#graved'ma

[karlachismylife]

Graves: Do we REALLY have to take this thing on every date?..

Ved`ma: It's my emotional support stick.

Graves: It's a crowbar.

brought to you by my love @nrdmssgs

[karlachismylife]

Gucci Belt

Translated from Russian for my dear friend @cumikering (pls check out their fics, it's such a collection of delight), inspired by this post

CW: 707 words, MDNI, smut, Graves x Ved'ma (female OC), bottom!sub!Graves, mild puppy play, leash, mild choking, pegging.

*Schen (щен) - pup

Art is a gift by opposum_den (telegram)

Phillip Graves wears a Gucci belt. It's an old purchase; its inner leather side already stained with sweat and dirt and warped along the waist curve, the outer canvas side is worn and hand-pierced once, right in the middle of the central red stripe squeezed in-between the outer green ones. The signature buckle, two intertwined Gs, is covered in scratches. Graves bought it second-hand about twenty years ago, and for a status trinket it holds up pretty well, even after Phil has dragged it through a dozen countries and tens of missions and first lost and now regained weight.

Phillip Graves fiddles with a Gucci belt in his hands and tries it on his waist. Instead of the emaciated, sunken stomach, there are now healthy layers of muscle and fat under tan skin with a trail of dark hair in the mirror, and the extra hole in the belt that was once made is no longer needed. Behind him, in the same mirror, a short dark figure appears, creeps up, sticks to his bare torso with the soft cotton of its T-shirt and peeks around his waist — it’s too short to look over his shoulder.

"What do you have here?" Ved’ma asks with her face wrinkled by her usual frown and squint, reaching for his wrists and grabbing the damn belt. Its buckle clanks cowardly. Having noticed the branded GG, Marusya snorts and looks Phillip in the eyes — or rather, his reflection. For some reason, the reflection blossoms with a blush and an awkward smile, as if he was caught with something dirty. "Uh-huh. Did you hide the Chanel boots somewhere too?"

Her dark eyes sparkle mischievously — Graves sees it, smiles, revealing adorably pointy canines, and misses the moment when the belt gets thrown around his neck, like a lasso onto a fleeing calf. Blue eyes instantly widen, hands fly up on their own to protect the vulnerable throat — but the brief moment of tension ends as abruptly as it began, as soon as Ved’ma fastens the buckle.

"Not so bad even. Only the best for my favourite shchen*, huh?" Ved’ma carefully slides the cool improvised collar around his neck and takes hold of the tail of the "leash" that now hangs down on Graves' chest. "Like it?"

Phillip likes it. Not the worn-out belt on his neck — but the tattooed hand, barely noticeably pulling on it for Marusya’s convenience. In a clumsy hurry he turns to look at her directly, not through the mirror, and bends down, comically clenching his fists to resist the temptation to grab her close warm body. Ved’ma doesn’t forbid him to touch her — but it feels right to him, to wait until she bends him down to her height and plants a firm kiss on his cheek, sliding her lips along the chiseled jaw to the sensitive earlobe. "I want to fuck you, shchen*."

She doesn’t need to tell him twice — with her free hand Marusya can check the hot erection in his jeans, and with that same belt she drags Phillip over to bed. He undresses for her, falls on his back for her, adjusts the slipping buckle of the brand collar for her. Ved’ma drops the tail of the belt on his chest, heaving rapidly in anticipation, and Graves toys with the leather strap, feeling the same creases of the material over and over while she tightens her strap’s harness.

Ved’ma pulls him by the belt on his neck, the improvised collar choking the whimpering and the moaning out as they slip from his throat. Phil meets her thrusts, parting his soft lips in a slight asphyxiation, and immediately whines into the kiss that catches him halfway and distracts from the cock in his ass. Big palms grasp onto Marysya’s broad waist to anchor him, rough fingers slide under her T-shirt, and Ved’ma smiles into the sloppy kiss, wrapping the leash around her fist to shorten it and leave no space between their bodies. Phil is flushed and disheveled underneath her, breathing shallowly and quickly, bringing himself to a fast puppy orgasm.

Marusya Royeva lies, hugging Graves tightly, and thoughtfully runs her fingers along the Gucci belt. What an ugly fucking belt.

