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Special Forces Chapter VI: Sweat and Blood
 
 

November 1981, Kabul

Dan was walking towards the tea house in the market, the one with the mosaics. The late autumn was unseasonably hot, giving no reprieve from the temperatures yet. Moving through the narrow pathways of the overcrowded bazaar, he found his way without looking by now, it wasn't the first time he'd checked out the place.

Weaving through a cacophony of smells, colours and sounds, he was cursing himself. That same goddamned teahouse. For the umpteenth fucking time.

Been, what, three weeks? Four? No. Exactly three weeks and four days since the bastard had shown him more about himself than he'd ever wanted to know.

Fuck. He wanted to know more and that bloody cunt knew it. Had jerked off every damned night thinking of the Russkie and this 'more', whatever it was. That body, the heat, that hated man.

Don't think, Dan. Could hardly think at all, ruled by his cock. What had he said to that arsewipe? One day your cock will kill you. How ironic.

Dan knew the bastard was in the tea house before he'd even set foot in it, he could sense the wanker. Standing in the entrance, Dan stepped through and into the cool shade and quiet. A haven in the centre of insanity and heat with its tables, cushions, rugs. The courtyard was half-empty, and Dan thought he could smell the fucker before he saw him. There. Sitting in the shade.

Dan ignored the racing pulse. Touched the familiar blade against his thigh through the hole in his trouser pocket, and casually stepped out of the shadow into the sunlight.

Flight or fuck.

* * *

Dazed by heat. Late autumn and it was still scorching hot. Taking a few hours off training; Vadim had been forced into exercises, whenever there was a gap in the schedule, another exercise, then the staccato of missions out in the mountains. Now, resting, recovering. He didn't just get wasted like so many others.

The tea house owner had to hate him by now. Ruined his business for a few hours at least twice a week. His favourite place in Kabul. The tea was good, he was left mostly in peace, and yes, this was the place where he had met the other soldier. He'd come back to the crime scene. Vadim spent his free afternoons reading and drinking tea, lying on his left side, head resting on his hand, elbow supporting him.

Gorky, today. From the corner of his eye, Vadim saw a man step closer. His hand fell on the gun that the book conveniently covered. Then glanced up. Four weeks. The sling was gone. Both hands free. Armed, of course. He turned his head to look at the waiter who was clearing away glasses, seven or eight metres away. "More tea", he said. As far as his Pushtu would go.

"Double sweet." Dan turned his head, calling to the waiter, his own command of the language remarkably smooth, "and extra strong."

There. Done it. Congratulations, Dan. You haven't kicked the fucker's face in yet, a whole two seconds. You haven't jumped his bones either, or cut his throat, or splattered his brains across the courtyard with that pistol you've got hidden. Or sucked his cock.

Fuck!

Prodded a cushion with his boot, then lowered down to sit opposite the other. Far enough away for a sudden attack, close enough to smell the scent of fresh sweat.

Said nothing. Didn't have a fucking clue, what.

Vadim turned the page. The letters had changed from elegant Russian to chickenscrawl. He'd be damned if he'd show it. Acted as if finishing the paragraph, which ran to the next page, lazily adjusted himself as if unaware of anybody watching him. Then looked at the number on the page and closed the book and put it down to cover the pistol. Couldn't remember which number it was he had stared at.

Pondered what to say. Welcome back, Dan. He had been gloating in his mind, in secret, imagining how the other would find him. But it was a little shock when it actually happened. "You made quick exit", he stated, deciding to start right where they had stopped. "Forgot your jacket." He nodded towards a bundle between them. The jacket that had smelled of the other until it took on Vadim's smell. A trophy he would sometimes sleep on. He'd gone so far as to wear it. A private joke, like parading around in the skin of a lion.

Dan shrugged. "You can keep it if you like it so much, didn't know they couldn't at least provide you with kit, Russkie." Insults came easy, but secretly glad of the other's start.

A room in the outskirts of Kabul, waiting.

Vadim smirked. "Guess I can always sell it." Sadly enough, most of the stuff going on in the barracks and outside was black market. Blackest market. The Afghans bought everything, especially military kit. A huge problem, and one that was impossible to control as long as the conscripts were as hungry and as lonely as they were.

Dan smirked, "Got some water at last, or is the smell in this place not the shower rationing?" He settled onto his hip, glancing up as the waiter returned with the teas.

A room. Secluded. His own.

Vadim was displeased how much the other knew about affairs in the barracks. Or maybe all the Brit had to do was keep his ears open. He was reasonably clean, nowhere near the standards that he liked to keep, but he looked positively polished next to half his comrades. Strike that. Most, unless it was a higher rank. Main way to keep clean was to remain shaved. "Sorry if I offend your sensibilities. Just came back from kicking goat-fucker ass." Bared his teeth.

"Kicking is better than eating it." Dan's eyes widened, hoped to cover the motion immediately. Where the hell had that one come from?

Distracted by the motion of Vadim's hand as the Russian rubbed his chest, close to where the burn scar was. His gaze got stuck. Just couldn't get his eyes off the burn scar. His mark. His cigarette. His cunt.

That fucking room still waiting.

Vadim wasn't quite sure what 'to eat ass' meant in English. The other used a lot of slang, and while he was reasonably confident with American slang - the basics, never enough to understand all of it - it could mean anything. He decided it was meant to be rude, as usual. He decided it probably meant something like 'suck up to'.

"Not part of mission. Unlike yours", he answered, evenly.

Dan cursed himself, took the tea, swallowing a far too large gulp of the scalding liquid. Took all his willpower not to scream and spit it back out. Fuck. That hurt. Hoped his eyes didn't water and feared the roof of his mouth was hanging down in strips. He fished for his fags, vowed he'd slit his own throat if his hands were shaking. Managed to light one. His mouth hurt, and the pain made him angry. That, and the need that was gnawing at his insides. He snorted, inhaled the smoke deeply, forced it back out.

