softly. "Forgive me, you know my moods."
"Too well," Dolokhov retorted, but he turned back and took Anatole into his arms. "And your whims. I trust your obsession with dear Natasha is now well and truly a thing of the past?"
Anatole looked sulky. "You helped me," he pointed out.
"I find it very difficult to deny you anything," Dolokhov admitted. "But I never thought it was a good idea. Besides, she'd soon have bored you."
"Perhaps." Anatole looked up at him with darkly calculating eyes. "Perhaps I should marry you," he smiled. "You're the only one who understands me, Fedya."
"Not quite the only one," Dolokhov reminded him, and Anatole laughed.
"Well I can't exactly marry her either can I?"
"Not that that's stopped you." Dolokhov gave him a knowing grin and Anatole shrugged, unabashed.
"Distract me?" he murmured. "I've had a hateful day."
"All of which is directly your own fault," Dolokhov pointed out, but even as he spoke he was working a hand down the front of Anatole's breeches.
"Oh have a heart," Anatole complained. Dolokhov snorted.
"I didn't think it was my heart you were interested in."
"True." Anatole's breath hitched as warm fingers finally closed around his cock. "Very well then, be as cruel as you like just - oh! - just don't stop doing that."
Dolokhov shoved him back against the wall and delivered a bruising kiss, taking the opportunity to pull Anatole's clothing open and afford himself better access. By now Anatole was fully hard and pushing demandingly into his hand, and Dolokhov seized him by the shirt-front and propelled them both through the inner doors into the bedchamber.
Sprawling on the bed, both men shed their clothes in remarkably short order and came back together for a heated kiss that was more than half wrestling match. They had been lovers, on and off, since approximately six hours after meeting for the first time, but over all the intervening years Anatole had remained prickly about taking what he saw as the submissive part.
Because of this, Anatole tended to turn even the tenderest exchanges into a battle for supremacy and for the most part Dolokhov let him have his way. For one thing nobody else knew, and for another Dolokhov was confident that if it came to a real fight he could probably reduce Anatole to tears in under sixty seconds. And besides, he took genuine pleasure from the act and thought Anatole silly for shying away from trying every decadent depravity the world had to offer.
However sexually accommodating it normally suited him to be, today for some reason Dolokhov felt like being perverse. Consequently, as soon as Anatole was naked he pushed him face down upon the bed and straddled his thighs, holding Anatole's wrists behind his back in one hand, while he rifled the carved cherrywood cabinet beside the bed for what he wanted.
"What do you think you're doing!" Anatole protested indignantly.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dolokhov replied with faux bemusement, his hand closing around a bottle of oil with some satisfaction. Say what you liked about Anatole, his bedrooms were always well stocked to accommodate most forms of debauchery. "I'm going to fuck you of course."
"But - you know I don't do that!" Anatole spluttered.
"Not up till now, no," Dolokhov agreed, holding him down easily from his position on top. "But any man who runs away from Pierre Bezukhov surely forfeits the right to call the shots. It's my turn, I'm afraid."
"Dolokhov! Don't you dare! I'm warning you - " Anatole broke off with a muffled yelp as Dolokhov introduced one oiled finger to his hole, entirely without warning.
It took him so much by surprise in fact that for several seconds Anatole couldn't form any words at all and Dolokhov took full advantage of the time, working his finger deeper.
"Dolokhov you bastard, get your filthy fingers out of my arse!"
"Fingers in the plural you say, you want more than one? Very well," Dolokhov said cheerfully, and with the application of a little more oil, added a second digit. Once more this reduced Anatole to spluttering incoherency, and Dolokhov worked on him with a dedicated concentration for several more seconds before Anatole managed to wrench his wrists free of Dolokhov's one-handed grip.
Anatole braced himself on his forearms and writhed to and fro in an attempt to dislodge Dolokhov, but he was at a decided disadvantage, and Dolokhov just laughed at his efforts.
"I've ridden feistier horses than you," he chuckled.
"You think you can take such liberties with me? I'll have you whipped!" Anatole cried. "Unhand me."
Sitting astride Anatole's thighs, Dolokhov considered him coolly. He decided on balance that Anatole's thrashing definitely fell into the category of provocative wriggling rather than genuine struggling, and as an experiment briefly removed his fingers as ordered. Anatole immediately pushed backwards in search of renewed contact, and Dolokhov stifled a laugh. It seemed Helene was not the only one to find the illusion of being ravished added a definite spice to proceedings. He should have guessed.
"It seems I have you at my mercy," Dolokhov said in a low, dangerous voice, and watched Anatole shiver. He dribbled more of the oil over his hand and circled the pink hole before him with a fingertip.
Anatole gave a stifled whimper and canted his hips higher, unequivocally presenting himself to Dolokhov like a cat being rubbed on the hindquarters.
Dolokhov obliged him, sliding a wet finger back inside and stroking circles as he worked it in and out. This time Anatole remained silent, uttering only wordless gasps and grunts that served to ensure Dolokhov's cock was firmly in the upright, thick and hard against his belly.
Even so, he took his time. For all his teasing words Dolokhov had no wish to hurt Anatole, in fact hoped he would discover a liking for it that would allow them to indulge in such games for some time to come.
They progressed from two fingers to three, Dolokhov corkscrewing them into Anatole's now eager body with a hand dripping in oil, forcing helpless, mewling noises of want from his lips.
"You'll have to change your sheets after this," Dolokhov laughed, watching oil stains blossom on the expensive linen.
"I'll just set fire to them," Anatole panted, and Dolokhov wondered if he was joking. Knowing Anatole, probably not.