[karlachismylife]

Left march

This piece was first written in Russian and translated in English solely thanks to @/gomzdrawfr 's encouragement and support. After a lot of thinking I decided to transliterate (write Russian words with latin letters) Russian speech here to help readers get into Graves's headspace of knowing how the words sound but not knowing their meaning. Down below I provide a link to translation of the poem Left march by Makyakovsky in English for anyone interested in the meaning of the words!

CW: 2126 words, MDNI, smut, Graves x Ved'ma (female OC), sub!Graves, bootgrinding and bootfetish, cum eating, established relationship, not much of aftercare (it's implied, but not really described, but trust me, he's well taken care of). Comparisons to a dog once or twice.

Graves is in desperate need of stress relief and Ved'ma offers it, accompanied by some Russian poetry.

Seated in an Ashley Furniture sycamore ash coloured armchair that he bought for his living room in an attempt to bring it to that upper middle class stylish comfort, is Ved’ma.

Graves sees her before he even closes the front door — this armchair is clearly visible from the threshold, and Ved’ma stopped hiding around the house, so that the local police officer who pops in with a report of his round of apartments won't find her, for some time already — he can’t even remember, when she did. Graves sees her wide-spread knees, her leg casually thrown over the armrest with sweatpants riding up her shin, he sees her hooked nose and her black braid, homely soft on the left temple — none of this fits into the interior of his living room. But she is there.

Ved’ma doesn’t see Graves — doesn’t even look in his direction, finishes reading the page, quickly jumping with her thickly lined eyes along the printed ladder, and looks up only after she’s done, her gaze piercing Phillip like a crosshead screwdriver. After a meeting with cantankerous office rats with a New York accent and a complete lack of understanding of how supply routes work in hot spots, Graves’s got plenty of loose screws in his head.

“The fuck is with that mug of yours, Phil?” inquires Ved’ma, skipping the greetings altogether. He watches her close the book in her hands, marking the page she needs with her middle finger. In her hands is a paperback, background — the red flag, brutalism, constructivism, sickle and hammer, roughly cut out of stone, just like her own jaw and the mug of an unknown man, leering heavily from under his brows from the cover. Graves has seen him already. He knows, this one — isn’t her favourite.

“Had a shitty day, sweetheart.” He can’t just look away and pretend he’s taking his shoes off after he’s come home to a darling little housewife, but the frown contorting his face appears for a different reason. Ved’ma sees it and rustling with her restless arse on the upholstery, asks: “Bring my boots over here. The clean ones.”

Phillip gets into the shoebox mechanically, obeying the barely commanding tone without questions, and only after he has grabbed the boots smelling of polished leather, he pauses, finally reaching the point in his mind that Ved’ma has long crossed. His heart skips a beat, his solar plexus curls up sweetly like a corn leaf overheated in the sun — as soon as he turns around and looks once more into the blackest eyes of the Russian creature occupying his armchair, all this dry flora flares up, starting to choke his brain with damp smog. Ved’ma stares back, directly, no feigned indifference — she wants him so obviously that his knees buckle on the way to her seat. That’s what she wants, though.

“Come on, on your knees, sh’en.”* A folded blanket plops between her widely spread legs with a dull slap, offering itself under Phillip’s knees. Turning her book over and putting it aside, Ved’ma makes herself busy putting the military boots on, stamping her iron-studded toes onto the parquet board. Graves kneels quietly, a little awkwardly — he should be helping her with the laces, but the red menace in his chair moves so quickly that he can't catch her ankle until she allows it. All he can do is stare, fascinated, at the rough fingers tightening the laces abruptly, and listen to the squeak of good leather, sending a shiver down his skin, sweet as the smell of a sponge soaked with shoe polish.

“Razvorachivaytes’ v marshe!” Ved’ma’s voice yanks him out of the viscous shoe blacking suddenly. Ringing consonants vibrate on her black lips — her entire mouth is covered in the soot of steamship pipes and the polish of soldiers' boots - like the brass of a military orchestra playing against the background of a black-and-white newsreel. Graves doesn't have time to adjust, the meaning of what is said in a poorly known language eludes him, the intonation is commanding, and Ved’ma has no patience for mistakes. But she continues, only straightening up as she pulls up her high boots, just gestures shortly for him to take his shirt off. “Slovesnoy nye mesto klyauze. Tishe, oratory!”