"You know fuck-all about my mission." Dan wanted to finish the tea, get out of the place, never return.

To the room.

Pissed off, Dan extinguished the fag, half smoked. Had this overwhelming urge to not give a fuck anymore. Should just kill him, get it over with. Did the next best thing instead, leant closer.

"I want to smash your damned face in, Russkie. Kick your head, break your nose, reacquaint myself with the stickiness of your blood." Voice lowering with every word. Near-whispered intensity. "I have a room. Follow."

Question-request.

Vadim pulled his legs close, moved until he was crouching, the movement uncannily elegant, an afterthought of a mind always ready to kill. "Stickiness alright", he said, snorting. Gathered the book, allowed the other to see the gun as he holstered it, and took the discarded jacket. Some sweat-drenched bills paid for the tea he hadn't touched.

How could he know what the Brit wanted? The other knew he was Spetsnaz, his superior might have decided they wanted him for interrogation. But then, he had made him come, and he had seen the look on the other's face. Stricken. Hooked. Vadim stood. "Lead way." He had long weeks to work out what he had suspected for even longer. Gavriil didn't cut it. Didn't penetrate his skin, never got close enough.

Dan was still staring. Hiding his surprise. Shit. That easy? Getting off the cushions himself, he stood close, armed with the knowledge of his own weapons, hidden on his body, matching the others'.

"Slut." He smirked, the word offered a stab of satisfaction.

Walking out of the tea house, aware of the presence close by. What was it going to be, Dan? Out to get yourself killed this time? Curiosity killed the cat?

Making his way towards the North entrance of the bazaar, meandering through the run-down streets of an already fucked-up place. He'd wondered every time when entering the area if he'd get his throat cut by a petty thief that time. Could find the irony in it all, if he weren't so aware of the other's presence.

Jump him, Vadim thought as he followed, but he did remember that this man was more than two hands could handle, and that made it exciting and fun, just being around, feeling how tense he was, how ready to fight, how he expected no quarter and would give none if things escalated. Truth was, he was hungry for it, slut, no slut, whatever. He could punch him in the face later for that smirk.

Dan stepped into a narrow alley that hardly allowed a man through, leading towards a place so dark, seemed impossible it could house a place to live. Senses alert, he slowed his steps while moving forward.

Alleys got narrower, winding, half-blocked by rubble and trash. Sometimes Vadim thought they should just rub this country clean, destroy absolutely everything, and dump it into a giant trashcan, then sit down and think about it, and maybe start from scratch. He checked the roofs for movement, reflections, but this place got so bad it was even too bad for an ambush, and that meant something. The word seared him. 'Slut' rubbed him exactly the wrong way. He would show him slut. Just because he didn't want to cause too much of a commotion in the tea house. No, that was a lie. It could be as simple as wanting.

Dan stepped into the thickest darkness, walking silently and checking the path in front of them, ensuring that no one waited in ambush.

Vadim covered the other while following him, secured the way back, thought how amusing, they were united in the quest for a place to get off - without getting a knife in the back on the way there.

The alley was clear, undisturbed, and the small building appeared almost out of nothing. Just one ground floor room, nothing else, yet windows to escape and a door that was relatively sturdy. Dan stopped, took his time to be certain they were alone, then produced a key to open the padlock that secured the door. He said nothing, just stepped inside into the gloomy light that came from shuttered windows.

Vadim almost laughed. No ambush. He stepped through the door, careful, made sure the door couldn't be slammed into his face, gave the other space to lock and bolt the door.

Dan kept out of reach of the Russian, but had to turn his back to bolt the door. Couldn't be too careful, but the windows could serve as escape routes if they had to, and there were always the weapons in the room, hidden in places only he did know. The lock took a moment longer, oiled or not, the dust was settling into everything.

The moment he could hear the faint click of metal, Vadim crossed the distance and placed his boot in a devastating kick between the other man's shoulder blades, hissing sharply with the kick, using a fair measure of his anger. Wanted to beat him to a fucking pulp for calling him slut, for smirking like that.

"Shit!" Dan shouted, felled by the boot in his back. How could he have been so fucking stupid? Wankstaining arsewipe of a bloody stupid, brainless cunt that he was? He went down like a felled tree, couldn't react fast enough, no time to answer with punches, dragged across the floor, then kicked again and crying out at the pain that flared in his side.

"Fuck you!" Vadim snarled with feeling. He reached for the knife in the small of his back.

It was never over, and Dan's hand fumbled despite the pain, found the trusted knife, slipped it into his hand. "Fucking cunt!" Scrambled to his knees. He'd cut the bastard's throat, or at least his face.

Vadim saw the glint of the knife, his own was on its way, came to rest against the dark skin of the man's throat, to the side, knew all he could get now was a stand-off, and that very moment he could feel the faintest of pressures against the inside of his thigh, one violent motion, and the other could sever the femoral artery, and that was such a messy way to go. Vadim didn't move to kill him, just to get some fucking respect. Breathed hard, eyes wide, catching every motion, every thought of a motion, the length of steel between his legs arousing him just as much as seeing his own knife against that panting throat. Classical stand-off. Fuck. He was hard, hungry to get a touch, get anything, thought of those lips, they were close enough, and didn't dare to move a muscle. Too fucking hard to think.

Dan froze, his own knife poised right at the groin. That cock. Hand brushing the heat, could smell the adrenaline and the sweat. Swallowed hard, didn't move a muscle, didn't even dare to blink. On his knees, twisted position, even more fucked up the way his eyes were drawn to the bulge in front of him. Shit. Could smell anger and lust, no mistaking about the other's greed. And his own. No different.

No longer flight or fuck but die or fuck.

"Would be a shame to cut there, cunt." Dan pressed out the words against the knife blade at his jugular.

