homofic 14: what the fleck is a kilometer
setting the scene: alexei is one of the most wanted perpetrators of crime ever in Mao city. mishka is (forgive me for this) a police officer or some other similar class traitor like that, who has been trying to find the criminal for years...
Mishka sat on his apartment floor, hunched over his laptop. His eyes scanned through each file in a folder named "MOST EVIL RUSSIAN EVER WITH ANTI-WESTERN SENTIMENT!!" No one knew his name- he just went by A. But he knew all of theirs. God, it angered Mishka. He took a sip of coffee from his mug. He didn't really like coffee all that much, but it was all he could do to not fall asleep- well, that and coke. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the rawness from sleep deprivation on his knuckles. Sighing, he clicked through every .jpeg. Crime scene photos, blood, prints, and.. he paused. That one photo- a grainy, black and white image of the guy's face, grinning. It mocked him every single day- it was practically ingrained into Mishka's head by now.
He flicked through, and his cursor landed on scans of some letters. Letters that the criminal himself had sent to Mishka. All were long, usually filled with useless ramblings, and a couple of lines of bragging, with a bit of a mocking tone. Mishka's eyes glazed over one of the lines,
Catch me next time,
Your darling A ♡
He didn't know whether to be glad or mad. Was it compliment, to be so willfully pursued by Mishka? Did he like it? Sometimes, he'd give him clues and hints. Ones that he really shouldn't have given. Mishka had come awfully close to finally getting his hands on A, only to be stopped by a bear trap or simply watching him disappear into thin air.
A bit of criminal profiling had been done into the guy. They found only around 3 likely things about him: anti-capitalist, of European descent, and very gay.
Mishka sighed, and shut the laptop. The evil class traitor team hadn't heard from A in months. Usually, he'd try boast about whatever factory he burnt down about once a week, making sure to always address the letter to "My one and only pursuer, Detective Mishka," and go on and on about whatever he'd watched that week, what people he met- "No, you can't have their names," he'd say- and what vague plans he had. Sometimes he'd talk about how lonely it all felt, and how nice it was knowing that at least someone out there would always care about him, even if a weird, backwards evil gay way. Mishka noticed A would usually try not to talk about this deep, sad, gay stuff. His motives would sink through, and he'd get too careless. Well, that's what Mishka hoped would happen. Until the guy practically disappeared. Probably got bored of Mishka, and went off to another state to find a new one.
Mishka stood up and nearly fell back down- he gripped onto the kitchen table and stabilized himself. He checked the time on his watch- 04:12. He hadn't eaten in over a day. He groaned sexily, and unbuttoned the top of his button-up shirt, loosening his tie. After making his way to the fridge, he opened it and stood there, bent over and mindlessly looking for something to eat. Nothing looked appetizing, and he was too lazy to cook anything.
"What're you thinking?" a voice piped up from behind him. "Tofu scramble?"
Mishka whirled around, and to his utter shock, saw a guy in the corner of his room. In... an adidas tracksuit? He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He was still there.
"You alright there, Detective? I wanted to send a letter, but I kind of ran out of paper, so I just-"
Mishka flipped out his gun and went BAM BAM! The criminal dodged, falling flat on the floor. Luckily for him, Mishka's sleep deprivation basically rendered him unable to shoot anyone further than a metre away.
"WHAT THE FLECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" A screeched while Mishka reloaded the gun. The fridge door started beeping. Amidst the shooting break, A stepped up, hands in the air. "Look, here's my gun-" he pulled it out of his tracksuit, letting it fall onto the floor- "so now you don't- WHATTHEFLECK!"
Mishka kept shooting, bullets fracturing the balcony door behind A. He dove for the couch, cursing at himself for letting go of his gun. Everything that he'd done for this class traitor, and this is what he gets in return... sigh. He made his way into another room, shutting the door behind him. Frantically, the guy looked around for an escape- no window, but another door leading to some other room. Just as he put his hand on the doorknob, a bullet shot through the door, just barely scraping past his ear. He shrieked, jumping back like a mao.
The door slammed open to Mishka panting, wielding the gun tightly. His hair fell across his eyes, but he didn't dare take his hands off the American death machine. He could swear he heard A in here, but there was absolutely no sign of him anywhere.
"Well? You going to come out?" he hissed. "You came here for a reason, now. You needy flaggot."
"What did you just call me?" a low voice emerged from... behind him? Suddenly, Mishka felt something strike his head, and everything went black..