Her hand flies into the air, stopping someone — Phillip freezes, barely having had time to loosen his tie and start on the buttons, just barely stops himself from looking around in an attempt to figure out if there are any uninvited spectators in their house that she is addressing, looking over his head. Marusya pauses, counts each of his quickened breaths, and finally narrows her dark eyes, locking the handcuffs of her gimlet gaze on his face for good.

Slowly, with the satisfied smile of a real witch, she leans forward, and Graves, hypnotized by the sorcery pools of her eyes, feels the pressure of the ribbed sole on his thigh. Unstoppable, like a tank, the boot crawls up the dipping fabric of his trousers, reaching the holster, while Ved’ma mints word by word. It dawns on him.

She is reciting a poem.

Vashe

slovo,

tovarish’ mauser.

Getting the hint under the suddenly changed to ingratiating tone, Graves hastily gets rid of the weapon and winces when Ved’ma barks the next words like Lenin from the roof of an armoured car. His slowly coming to life in the nice pants cock twitches in reverent awe, fingers fumble with the buttons. Saliva suddenly gets syrupy thick in his mouth, his pupils dilate, absorbing the words of the past revolution.

Dovol’no zhit’ zakonom,

dannym Adamom y Yevoy.

Klyachu istoriyu zagonim.

Levoy!

Levoy!

Even drunk on her words, Phillip notices the devilish spark that lights up in Ved’ma’s eyes during this short pause, full of expectation — and then he himself starts to rain sparks from his eyes, enduring the rough pressure of her left boot in the groin with a tortured whine.

Levoy!

Everything suddenly starts making sense — every word, written like stairs by the frowning man staring at the ceiling from the red cover now, falls into place in the powder keg of his mind. Graves breathes heavily, feeling the sweat roll down his temples like melted snow of the February revolution, and looks at Ved’ma with a feverishly loving gaze. She looks back in the same way. Hot dick under her sole is leaking into his underwear and throbbing in time with his rapid heartbeat.

Ved’ma herself breathes heavily, greedily examining his arousal — red tongue wets black lips, smearing matte lipstick over an ecstatic smile. The blunt toe of her boot moves, probes the hard shaft, adjusting it through the fabric, and stops again, pushing against the sensitive tip. One encouraging nod is enough — Phillip swallows, barely keeping his gaze from falling to her lips, and finds support on the floor with his hands, carefully trying to roll his hips towards the now motionless foot. The ribs of the hard sole are painful even through the double layer of quickly soaking fabric, his thighs twitch as if they want to close and protect the tender flesh from such a rough impact, but under his fluttering eyelashes Graves sees stars — red and gold, rolling along all his nerve endings with sharp pleasure.

Ved’ma seems to even praise him — she hums something approving, breathing out loudly through her nose, like an angry armoured train, but he doesn’t manage to catch anything, immediately deafening himself with repeated friction. Like a dog gone mad in a rut, Phillip whines briefly and opens his clouded eyes, trying to keep obediently staring into the face of the one whose boot he’s grinding his aching cock on, dirty and desperate, — and to catch her every word.

Ey, sinebluzyye!

Reyte!

Za okeany!

Yly

u bronenostsev na reydye

stupleny ostryye kily?!

Pust’,

oskalyas’ koronoy,

vzdymayet brytanskyy lyev voy.

Kommune nye byt’ pokoryonnoy.

Ved’ma's broad chest boils like water over a hexamine fuel tablet — the ardor of century-old words blooms into the red flag on her cheeks and gets transmitted like a contagious disease to Graves, who’s pushing his hips towards his tortured orgasm in quick, sharp thrusts. Intoxicated by the pleasure-pain in his chafed cockhead, he misses a warning in the form of a deep breath above him, and-

Levoy!

The iron toe screws into the soft flesh, pressing the toothy fly zipper into his cock, smeared with arousal.

Levoy!

Ved’ma twists her toe again, as if putting out a discarded cigarette butt, and his trembling arm folds, almost dropping tear-eyed from the sharp pain Graves to the floor.

Levoy!

Phillip cums. He is shaking with small spasms of a violent orgasm, his bare stomach covered in sweat twitching hysterically; his trembling hand jerks up unconsciously to grab Ved’ma by the ankle of her mercilessly crushing leg and ease the weight off his abundantly spurting member — but she gets ahead of him. In tense silence, interrupted only by moaning undertones in Graves's still ragged breathing, she slowly pulls her toe towards herself and leans in, resting her elbows on her knees, to carefully examine her boot.