Vadim laughed, but felt his body on edge. Needed, wanted, craved touch. "Would it? I'm glad you think so." Wrong words. Should have said something about cocksucking and that raping a dead body wasn't nearly as much fun.

He inched closer, the other man's hand brushed his cock, faint, he would normally not make a fuss about it, but it was impossibly intense with that knife. Licked his lips. Put less pressure on the knife. Still there, still potentially lethal, but no imminent danger to cut him just when he twitched. Inched even closer. Would kill to have him suck his cock, start a fucking genocide.

Dan licked his lips, echoing the other's gesture. "Yeah," his voice raspy, throat dry, that fucking cock was still too close, "would be a shame, your blood would splatter my kit."

His knife blade ghosted up the groin, lay against the cock. Millimetres of movement that brought his hand closer to the hardness he wanted to touch. See. Taste …

"Fuck." Still didn't move, just his eyes, glued to the bulge. Inhaling sharply, deeply, scent of musk and something so goddamned male, he'd just lost his own battle.

"Get your trousers down."

Great, Dan, demands with a blade against your throat.

Vadim's eyes widened. What the fuck …? He straightened, the blade down there made him want to stand on his toes, and aroused him more. Like the shave in the mountains. Yes, he'd come if the other cut his throat. Truth. Stared at the Brit, disbelieving he could get what he wanted, disbelieving the man who had run away after a handjob would do this. He planned to bite or do something equally gruesome. But his cock was just as happy with that prospect. They break something in special forces training. And that something is common sense, he thought.

His hand was so sweaty he hardly trusted his grip on the knife, but the other hand did move to open his fly. If the bastard bit, he'd skewer his neck. Last thing he'd ever do. Promise. Fumbled and pulled the trousers down, cock nearly touching those lips. Vadim tensed, tried to control his breath.

"Oh shit." Dan murmured, felt the blade move against his throat with every syllable. Scent so strong, it poisoned his senses. Didn't know what the fuck he was doing nor wanted to do, just followed the freedom the two blades gave him. Moved his own, until it touched the hollow between thigh and balls, would cut them off if ...

No clue what to do except parting his lips, moving his head no more than a fraction, mindful of knife and life. Took in that cock, lips closing around this impossible heat and hardness.

Vadim nearly lost the knife. The tingle of the blade there went up to a place deep in his guts, his balls felt as if they wanted to escape into his body, and he wasn't sure who or what was in control. It definitely wasn't his knife, or his cock, or he himself, and yet the other took him between his lips. The sight was impossibly erotic, the slow going, deliberate, clearly he'd never done this before, which was a rush in itself, far more erotic than Gavriil's whole bag of tricks, up and including his excellent breathing technique.

Dan relished that taste. Onslaught of senses, unknown, unlike any of the girls and nothing like he'd imagined when wanking alone. Better. A motherfucking revelation and he forgot that blade, moved his head forward, made himself take in more, because he wanted. Badly. Fucking cocksucking cunt of a British soldier. That's what he was.

Vadim stared, saw a change in the other's face and felt his cock twitch as he saw something he had never expected from this man, in this situation, with plenty of sharp steel between them. Couldn't place it, then understood it was lust. He groaned, muscles tensed, fuck the knife, he wanted to move, but that was impossible. Kept the hand on the knife at the throat, just barely, felt himself shudder, rocked by that touch. "Just … don't kill me now", he whispered in Russian.

Kill? Dan couldn't think of killing. He wasn't sure if he could think of anything at all. Except what the fuck was he going to do with that cock now? Should be disgusted with himself for kneeling on that floor and having that Russian's cock in his mouth, but couldn't be arsed to care.

Own blade pressing against flesh, sensed the Russkie's knife against his throat, needed it there, could pretend he was forced or whatever shit his mind might try to convince himself of. Later. Not now; now just the scent and taste, and the sensation of hardness and heat.

Unsure, unskilled, moved his head, took the other further in, tried to remember what the fuck the girls and whores had done. Had never bothered to think about anything while on the receiving end. Was what they did, not what he thought about.

They. Undefined. Was he one of them now? Couldn't give a flying fuck. Breathed sharply, pushed down, tried to suck while moving, just to get more of that mind-blowing sensation but was as goddamned unskilled as a virginal bint.

Vadim's left hand formed a fist, wanted to grab a handful of that dark hair and pull him closer, force him to take more, but there were enough inches of steel between his legs to convince him that patience had to be a virtue. Heat, wet heat, no tongue moving, no hand to speed him along, no fucking leverage, but an enemy sucking him. Because he wanted. His head spun, worse than with the sensation alone, the fact it was the same man who had beaten him up, cut his back open, punched him in the face, had tried everything to kill him. Could kill him right now.

He tried to remain still, hips hardly moving, didn't dare with the edge of steel too fucking close to things he valued. Not enough friction, not enough control. It would be a struggle to come. As much as he wanted to, seeing those lips around his cock, seeing that face so close, so fucking vulnerable, intense, the man was always so incredibly intense, fighting, hating, and even more so when lusting.

It drove him slowly insane, every motion, just a fraction away from enough, but that fraction kept him on the other side. Not a fucking chance. He was breathing harshly, muscles tensing, knotting up, thighs, stomach, guts, ass, back, and sweating, building up the pressure like this was torture, and the other clearly didn't know what to do with it, how to trigger.

Dan felt a growing frustration. Knowing he wanted this, but needed more, had to achieve something, not knowing what nor how, neither bothering with the why. Not a man to give up, not ever, no way back, no running away. He couldn't just fuck off and try to forget he'd ever done this thing … that thing on his knees with that cock between his lips. That monstrous 'thing' that would follow him forever because he'd want it again. And again and forever more, because it was so goddamned intense and insane, bone-deep addictive.

Vadim rested his left hand against the door, at least made sure nobody would come in, supported his weight with that arm, didn't quite trust the rest of his body. Still the fucking knives. Immobilised, worse than being tied up. Pressure going much worse. No release. No control. Nothing to fucking lose.

