Work Text:
Somewhere in the 80s…
The ship rocked violently on the Black Sea, causing dizziness. Its hull was old, resembling a rusty sheet of metal, and it carried 11 crew members, including Sergei Ivanov and Vladimir Putin.
Both men had their berths on the lower deck, considered the lowest point on the ship, where five other crew members slept. This arrangement was less than ideal, but Russians adapted quickly, and both Vladimir and Ivanov were unharmed.
Vladimir was somewhat nervous when introduced to those who would share his bunk. The KGB officer was both curious and cautious with these men, but he was polite and, even when they made him uncomfortable, he wouldn't scold them.
Instead, he would kindly keep to himself and show a pretty expression. They would usually glance at him and then fall silent.
One of the young men, Yuri, often teased Putin behind his back as he got to know him better. At lunchtime, in the kitchen, members of their "group" would pass messages among themselves, which Ivanov would then relay to Putin when they returned to their quarters for the night.
When Vladimir returned to his dormitory after getting off work, he would often find Ivanov sitting on an overturned crate, drinking beer and preparing to tell him the gossip that Yuri and the other boys often shared. "They say you're 'a good boy,'" Ivanov would say. Vladimir would sleepily walk over to Sergei. "Hmm..." he would mumble, then sit down on the crate opposite Sergei. "How strange," he said, his voice clear and soft, making Sergei blush slightly.
They would keep talking until someone got tired, finished the other's beer, and stumbled to their bunk beds. In the middle of the night, one of them would sneak into the other's bed and throw themselves into the other's arms, but they didn't want to be discovered to be faggots, and covered themselves with blankets so that they wouldn’t be caught.
Before being sent to this ship by the KGB, Seryozha secretly knew that Vladimir was an Omega, and he kept it a secret for a long time—in fact, for most of the time on the ship. If the people on the ship knew that Volodya was an Omega, they would probably be completely bewildered.
Now, Ivanov and Vladimir would have to worry about his heat cycle while sailing at sea. Omegas are rare, like uncut diamonds; an Alpha or Beta would drool instantly at the mere smell of a drop of slick on an Omega's underwear.
One afternoon, the crew members had five minutes to return to their cabins to change clothes. After that, Vladimir and Ivanov would be ordered to survey the deck and carry out safety procedures.
Seryozha noticed that Volodya's watch on his right wrist would ring every afternoon at 4:50, after which he would reach into his pocket, pull out a small bottle of pills, and diligently take them daily. This had been going on ever since Ivanov had met Vladimir, a habit Vladimir admitted had formed even before they met. The pills were actually estrus-inhibiting agents.
Sergei, after discovering the habit, told Vladimir that these pills would corrode his womb, turning its walls into a marmalade, slowly altering his hormones, and ultimately driving him insane. Vladimir didn't believe it, but he would occasionally glance at the pills with a hint of unease, then slip one between his swollen lips.
Would this 35-year-old Russian lad, now taking pills that could potentially ruin his fertility, care? No, he was too young, and certainly the most naive.
2.
Vladimir now suspected that tonight would be that moment. Ever since his secret rendezvous with Ivanov on this ship, he was convinced that the bookish, unassuming man would make a move on him, as if they shared the same thoughts. There had been no sex between them, not even a kiss, but as Seryozha looked at him with a hint of naughtiness in his eyes, Vladimir felt a surge of heat in his belly.
When a husband desires sex with his wife, does he stare at her across the table? When their eyes meet, does he take her away and let her enjoy heavenly pleasure that night? Now, this is exactly what Vladimir dreams of. In his wildest dream, he sees the bed soaked with his own fluids, his legs spread wide, revealing everything, and he sees Sergei's familiar reddish-brown hair—his deep eyes—a groan—eyes closed—yes! —Then—the scene abruptly ends, Vladimir's underwear soaked, his body flushed, repulsive. This is no embarrassment, at least not now; this handsome man will get what he wants, his womb will be opened.