There’s viscous semen that has seeped through his underwear and pants, spreading over the polished black leather. Right on the seam, which Marusya carefully treated against moisture, a cloudy bubble divides in two and bursts, spraying even the old shoelaces with micro-splashes of sperm.

Tam

Ved’ma begins again in a low voice that makes Graves’s still aching cock to twitch weakly again.

za gorami gо́rya

solnechnyy kray nepochatyy.

Slowly, almost thoughtfully, she leans back in her seat again, still looking at the soiled boot. In the blink of an eye Phillip, driven by a pulling hunger, falls to her feet and sticks out his wet pink tongue. His own cum is still warm, salty, sticking to his lips — Graves licks widely and suddenly chokes on saliva from the sharp sweetness of the natural leather of the boot. The tip of his tongue is almost numb in his mouth, as if pricked by micro-needles, and he slurps loud and dirty, hastily lapping up the liquid mixture of semen and saliva.

Za golod,

za mora morye

shag millionnyy pechatay!

Pust’ bandoy okruzhat nа́nyatoy,

stal’noy izlivayutsya lyе́yevoy, —

Rossiyi nye byt’ pod Antantoy.

Levoy!

Levoy!

Levoy!

At what point Ved’ma places her right foot on the back of his head, Phillip does not notice — carefully scraping the seams and ribs of the boot that are cutting him with their hard edges, he only gasps when her heavy heel with a short jerk pushes his mouth into the sole that needs cleaning. Desperately squeezing her ankle in his hands to the point where the leather squeaks under pressure, Graves slides the tip of his tongue between the protruding patterns that help Marusya keep steady on the ice roads and awkwardly smacks his lips, trying to lap up the spread out sperm from the deep grooves. The wet sounds of his thorough cleaning mash with the chopped words falling from her lips like iron scraps, and under the baggy fabric of her sweatpants, her tanned thighs press together, sticking to the slick smeared all over the skin.

Glaz li pomerknyet orliy?

V staroye l’ stanem pyalit’sya?

Krepi

u mira na gorlye

proletariata pal’tsy!

Grudyu vperyod bravoy!

Flagami nebo okleivay!

Kto tam shagayet pravoy?

The pressure on the back of his head disappears as abruptly as it came, and instead Ved’ma hooks Graves under the chin and pushes him away, forcing him to lean back. His lips are wet and glistening, his cheeks with yesterday’s shave glow with an adorable pink blush, the fur on his chest is dark with sweat and sticks to his tanned skin in curls, framing painfully hard nipples. Struggling to maintain his balance, he looks up at her pleadingly, asking, his fingers reaching out on their own accord to grab her ankle again and press the boot, covered in spit smears, to his heart.

Ved’ma grins, lifts her leg despite her protesting knee, teases Phillip like a dog with a bone, and finally pokes him in the sternum accusingly, not giving in until she has finished her march. Graves clings with his whole body to her shin, presses his lips to the scar on her knee he can find without looking, and finally breathes out, going limp, like his member still in the soaked pants. Marusya's strong fingers bury themselves in his disheveled blond hair, stroking, preparing to pull him up for a kiss in a minute — not yet, though.

From behind the relaxed mound of her right thigh, Graves can still see Mayakovsky’s sullen stare.

Levoy!

Levoy!

Levoy!

*sh'en (щен) - something like "pup", a neologism from the word "puppy" (щенок) [sh'enok] Mayakovsky was called (and called himself) by Lilya Brik who he was in a throuple with (with her husband as third). Here's the link to the translation of the poem.

[karlachismylife]

Graved'ma mudane soft things that make me want to cry a little less tonight. Posting this and probably going for a nap before I try to fix a situation I created which is a horrible mess.

Marusya making boiled eggs for breakfast and cleaning the shells off standing at the kitchen counter, when Graves enters the kitchen and immediately goes for a hug from the back, wrapping his hands around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. The height difference make it a good fit, her sleepiness - a maneuver Graves won't get immediately elbowed in the guts even though Ved'ma is still overwhelmed by being hugged like this. The egg she cleans off has a yellowish spot on the side, because she overcooked them and it got slightly baked. Phillip gets elbowed in the guts for making a comment about it.