"Please …"

Please make me come. Please stop and turn around. Please.

Dan's thoughts stopped. That Please. The begging. Dropped knife. Ignored blade. Didn't know fuck-all but remembered friction. Forced his head down and the hated-wanted cock into his throat. Deep. Deeper. Pushed himself relentlessly.

Vadim's knees almost buckled, he groaned, more friction, more of it, getting closer, fuck, felt the tightness of the throat, felt it tighten, realized what happened, knew from too much experience the other had no control whatsoever, and just couldn't stop things now, rammed the fucking knife into the door near the other's head, and quicker than even Dan realized or could act, took a handful of the hair instead, and forced, forced his cock down that constricting throat.

Dan's hands gripped the other's thighs in panic. Eyes wide open. Air cut off. Violent intrusion.

Vadim felt muscles spasm, tight and hot and quick, felt the hand on his thighs, no fucking knife, and even if there was a knife, he just couldn't care. Head, mind, everything empty as he thrust into the other's throat, no regard for anything but the need to come.

Hand in his hair and Dan was in terror, suddenly. Had lost control, a nightmare come true, the control freak who needed to be in control to survive at all times. That cock wasn't what he wanted anymore, had turned into an enemy, just like the fucking Russian, invading throat and air. He convulsed, convulsive gagging, body fighting against the intrusion, hands formed into fists, beating upon thighs, couldn't move his head, nor twist his body away and yet …

Fuck! Yet there was something dark and dangerous, raising its voice from the depths of his mind.

Take it! Fight it. Want it!

It's what you fucking deserve you cocksucking cunt!

Pain and panic, then convulsion. Retching the moment the Russkie came down his throat, finally releasing the grip on his hair. Violent spasms, once, twice, almost throwing up, retching like a miserable whore on her knees on the cum-sticky floor.

Motherfucking bastard! Anger flared within split seconds. Fucker. Cunt. Wanker. Sudden flare of hatred, like a flame touching match cord and powder pan. Remembered the dropped knife. There. Could hardly see, neither breathe, still coughing, but the blade was in Dan's hand and his body off the floor before he could think. He attacked the still weakened Russian, knife aimed at the heart, but aim and vision distorted and his blade flew towards the arm while throwing himself against the other.

But in Dan's mouth the taste. God he fucking loved that taste.

Vadim staggered back, breathless. For once not clear enough to grab the knife. Still stuck in the wood. Fucking trousers in the way, held them with one hand, shit, the knife, his body shifting gear, go from sex to fighting, no, defending, blocking, unprepared for the onslaught, the knife a searing line across his arm. He could feel the steel touch bone, and that sobered him, but he was falling.

He tensed to take the force off, head didn't hit the ground, brought both hands up, one to the Brit's throat, but the other dodged, free hand fended off the fucking knife. Saw the lips, wet, raw, body still trying to pick up the pieces of his training, this thing just didn't happen and nobody could prepare him for it. This time, the other would cut his throat. They were too evenly matched, he'd known that from the start. And the other had the advantage.

Dan turned the knife, till the tip pointed and pushed into Vadim's throat, forcing the body beneath him to still. Sat on the still bucking body, straddled the hips with the Russkie's trousers still down.

Hard, he was so goddamned hard.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you." Voice raspy, reminder of that cock down his throat only a moment ago.

Vadim was breathing hard, moved his chin up to evade the knife point, knew he was baring his throat even more. Vanya could have died like this. Afterburn and fear just didn't mix, the two emotions nearly ripped him apart. Had no idea what he should feel, could feel, just wanted to stay alive now. Stared at the man, his crotch from under heavy lids, assessed him, knew what he would do in his stead. Force him to turn around, bind his hands and fuck him. Better than getting his throat slit.

Bargain. Think. He's speaking, that means he won't kill. And he's hard. He liked it. "Wait", Vadim whispered, speaking English. "I can … do that. Same thing. Suck you." Easiest option. Take the edge off, even at fucking knife point. They had left sanity and common sense behind long ago.

"No," Dan hissed, "no fucking hair to force my whore." Eyes ablaze, with more than anger and lust. Feral glint, betraying the basest desires. Like the taste that lingered, the sore throat, the wanting again.

Knife shifted, point turned to blade, pressed against the soft tissue at the throat. One flick and there'd be more blood than just from the arm. Dan moved up the chest, until he sat on Vadim's biceps. Each knee forcing down one arm, uncaring of the blood that started to seep from the cut into his own trousers. Put his full weight on his legs, knew too damn well how fucking much that would hurt. Left hand undid his fly, had gone commando, his cock was in his hand. Right there, in the bastard's face.

Vadim pulled his lips from his teeth, hissing with the pain, felt his arm pulse, could smell his blood through the mist of sweat and lust and cum. The man's crotch closer, was sure he'd fuck his face in this position, stared at the cock close up, good size, fully hard, could see every vein, could smell it. Feet found the ground, knees up, find some stability in this position. Bitch. Suka.

"You're not just my cunt, fucker." Dan murmured hoarsely, starting to stroke himself, staring down at the Russian and his own cock. Fast, efficient. "You're my bitch."

What ...? Vadim thought. The Brit didn't trust him enough, of course not, one rare moment of common sense, a vicious thought, and at the same time Vadim fucking liked the way the other touched himself, fiercely, veins on his arm standing out, the look of anger and concentration, the way the cock responded to that strong hand.

His hands formed fists, muscles tensed, but there was the knife. So, that was the idea. Shoot the load into his face. Vadim couldn't help but watch the other, and if the other had known in the least how fucking erotic he looked doing that, he'd had opted to punch him and break his nose - and really every bone in his body.