Detective Mishka awoke tied to his own chair. It was... unusually loose. Just enough for him to be stuck, but able to squirm in these confines.
"You're finally awake" (peak reference btw), the adidas man said, bringing a hand to the detective's cheeks. He grabbed his face, and shook it excitedly. Mishka adjusted to his surroundings as he blinked, eyes nearly rolling back into his skull again. "You're gonna have to be awake for his one," A told him, roughening up Mishka's hair with his fist. Trying to muster up any strength left in him, the detective tried to break through his binds, but to no avail..
"You.. you're the one I've been looking for?" Mishka let out in between a few coughs. "I've wasted my time."
A was a few meters away, shutting the fridge door. He murmured, "You know, you really shouldn't leave your fridge door open. It's very wasteful." The gun was on the kitchen counter- just a bit out of reach.
"Wasteful? You want to talk about being wasteful?" the detective chuckled, feeling a haze rush over him. He had nothing to lose. "What about all the trees that died for the letters you write me? Which, by the way, I never asked for?"
A's gaze sharpened as he approached him. "That's exactly why I decided to come and see you in person." He grabbed the gun, running his fingers along it casually.
"You really thought that was a good idea?" the detective laughed, feeling the ropes against his stomach. "God, you're more delusional than I thought." As he sat there, he watched A come closer, and bring his face right up to his own. He took in a short inhale as A put a boot onto the chair, right in between his thighs. A took Mishka's face in his hands, and turned it, inspecting his smooth skin. There was a bit of a bruise forming on his cheek from when he accidentally dropped him on the floor. Ell oh ell.
"Think of this as a furthering in the "most evil russian ever with anti-western sentiment" case," A whispered in his ear. "I'll give you three chances. Guess my name, and I'll surrender. And if you don't..." he stroked Mishka's neck with his tip- i mean the tip of the gun- "well, we'll see what happens then."
He did the clicky loading gun thing (sorry i don't know how guns work), and brought it up to his head. "Go on."
The detective opened his mouth. But instead of letting out a name, he spat on the Russian man. His eyelids fluttered, before wiping the spit away with the gun. "Three chances," he warned, putting the gun back to Mishka's neck. He lowered his boot down onto his willy, feeling the detective's thighs tighten.
"Uh..." His mind raced. What the fleck was he even doing. Was this class traitor protocol? He could barely think after concussion. Well, either way... the police would definitely be coming soon after the gunshots. So, a little game couldn't hurt, he supposed. "Andy?"
"What?" the Russian replied in disbelief. "I'm literally slavic. How did you get Andy from my files? Ugh, whatever." He put more pressure on his neck. "Two chances."
Mishka let out a drawn-out hmmmm... dropping his head as far he could, as if not amused. "Anton?"
"Wrong," the man replied, a smile spreading across his face. He lifted Mishka's face, pressing down harder on his willy. He could see it in his face- a twitch in his eye, his mouth sealed tight. "One more left. You better make it count."
"A... Alexander?"
The man knelt in closer, right up to the detective's ear. "Wrong." Slowly, he raised the gun from the man's neck, and put it up to his lips. They were shut.
"Open your mouth, detective," A whispered. "Don't be a bad sport." Begrudgingly, Mishka did as he was told, feeling the cold gun slip inside his mouth.
"You know, I don't do this for just anyone," he murmured. "Still- I think it's only fair if you knew my name. Do you think so too?"
The brat rolled his eyes. A dangerous game with a freaking gun in your mouth! A pushed it in further, watching Mishka's gaze waver, before landing back at his eyes. "Mnnghm..." he tried to say, nodding.
"Good. My name is... Alexei," he said. "Say it."
"A.. Alenmmngh," Mishka managed to let out. The gun wasn't really helping. "Algnnhnm"
Alexei slipped the gun out of Mishka's mouth. He heaved, coughing and letting mounds of spit drip down from his lips. Alexei himself had to shake the gun free of some of it.
"I hear sirens," Alexei calmly told Mishka. All Mishka could hear was a ringing in his ears. Boot still on his willy, he leaned in to button up Mishka's shirt, and tightened his tie carefully. "Make sure you get more sleep, my mao," said Alexei, before planting a little kiss on Mishka's forehead, and lifting up his boot. He left Mishka's gun on the kitchen counter, and with that, left the apartment.
"Alexei..." Mishka said to himself quietly. What a peculiar little gay. Even though he told himself he was lucky for those sirens, he couldn't help but feel like Alexei's boot was missing.