Ved'ma staring at him heavily and Graves being unnerved by the "slavic gaze". She argues it's bullshit, and it is to some extent: she's staring at him like this not because she's slavic, she's staring at him like this because she woke up in a bad mood and is fighting herself in order to ask for a hug and also there's half of an eye pencil's worth of lining around her eyes. Because the best way to throw off the face recognition cameras will be wiping it all off and changing her eye shape drastically with just that. She ends up secondguessing herself due to the bad mood and doesn't ask for the hug, but Graves wants to give her one anyway and it ends with him being held hostage by a grumpy Ved'ma.

Phil getting his daily dose of Ved'ma lap time where she pulls him into her lap and listens to his heartbeat ("I'm just warming my ear between your tits, don't get any ideas"). She places kisses over his heart and sometimes gets really sad and silent, but that just means it's time for a quiet country song from him, because it always makes her smile and hold his hands.

Ved'ma singing loud and fun Russian songs with a guitar to him. Her favourite ones to sing to him are from Король и Шут, especially "Лесник" and "Камнем по голове", but she's learnt almost all their repertoire. She sings more solemn, serious, grim and political songs to herself, but when she's sitting on the floor with her head leaning back to rest against Phil's knee as he's on the couch, it's always something just fun. He starts learning some words too even though his pronounciation sucks.

Marusya hugging Phil from behind when he's sitting doing something, kissing his temple and cheek, taking his glasses off if he has them on. She drapes herself over his back like a weighted blanked and hugs him around his neck, and this is when she's telling him short and sweet things, calls him beautiful, whispers that she loves him and reminds him that she wants to sleep in one bed with him. It's all in Russian, but he knows all these very important phrases already. They are very happy.

Ved'ma with messy bed hair lying in that bed resting her head on folded arms. She's watching him undress for sleep and she thinks he is beautiful, and for some reason, maybe because she's staring intensly again, it makes this cocky man flustered. Ved'ma is even more blunt when she's sleepy, because English gets harder, so she tells him short, direct compliments and ends up calling him over when he's still half dressed, pulling him onto the bed by his unbuttoned shirt and kissing him a lot while they're both giddy and smiling.

[karlachismylife]

Graves doesn't just stop going away to his missions even after they come together with Ved'ma, and she has to compromise on that, even though she does start pushing him to choose his jobs differently.

There's tension in the air when he deploys first time after he's back in business and already with a certain Slavic witch haunting his apartment. For two weeks he is constantly returning to the heavy, disapproving gaze Ved'ma sent him off with, and wonders if he's gonna come back to an empty - or even trashed and burnt down to the ground home. He has no doubts Marusya would act ruthlessly if she set her mind on it, and by the time the plane lands back home, Phillip is already halfway to coming to terms that the radio silence on his phone means she chose her beliefs over him.

Their apartment is dark and quiet when he enters thr front door and sets the duffel bag down. Shedding his jacket, Graves listens in, still too scared to call out and hear no response - but when he turns around, it happens quickly, like a gunshot.

Warm weight lands on his back, nearly toppling him over, four suffocating limbs wrap around him, and before Phil can tear the attacker off his back and pin to the ground, Ved'ma presses a kiss to his ear and grumbles: "Missed you, bitch."

And if he stumbles into their bedroom to fall face first into the bed and pass out, half-undressed and squished under Ved'ma's weight, before he even learns there's food for him in the kitchen... so be it. It's not like he'll wake up alone.

[karlachismylife]

She would come home late. If black February wasn't puking coagulated blood over the skies, there would already be sunrise by the time she'd stumble inside. A suspicious bend of the key would delay her arrival for half a minute more.

He would be still awake. In the sickly yellow colouring of the little lights above the stove he would look even older, dark shadows under his eyes and a deep crease between his brows. Waiting for her with the phone she left in front of him.

She'd look younger with greasy eyeliner smeared around her eyes and clothes soaked in sweat - on both sides. She turned them inside out at least once, diving between street cameras and disappearing - in a country no one was looking for her in.

"What took you so long?" he'd ask, turning the lights on to scrape every inch of her slowly showing skin with his gaze as she undressed. "No bruises? Not even a call from police?"