Dan felt fury, lust, one fuelled the other. Angry strokes, bordering on painful. Face contorted with aggression and tension, climbing to that toppling point in pathetically short time. Seemed that a blade on the fucker's throat, the taste of the Russkie's cum, and staring into the bastard's face and too-fucking bright eyes, was enough to get him off within seconds, if he could get that one notch higher. Shit, left hand awkward, Dan lost rhythm, almost there, almost, so full of bloody rage and lust, just needed to come or he'd cut the cunt's throat out of frustration.

Only that orgasm with a knife to somebody's throat required too much fucking control, more than Vadim gave the other credit for. The Brit would come and cut his throat. That was the punishment. Fear tensed every muscle in his body.

Dan dropped the knife again, safe with the weight on the arms, took himself into the right and groaned. Faster. Well-practiced, harder and brutal. Looked as if he were punishing himself, hatred in his face. Leaned forward, left hand beside the other's head, supporting himself and coming closer.

Vadim's arm muscles between concrete and the fucking hard shins of the other, not enough movement to fight, but at least the knife went, and he kept staring at the other, didn't want this, fucking hated the idea of that stuff in his face, demeaning, yes, that was the point of it, wasn't it? Treat him like a cunt, like a bitch in one of those porn films, money shot, whatever, at the same time felt an absurd erotic appreciation of the other's cock and his technique, could imagine his own cock in the man's hand, like this, his body liking the idea.

"Fuck!" Dan groaned.

Now. Fuck, now. That supreme moment of absolute pain and pleasure and perfect tension, before the crash-down of climax. Felt everything draw into his body before losing himself in release.

Close enough to bite, if Vadim chose to. The moment the other didn't even look at him any more, but was getting there, a few heartbeats, nothing else, Vadim strained and brought up his head, opened his lips and took the angry, swollen tip between his lips, and sucked, pushing the cock deeper, not as far as the other, tasted the sweat and the dust and could feel it twitch, and took it deeper again, as far as his neck would allow.

"Oh God!" Dan shouted, bloody clichéd crying out for gods, heavens, expletives alike. Taken by surprise, taken in, and taken deeper. Lost it, more than just the tension and his cum; lost himself in the orgasm and couldn't help but push deeper into the willing throat.

Vadim took it, just swallowed because the other option was have the stuff come out through his nose, and that was less pleasant. He did this for the power, the power to have a man lose it, lose himself completely, nothing demeaning about it especially when the other didn't hold a knife or a gun or any other way to control him. Sucked the other dry, took the rest of the cum as well, taking it deep, tongue, the whole deal, liked the heat and size, much more than the taste. Then, suddenly, it was pulled away, and he turned his head, felt it slip out against the corner of his lips, against his cheek, wet and hot.

Dan stumbled backwards, moved in near-panic off the other, fell and crawled away, drew the pistol by instinct, before ending a few feet apart, on his arse, legs sprawled, trousers open and cock still hard. Wet. Spent.

Aimed the pistol at the Russian, hand shaking wildly, breath desperate still, heart off kilter.

Vadim brought his legs under him, moved into a crouch, and rolled his head in an exaggerated motion. What now, Danny-boy? Scared of your bitch? Saw the gun, which sobered him, but that bullet could go anywhere. "Don't worry. I didn't expect roses", he murmured in English.

He stood, pulled up his trousers, fixed the belt. Nice warm, relaxed feeling. Hated the taste. Rummaged through the other's bundle. Water. No vodka. Of course not. The other didn't seem the type to bring moonshine. Well. Plenty more water to wash down the rather unexpected dinner. Unscrewed the plastic bottle and drank, deeply, for several long moments, then let some water run down his scalp and chest.

Tossed the other a water bottle as well, skittering aimlessly across the dirty floor, continued to check the pack. Ah, something more substantial. Protein bars.

Dan stared, would probably have pulled the trigger if he'd realise he was transfixed yet again like the deer in fucking headlights, but did nothing. Absolutely nothing, while the Russian rummaged in the bag he kept in the room, and murmured words he should by all means kill or at least maim him for. The hand still shook, and so did the forgotten gun.

Ah, this one had a peanut butter flavour. Vadim tore the foil of one of the bars, pushed some of that bar between his lips, just slightly making fun of what had happened, regarding the Brit.

Dan didn't even think. Completely numb and shell-shocked, until he saw the mockery of the bar of food, pushed ostentatiously between those lips. The lips where his cock had been. The cock where his own lips ... throat …

Vadim chewed a little, swallowed. "Guess I'm little rusty", he murmured, then crouched again. "Put that gun away."

Dan's eyes narrowed at the Russian's words. Felt exceedingly stupid. A right idiot, Dan, aren't you? Cocksucking poof? How long to the shit-stabbing fag?

Dropped gun and hand over his now-flaccid cock.

Vadim regarded the Brit, saw that strange expression haunt those eyes. He wanted and didn't want, always the fear and the disgust on those features. It might be some fucked-up game for him, but the other took things more seriously. If the man hated this with the same intensity that he lusted, fuck, that had to be a bitch.

"I got to go." Dan suddenly said.

Vadim bit back the response he wanted to give, one about "not for my sake, I quite enjoyed this", and pondered again, meanwhile washing the cut on his lower arm with the water, and rummaging his pockets for a bandage. Might need stitches, he was only grateful the bone was really close to the skin there, hardly any meat severed. Fumbled around a bit, then pulled the ends together with teeth and hand.

If he had to pay in blood each and every time they met, and pay like this for coming and having the other come, that had to be worth it. He was bleeding for the matters of two flags and some general secretary's ideas about the southern borders. This was more personal, and he got more out of it.

"Waste of recce and time and effort if you leave now", Vadim said, speaking to the bandage on his arm, and took another bite from the sports bar. "I have two hours." Glanced up to meet the other's eyes, crouched, as he was, the white bandage a stark contrast to the sweaty reddened skin.

Dan merely closed his eyes, dropped his head into his neck for a moment, before coming back up again, inhaling a deeper breath. Oddly resigned. "Guess so."