What did Volodya want? It was simple: he wanted to be marked and bound. He had stopped taking the suppressants; the last time he took them was five days ago. The burning sensation in his abdomen was more intense, and the inner wall of his rectum was noticeably wet and slippery, churning even as he turned over in bed. His lubrication was boiling, about to gush forth from his tightly guarded anus. The slippery liquid had already soaked the sheets, leaving a small, slightly damp patch of dark skin beneath him. His pale legs trembled slightly. He was currently only wearing an oversized lieutenant's work shirt, over which were pure white underwear. His penis was a bright pink, like a mint candy, clearly visible through the thin fabric of his underwear; if someone were looking down, they could also see his dark anus.
It was 1:13 a.m., and Putin was patiently waiting for Ivanov to emerge from the shower. As soon as Ivanov came out, before he even reached the door, he heard the heavy, weary footsteps of the slightly younger man. Sergei entered their bedroom, and an undisguised, intense scent of roses wafted towards him. He felt a wave of dizziness, then his eyes met those of the particularly shy boy.
His deep blue eyes shone like diamonds under the light, sweet and noble. One side of the lieutenant's work shirt was exposed on his shoulder, revealing his pale collarbone. Volodya deliberately pulled down his underwear, revealing a few strands of brown pubic hair. Seryozha's green eyes brightened instantly under the overhead light, as if all the work from earlier that day had vanished, but the fatigue remained.
Sergei's gaze shifted to Putin's knees, the slight bruises left from kneeling and repairing a burst pipe in the boiler room, all alone. His calf muscles were strong and hairless, his pink toes gently digging into the sheets. His gaze moved to his face, revealing a hint of allure.
“Yes, Seryozha… I’m so excited…” he murmured, a drop of dew sliding down his temple. Fish swam to the porthole, peering at the beautiful view from the other side of the room. Yuri and the dumb children would be out for a while, so Seryozha and Volodya finally had some time alone. “I have no doubt. Do you think we have time?” Sergei asked, taking a step forward barefoot.
The closer Ivanov got to Putin, the stronger the greasy, rose-scented scent emanating from him became. He could sense that the Omega was about to enter his heat cycle, aroused by the Alpha, a fact evident from the reddening of his abdomen as the lieutenant's work shirt buttons were lazily undone from his ribs down to his lower abdomen—where Vladimir's uterus lay securely.
“I believe we still have time, Borisovich…” he said, his mouth brimming with clear saliva, but it sounded thicker than usual. Ivanov could see the murky liquid soaking through Vladimir’s underwear, which made his mouth water. “Never mind who I am, now, this is about you,” Ivanov said, stepping closer. He looked as if he dared not touch Vladimir, like a vulnerable little boy. Before his fingers even touched the pale thigh, Putin grabbed his wrist, his watery eyes looking up at him, surprisingly black lashes beneath thick ones. “I will… and remember, don’t get as deeply involved as that prostitute in front of you,” he said gently, almost like a mother, like soothing a child, as if he instinctively knew how to comfort a child.
Ivanov, the bookish and intelligent KGB agent, nodded blankly, completely absorbed in the fog of Putin's pheromones and fertility, forgetting Putin's words in three seconds.
Seryozha reached out and placed two fingers on Vladimir's red, fleshy opening on his abdomen, slowly moving them down until they slid into the low waistband of his underwear. When his fingers passed through the soft, slightly erect penis and touched a patch of smooth, clean pubic hair, he stopped and began to rub in circles on Vladimir's opening.
"Ah...Seleozha..."
3.
Vladimir was now lying completely on his back, unlike before when he was half-sitting, but he now looked like a corpse on the bed. His legs were spread wide, his thighs were apart, his anus was clearly visible after his underwear was pulled down, his calves were resting on Sergei's shoulders, an Alpha penis was firmly stuck in Vladimir's cervix, and his arms were lazily raised above his head, as if they had been thrown over there.
The cervix was taut, the muscles tense. Sergei's penis was already swollen enough to make Vladimir hard, and before that, he had been marked shortly afterward. They were young then, and hadn't considered the consequences of marking, something that, once it happened, couldn't be repeated.
"When will the lads be back?" Ivanov groaned, burying his sweaty neck in Putin's cheeks and neck, which were also covered in sweat. "Hmm...it will be a long time..." His voice had a sticky, almost cloying quality, which was quite enviable.