"There was no one to punch," she'd answer, and it would sound more hopeless than if she had said there were too many butchers to attempt anything. "They stopped coming. And caring. Всем поебать."

She'd reek of cigarettes and exhausted wet flowers rotting in piles taller than gravestones, he'd smell of clean cotton and man, and together, when he'd hug her, they'd drown in the scent of stale damp metal and cement dust.

"You haven't," he'd say. And as a rare exception, Ved'ma would think - this time this bastard Graves is right.

*Всем поебать [vsem poyebat'] - no one gives a fuck

[karlachismylife]

CW: Graves x Ved'ma (female OC), a heavy-themed plotless drabble, episodes of war (it's about Russia's war on Ukraine), drone attacks, thoughts about nuclear war, allusions to Ved'ma's past and to Phillip's work. Basically a vent piece due to some recent events.

"I heard."

Ved'ma doesn't look up. In the poor lighting - she sat in one place for so long the sun set and she still didn't turn the lights on - her eyes clearly reflect the endless stream of news she's soaking up like an old porous sponge from the screen of her phone. White, white, white - long text posts; blue - pictures from another meaningless big political meeting; a splash of orange - a video of something burning.

She pauses on that one. Stares at it for some time, as if trying to make out what exactly is engulfed in flames on the screen. Phillip approaches carefully, leaning over her shoulder to look too.

He isn't surprised to not recognize the bulding a drone is crashing into with a loud orange explosion, erupting into black smoke. He can't read the caption either - it's in Russian.

"That's-"

"Not my house."

Ved'ma finally lifts her head - her neck cracks painfully - and straightens up with a wince. Graves reaches automatically, places a firm, calloused palm on her shoulder and begins squeezing and kneading completely wooden muscles to bring them back to life.

"No victims in this one," she says, and they both know - it just means there were in some other place. There always are victims. The whole world is full of them.

They both aren't, though.

Phillip thinks - if she was just a civilian, he would say: it won't last forever. He would say: it will end eventually. Maybe he would even say: they'll pay for it.

Ved'ma is a civilian only on a technicality - the one that made her knee painfully swell yesterday out of nowhere again and the other one that could cause her problems with papers if she wasn't dating Phillip motherfucking Graves. She won't buy "it will end soon" or "justice will prevail"; she won't even buy "it will end some day" and "they won't win".

Maybe she would fifteen years ago, when she was still Ellie with a burning heart and unbeatable idealism in those dark eyes - the one Graves helped snuff out with the very same hands that are stroking her warm skin and reintroducing bloodflow into her neck now. Maybe even Ellie wouldn't - only the little girl that was dreaming of marrying Tin Man and living in a country of blacksmiths with him.

But the wicked witch sitting in his living room is full of bitter battery acid. Her passion went rancid and bled black out of her eyes. She knows war is endless, she knows there is no justice in the world, she knows she has no power to make anyone pay.

"They will burn with all of us," Graves says instead, leaning in and pressing his face into her temple. His voice rumbles deep in his throat, like an engine of a death machine - he doesn't mean inferno or some divine punishment after death; he means literal fire, atomic bombs going off and taking the melting world apart. His eyes flutter closed when he feels Ved'ma's hand come up and hook over his neck, pulling him even closer.

They would make a fine couple of nuclear shadows together. A tad bit confusing, but very sincere.

"I want them to burn," Ved'ma's voice carries so much hatred it comes out audibly compressed out of her constricted chest. It ignites Graves: not because it turns him on - too scary for that; but because he effortlessly sees through it for what it really is: stubborn, undying, same as ten and twenty years ago love.

The girl never changed, Ellie never truly died - they're here, in his, no, their living room, living and breathing the same dream of a better world. They just got older. And - Graves smiles against her cheek uncontrollably - even more beautiful.

"I got a good contract today," he murmurs and, before Ved'ma can chew him out, adds, sliding an arm around her waist. "A special delivery. To someone you would approve."

He could be lying: there is no way for her to know if he's telling the truth. When she tilts her head back finally - neck mobile again - and looks at him directly, Phillip sees quiet, calm trust in her eyes.

The words "I love you" can't come out of her mouth: too inapproriate in the moment. Instead, Graves settles on taking a soft, thoughtful kiss.

He can't burn them all for her. But unlike most days, today he can light a little match.