Cleared his throat, still sore, and the taste was lingering somewhere. Either imagined and in his mind or real, didn't matter. He liked it too much, entirely far too much. No mistaking. Realised he even stalled pouring down some water, for no other reason that that goddamned taste. Cocksucker. Yeah, shit.

Dan glanced at the bandage, then back to his bag. Dismissed the injury. Had to be a deep cut, didn't care. Spilling the Russkie's blood seemed as 'normal' as his need to taste that cock again.

"Give me one of the strawberry bars." The sickeningly sweet ones. Held out his hand, palm up, pistol dangling from his thumb, the other hand fumbled with the button on his trousers. Hadn't even taken off the belt. Too bloody needy, too angry, far too consumed by that crazed lust.

Vadim dug into the bag and brought out a handful, found the one that said 'strawberry', tossed that between the other's knees and dropped the rest on the pack. Didn't they call homosexuals 'fruits'? His slang was too patchy to be much good in this situation.

Eyes on that gun again, and the much steadier hand. The man was back to fighting fit. Which meant, there would be more fighting. His knife still stuck in the door. Vadim moved his left hand to the holster, pulled the gun with his fingers, thumb away, and let it slide over the floor. Within reach, but not right on his body. He then finished off the bar, worst hunger dealt with, gave his stomach something to work with.

Dan was in the process of ripping the bar open, his sweet tooth legendary, but how was the Russkie to know that. Figured he'd be safe enough to drop the gun, put it down on the floor when the Russkie dropped his, as close to himself as the other's. Somehow, somewhere, he just couldn't be bothered right now. Had to be the mellowing after the orgasm, preferred this as the likeliest explanation. Could always kill the wankstain later. As if.

Vadim regarded the other man. So many things he wondered. Could wonder now. He wanted to see him naked, like up in the mountains, washing himself, with that mixture of defiance and anger. He had been hardly in any state to appreciate it fully.

Didn't know how to start a conversation, or what else to do to tell the other he wasn't after killing him. That was long over. But where to from here? "Thanks for that thing in mountains." He felt his face go cold, and shook his head. "Your distraction."

"What?" Dan raised his head, digging his teeth into the sweet stickiness. The same teeth that had mauled skin and flesh a month ago. "What fucking distraction?" While chewing.

Vadim could smell the strawberry aroma, nothing like real strawberries, but the Disney version of it. "You kept bandits off my back." Calm, as if helping the other's memory. Just for the sake of conversation. He wanted to say other things, but the Brit was too aloof for that.

"Oh that," Dan shrugged, swallowed the large bite, wished it was even sweeter. "Guess I owed you."

Vadim watched the other man, storing away those images for a night on the bunk bed, alone. His lips, his hands, the powerful neck. His cock. Vadim smiled. Yes, he had really gotten a good view of that. He smirked against the water bottle, hiding what threatened to become a grin.

Dan took another bite, chewed while his fingers toyed with the gun on the floor. Absentmindedly transfixed by the small round burn wound at the hollow of the Russkie's throat.

Vadim's eyes came to rest on the pistol. Only paranoia this time. Good. Owing. Now, this was dangerous ground again. They owed each other so much by now, it was hard to keep track. Rest up, round two.

Maybe he'd be so nice as to give proper head. Show him how to do it. Vadim smirked again. Maybe rub their bodies together until they both came. He liked that thought a lot. And it was easier lying down, but how could he get the other to do that?

"Mind if I lose some khaki?"

"Sure." Mind? Fuck, no. "Go right ahead. Feel at home." Dan meant to sound snide, but the comment lacked proper enthusiasm.

Vadim took off belt, shirt, bared the dog tags, kept these on at all times. The other had brought blankets, fair enough. This had to be one of his regular hideouts, there should be several strewn all over the city.

Dan was mechanically biting and chewing and biting again, debating if he should stare at the other or not. Shit. Why the fuck did he even have to make those decisions. Watched the man lay down the blankets, start to undress. Couldn't be any more obvious what he wanted.

Empty foil wrapper in Dan's hand, slowly crumbling in his fist, turning the foil into a small ball of tension, the more pieces of kit the Russian was losing.

Vadim untied the boots, pulled them off, socks, took more of the bottled water, and headed over into another corner to get some essential washing done, a few handfuls, but basic hygiene. He hated the dust and sun. And it showed off his body. Could convince the other that skin on skin was an option. Non threatening. A naked man was never threatening. He half-turned away, not to protect anything resembling modesty, but to not make it too provocative.

Dan winced. What the fuck now. Should he drool and pant, run over like Pavlov's dog, begging to have a taste of the bone? Felt like the unskilled, unsophisticated idiot. He should have stuck with knife and guns, and stayed the hell away.

He left the gun where it was, threw the wrapper into the bag, scrambled up to stand. Took a couple of steps and a half-hearted attempt to pull at least the tattered parka off. Was lost, hadn't learned the language he needed for blokes, not bints. Had the violent urge to get back to his weapons, at least he knew those.

Vadim could feel the restless hesitation, the debate. The thing that triggered violence, and right now he was unsuitably kitted out for violence. Show more weakness, like a bird dragging a wing behind to attract the predator? Only that he was by no means, ever, a kind of bird.

He was setting a trap to catch himself a rival, an opponent that wouldn't break, a man who was just as likely to punch him in the face than push a cock down his throat. He had to move like the hunter, how ironic, a suburban kid from Moscow. Russia was a lot of wilderness, but he only knew wild animals from the zoo.

He knew the objective, and, how did the instructors put it? Do everything, anything, to reach the objective. Even be the bitch. It was just a word. A word like homosexual, like degenerate. Yeah, bite me.

He went over to the blankets, and sat down, stretched his legs, no weapon on him, no scrap of fabric. Lay down and rolled onto his side. They had shared warmth like that. It was familiar enough. The closest thing to dragging a wing, he figured. And very real danger. Lots of weapons around.