When Anatole was suitably open and ready, thrashing now from impatience rather than reluctance, Dolokhov turned his attention to his own cock. Running slippery palms up his shaft, he pulled at himself with both hands in succession, over and over until he was having to bite down on his own lip to control himself.
"Ready to be fucked like a virgin nun?" Dolokhov enquired cheerfully. "Ah, if only Pierre could see you now, do you think he would consider this fit punishment for your attempted seduction of his precious Rostova? Proud Anatole Kuragin, about to be ruined beyond measure."
Anatole made a disgusted noise. "Don't mention that man's name in here. Are you trying to give me nightmares? I have to sleep in this bed you know."
"Sleeping is the least interesting thing you can do in a bed," Dolokhov remarked, lining up and taking hold of Anatole by the hips. In his own way, he'd been offering Anatole a last minute reprieve, but it seemed his fingers had done their work well and Anatole was now more than eager to accommodate his cock.
Dolokhov pushed inside him with a deceptive care, sensing that despite his recent acquiescence, Anatole was tensed and apprehensive. Glorying in the feel of it, Dolokhov buried his cock inch by inch into Anatole's tight and clenching heat.
When he was all the way in Dolokhov stilled for a moment and Anatole groaned softly.
"Fuck you Fedya," he whispered. "Fuck you."
"Other way round my boy," Dolokhov murmured, and Anatole gave a choked laugh that held an edge of pain.
"Well get on with it then," Anatole pressed. "What are you waiting for, permission?"
Dolokhov reached around him, burrowing his hand between Anatole's sweat-slick belly and the oil-smeared sheets, and was encouraged to find that his prick was like iron.
Reacting to the touch of his hand, Anatole shifted position to give him better access, and ended up on all fours. Having been given license to behave as he pleased, Dolokhov took up a steady rhythm, thrusting into Anatole with long, slow strokes and matching this with the pull and slide of his hand.
Assailed by the double onslaught and despite the initial discomfort of the experience, Anatole was all too soon on the brink of orgasm, rocking under Dolokhov's thrusts with a series of drawn out moans.
"That's it," Dolokhov crooned, sensing Anatole was close and increasing the force of his wrist. "Come for me. Come for me Anatole. Spill for me."
With a strangled cry of satisfaction Anatole did just that, spurting his release thickly all over one of the embroidered pillows.
Head down and panting, he felt Dolokhov slide out of him, and then hands reached around to throw the soiled pillow to the floor and turned him so he was lying on his back.
"What are you doing?" Anatole asked in confusion, seeing that Dolokhov had not yet come himself.
"I've waited a long time to do this," Dolokhov answered him. "I'm going to savour the moment. I want to be looking you in the eye when I finish."
Dolokhov had seduced many young men in his life, but none now seemed quite as sweet as this final and long awaited conquest of Anatole.
Anatole gave him a lazy smirk. "I never took you for a romantic."
Lifting his knees, Dolokhov slammed back into him with a force that made Anatole cry out. "Romantic am I? I'll show you just how romantic I can be."
Where his initial foray had been relatively gentle by his standards, now Dolokhov fucked into him with single-minded purpose. Fingers dimpling Anatole's skin hard enough to bruise, Dolokhov pounded into him with a will, all the while holding his gaze. Transfixed, Anatole didn't look away for a second and when Dolokhov finally spent inside him, they both cried out together.
Exhausted but sated, they slumped into each other's arms and kissed each other messily.
"Well," said Dolokhov, rather breathlessly. "And what is the verdict from my lord prince?"
Anatole smiled slowly, eyes hooded and sly. "I have to confess, it's not entirely without its merits," he admitted. "Although if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll have you - "
"Whipped, I know," Dolokhov finished for him with a dry laugh. "Do you even own a whip?"
"Helene does. I'm sure I could borrow it."
"Ah."
They fetched a bottle of wine, and had been lying there naked amidst the crumpled sheets passing it between them for some time when the doors to the anteroom burst open and somebody marched in.
Both men started in alarm, then did their best to pretend they hadn't once they saw who it was.
"Anatole you halfwit, what have you done now? Can't you do anything right?" Helene swept into the room, showing complete disregard for the fact the two men were in bed together. "Pierre in a good mood is mostly unbearable. Pierre in a fit of miserable pique is trying in the extreme."
Ignoring her, Anatole turned to Dolokhov. "Is your sister this annoying?"
"Frequently," said Dolokhov, but he was looking at Helene, appreciatively running his eyes up and down her figure-hugging dress.
"Why have I never met your sister?" Anatole continued. "It would only be polite to introduce us."
Dolokhov smiled, but his eyes were cold. "You go within two miles of my sister, I'll cut off your balls and find you a new career with a very special section of the opera," he said silkily.
Anatole laughed. "Oh, so you're good enough to fuck my sister, but I'm not good enough to fuck yours, is that it?"
"Goodness Anatole, that's unlike you to grasp a concept so quickly," said Dolokhov, then gave a shout of laughter as Anatole jabbed him painfully in the ribs. "Besides," he added, "I trust your sister to make her own bad decisions. Come and join us my dear," he called to Helene, and pulled her down upon the bed.
Helene fell between them with a squeal of protest, but once there she showed no inclination to leave again. Dolokhov captured her mouth in a passionate kiss, and Anatole, with no consideration for the finer things in life, ripped down the bodice of her dress and buried his face between her breasts. Dolokhov's hand travelled up her thigh and beneath her skirts, causing her to moan filthily into his mouth very shortly afterwards.
"So," Dolokhov said conversationally, as Anatole's head disappeared under Helene's dress in the same direction as Dolokhov's hand. "Anatole informs me you have a whip?"
--