Vladimir's fingers were curled up in the damp sheets, his nails scraping the rough fabric. He arched his back, pressing himself tightly against Sergei, almost imperceptibly close. Alpha's hands were soft and slender; one hand gripped Vladimir's hips to steady him, while the other rested across his reddened abdomen, as if trying to fix him firmly in this world. Swollen, hard nodules locked them together, and every slight movement sent waves of pleasure and pain through Vladimir's body. His soaked, pale thighs trembled with intense pleasure.
“Seryozha,” Vladimir gasped, his voice broken and filled with longing. His blue eyes were half-closed, his gaze vacant, fixed on Sergei, searching for something—comfort, or a promise that even if the children returned, this wouldn't end. The Omega's body was like an electrified wire, every nerve singing, and the knots in Sergei's body tightened, pulling him closer and closer, blurring his vision.
The black spots on the sheets beneath him had grown larger, indicating that the fluid flowing from his pink anus was no longer suppressed, as the inhibitor had now disappeared from his body.
Sergei groaned, his forehead pressed against Vladimir's, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. "Volodya," he whispered, his voice hoarse and yearning, "you... ah... so lovely..." His fingers gripped Vladimir's pale buttocks tightly, leaving faint bruises that would last for hours. Seryozha's movements were now unhurried, slower but still intense, as if he were savoring every second of their connection. The knot throbbed within Vladimir, its rhythm steady, synchronized with the frantic pounding of his heart as his blood flowed through it.
Vladimir's legs were tightly wrapped around Sergei's shoulders, his pink toes curling as another surge of semen entered his cervix. The lieutenant's shirt was completely undone, hanging loosely on his body, revealing his pale chest and the faint curves of his uterus, flushed and warm from Ivanov's semen. His body was like a canvas of longing, every inch covered with Sergei's touch—the pressure of fingers, the friction of teeth, and the weight of his nodules. Vladimir's own erection, still pink and untouched, twitched in his abdomen, oozing slightly as the pleasure accumulated in the spacetime continuum to an unbearable degree.
“Ah…don’t stop,” Vladimir whispered, his voice hoarse. He tilted his head back, obediently exposing his throat, and spread his legs like a prostitute. The action was instinctive, primal, and it made Sergei’s chest let out a low growl. Alpha’s lips touched the mark again, gently sucking on the tender skin. Vladimir whimpered, his body tensing up and pressing tightly against the mark.
The sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of fullness and heat that made him dizzy. Sergei's hand slid down, his fingers lightly touching the wet edge where they met, teasing the sensitive skin. "You're so wet," he whispered almost to himself, his voice a mixture of awe and desire. He pressed a finger against his own groin, causing Vladimir to expand further, Omega's moans loud enough to make Sergei nervously glance towards the doorway.
“Quiet, Volodya,” he warned, though his own voice was tense. “We can’t let them hear.” Vladimir bit his swollen lower lip and nodded slightly, but sounds still escaped—soft breaths, desperate whimpers, and the wet, gurgling sounds of their bodies rubbing together, foam rising from the friction. The fish on the porthole were long gone, as if even they knew to give these two some privacy. Sergei’s fingers slipped inside, brushing against a spot, and Vladimir jolted, his vision blurring. “Um… Seryozha!” he cried, this time softer, but still urgent.
Sergei's control weakened like your grandmother's television cable, and his pushing became erratic. As the nodules swelled further, they locked together so tightly that neither of them could feel a movement. Sergei's free hand grasped Vladimir's hand, pressing it above his head, their fingers intertwined. He leaned down and planted a sweet kiss on Vladimir's lips.
This was their first union, chaotic and desperate, teeth and tongues intertwined, tasting only salt and the flavor of dinner. Vladimir melted into it, hot air bursting from his belly, his body completely surrendering, milky fluid gushing into Sergei's scrotum at his climax.
A moment later, Sergei followed, letting out a low growl as he ejaculated into Vladimir's body. The sturdy knots ensured that not a single drop was wasted. The Omega's body trembled, each pulse taut. For a moment, the world consisted only of the two of them, drenched in sweat and panting, as if forever bound together, disregarding the consequences.
They clung to each other tightly as the ship rocked gently on the Black Sea. Vladimir's chest heaved, his breath quickening, and Sergei kissed his chin softly, whispering words barely audible. The fragrance of roses filled the air, rich and sweet, and for the first time in years, Vladimir felt whole, even if only for this fleeting moment. The boys would be back soon, and the word "gay" would never leave their lips again.
(End)