Dan stood, increasingly awkward. What now? What the fuck now! Blankets. Body. Skin and want.

"I need to leave in hour", Vadim said, the words wanted to be Russian, but he kept them fixed in the other language, even if that meant getting part of the meaning wrong. "Do us favour and come here." Wondered if the words were right, did say the right things, turned around to watch the other. "I'm off to Bagram for week. Inspection."

Dan moved. Pressed into action by a few words. Had underrated his ingrained reflex to simply take an order. No, wrong, an invitation. Shrugged the jacket off, walked over. Was easy like this, didn't need to feel awkward.

Come here and one hour and that naked body on the blanket. Heaven could be a motherfucker and a dingy room in Kabul. "Don't tell me where you'll be. Don't want to know. Can't be arsed to have to go and kill you if I could do it right here."

I won't tell you I'm off to kill a traitorous Afghani scumbag who's selling our weapons wholesale to the mountain people, thought Vadim and nodded. "No operational information."

Dan got to his knees, half on the blanket. Hesitated for a moment. "I fucking hate you, Russkie, don't get me wrong." Lowered to sit on his heels, own knees opening for comfort. He leaned closer, was getting used to those strange eyes too quickly.

Vadim looked at the other's crotch, then up to his face again. Hatred. He couldn't make any sense of his own emotions, apart from lust and danger, those two were clear enough. There was anger, too, but he'd given as good as he'd gotten, and that seemed alright to his sense of justice.

Dan lowered his voice, speaking with quiet intensity. "I'll fucking kill you if you ever try to shove your cock up my arse again. Don't make the mistake to think I don't mean it. Don't ever." Silence, then pulled the shirt over his head and threw it to the floor.

Now, that threat. That was genuine, and real steel, the real thing. Vadim had phantasised about that, more often than he cared to remember. The way he had felt that man break beneath him. It was still something that made him shudder, in a good way. He couldn't say he wouldn't try this again, eventually. The other had learnt that sucking cock could be fun. He might learn that getting fucked could be great.

Vadim raised his hands a bit. "Roger, copy, I hear you." Watched the play of muscles, shifting. "But rules are different now." The rape was nothing like an unfortunate accident, he hadn't been that drunk. And it had started everything, so he couldn't even regret or apologise. Just roll with it. He couldn't even say he meant no harm - that was wrong, he was just as capable of wounding, maiming and raping than before. The curiosity and desire blunted that, but didn't take it away.

Dan nodded once. Could see and hear that his message had gone through loud and clear. He meant it, no doubt. He'd been saying and thinking 'I kill you, bastard', too often without pulling through, but that? This time? He'd do it. No doubt at all. No room for negotiation, and he'd get the motherfucker at some stage.

He shifted to sit on his hip, then pulled his knees up from under him, started to unlace his boots, one after the other. Boots, then socks, wiggled his toes once they were free. A habit he wasn't aware of. As much of a habit as hating the Russian. A blunted feeling, mere obligation, nothing compared to the searing-seething sensation, a few months ago in that cave. "And what are the rules?"

Vadim smirked. He hadn't actually thought he'd have to reiterate. "Rule one: what happens between us, remains between us." Barracks rule, the one soldiers followed. They could be like cats in a knife fight, the moment an officer showed up, they were all hugs and kisses. "You don't need that shit, and I sure as hell don't, either. Second: no killing. I don't mind cut or punch, though."

But if I have to die, I'd want you to do it. That thought sobered him, considerably, and he frowned. Fuck. They'd been there, and it was fucking scary, he'd been there and begged for the bullet. He broke eye contact. Fuck. I don't want to die. I can't die. "That's it. No other rules."

"No." Dan shook his head, "that won't do. First rule, OK. Second one? No. Out there, I'd kill you. It's my job." He shrugged, made it sound like a walk in the park. Yeah? Why, then, had he stalled a whole freezing night to execute a captive. Shooting cold blooded a bullet into a man's brain was different from killing in combat.

"That is … what I meant." The thought grew larger and larger in Vadim's head, until no other thought had any space to develop. They wouldn't always be so evenly matched. What if his unit was close, and the SAS guy alone? What if fate dealt them bad cards? Out there? He lowered his head, shook it, thought of the moment he'd realized it was that Brit whom he'd taken by garrotte. But by now, they did … this. Met. Got each other off. Fuck. He had started to forget the other was for all intents and purposes an enemy. Maybe because this whole place was an enemy. Everything being an enemy was a way of life now.

Dan huffed, "I have no illusion you won't do the same to me, given half the chance. Your job, too."

Vadim thought he should report him being here. The SAS had no business in Afghanistan. Fucking internal affairs of the Soviet Union. Brother nation helping brother nation. Fuck off.

Glancing up, Dan's gaze had darkened. "In here, who knows. You won't get me without a knife." Get me? Holy fuck.

Vadim looked up. Not sure of the exact meaning. He'd gotten him even in that moment when he had sucked his cock, and no knife involved.

Dan sat there with his camo trousers still on, but the belt unbuckled. "And now?"

"Now I'll pull down your trousers." Vadim opened the buttons, moved closer, almost in the other's lap, knew it was an invitation, and meant it. Took the trousers left and right and began to pull them down.

Dan lifted his arse, then moved his legs, passive-actively helping. "Trousers? Alright, I can do that. No need to kill you, just get."

Surprised himself at the brittle sense of humour that had crept in, had almost forgotten that that's who he used to be. Crazy Dan, always good for a laugh. A wry grin flew across his face and he stretched his legs once naked. Moved to lie on his back, head pillowed on his arms crossed behind his neck. Stared up at the ceiling. No hidden intention in the movement as he stretched his whole body down to his toes, spent cock nestled in darkness. Should be hairy as a goat by all that was right, but his body was a lot smoother than that face of his suggested.

Vadim sat up, regarding the definition, smooth flesh, powerful in all the right places, sixpack, shoulders stronger than the pecs. No weightlifter. Not a man who balanced his body carefully, adding some here, smoothing some there. Not nearly as obsessed as he was with his. And even stranger to see him grin, see a bit of what the man might be when not on a mission. He realized he was still holding the trousers, and put them to the side, made sure the other saw them and could reach them quickly. His own stuff strewn around the place. Just another sign of his clear and raging death wish. Stretched out a hand to touch the other's body, place it between his pecs, feel the breath flow, touch the strength.

Dan raised his brows, casual outward reaction, but inside there was something strange. Alert, confused. That hand was not supposed to sit there. It should be hitting or gripping, not simply lay on his skin. It made him feel uneasy.

Vadim noticed the glance and took the hand back, as casually as he could. Time to shift position, yeah, right. He leaned against the wall, legs up, arm on one knee, the arm with the bandage carefully balanced between knee and his right arm.

"OK." Dan suddenly blurted out, "I know I was shit at that." That wry grin again, once more fleeting. "At being a cocksucking fag."

"Not something you're born with, believe me." Vadim laughed softly. "Got me far enough to make me lose my cool."

"Not something I ever meant to do." Dan shook his head in an economic movement. "Cocksucker. Damn." Murmured, discarded the thought, turned his head and looked up. That laugh had smoothed the Russkie's face into something different. Normal. Shockingly human.

"An hour, you said? I'm not ready yet, can't get it up, not sixteen anymore." Talking without hitting was surprisingly easy, but Dan wasn't sure if he didn't prefer to punch. "Need a moment."

Vadim opened a hand in a generous gesture, checked the time on his watch. Simple, economic design. "Half an hour, then." Smirking, how amusing to bring an element of time pressure into this. He could use some rest as well. But few things he couldn't use. More food, more water, a shower. He rummaged through the other's bag and started eating another of the bars. Caramel toffee, said the label. Power Crunch. Fill up on some calories he'd lost and would find hard to replace when he came back to the barracks that late.

Dan pulled up one leg, foot planted on the blanket, knee bent. Wondered fleetingly if he shouldn't feel vulnerable that open and bared, but strangely didn't care. "I feel like a fucking idiot. Worse than a virgin bride, but guess I am." How easy it was to take the piss out of himself. Eyes flickered to the other's chest, burn wound, then back to the face.

Vadim smirked. Virgin bride. That man and white frilly lace dresses didn't go together. The thought was absurd. That man was still a man. He offered a nod. "Comes with training. Like all good things. You should know that."

Dan shrugged, as much as his position allowed. "Man enough to make me catch up with cocks after sixteen cunt-fucking years?"

Now, that question. Vadim stared at him, fucking irresistible, the offer straightforward, erotic, teasing. As much as a sledgehammer could tease. He snorted laughter. "I guess that would be my internationalist duty." Proletarians of the world unite. Something about that was impossibly funny, and his shoulders shook with laughter. Now, that would be a proper sexual revolution, not some long-haired effeminate khippie bunch of bourgeois children deciding they wanted the right to fuck whatever moved. As much as he agreed on principle.

"Funny, I'd pegged you to be someone to jump at the challenge." Dan smirked. "Looks I was right. You're predictable, Russkie." And so are you, Dan. So are you.

He dropped a hand, rolled onto his side to face the other, scratched his groin absentmindedly. "Been thinking. How the hell did you manage to fuck a woman? That is, unless you lied on that mountain and you haven't got a family after all. Seemed to me you're an uber-fag, not a reformed gay-basher like me."

Uber-fag. Strange, Vadim had never considered himself anything like that. It just wasn't an issue. The only time his wrists had been anywhere near limp was when he had broken them, and that was more the horse's fault than his. Vadim scraped the foil clean of the chocolate coating with his teeth, wasting nothing, especially not stuff he couldn't normally get.

How. How. The victory had been part of it, of course. Katya had won her silver that day, all the fencers partied long into the night, the Hungarian dragged Vadim along who didn't feel too comfortable among the fencers, pentathlon fencing was only epee, and only to the first hit, while real fencers played for up to fifteen hits. They called it 'assembly line fencing', every pentathlete had to fight any other, so it was all about one hit, next one, somehow cram all the disciplines in, when real fencers considered the match an art form, a test of everything, and not just the first clash. He always got the feeling they didn't take him seriously, those strange, very upright, very toned, very elegant people. Walked like kings, with those deadly lunges always a possibility, split seconds that decided everything, sudden bursts of energy, the sounds of the blades.

Katya had been glowing, attractive in a strange way, he had thought, a lioness coming home with the kill. He'd seen her precision, the uncanny way she fought unlike other women fought, aggressive, powerful, with a delivering speed that outmatched his own easily.

The Hungarian had waved away snide remarks about Vadim from her team members, and Vadim took that lesson. Next time a fencer told him he wasn't a real fencer, he'd challenge them to swim or ride, or shoot. He should have thought of that himself, but he had been intimidated by their aristocratic airs.

Champagne had been part of it, cocaine, which they rubbed into their gums, and things went from there. Both sets of hands on his body, he thought he remembered the Hungarian's head in his lap, her lips on his, she smelt good, healthy, strong, he lost his clothes somewhere, remembered he wasn't too sure what to do with her breasts, half a hand full, hardly worth mentioning, the powerful upper body, the shoulders fascinated him more, toned and sleek, hair barely reaching her neck, honey blonde and darker blonde beneath.

Thighs strong, she had just mounted him, she liked sex that way, liked to be in charge, and he kept thinking how different it was, different from getting sucked or fucked, she was strong, fierce, had a way to pause in mid-motion, and wait, grinning down at him, like he was only there for her, like she controlled him, and she did, then grind against him that made it good even though it shouldn't, even though he couldn't imagine how he'd gotten there and how they had lost the Hungarian, maybe she had told him to fuck off, no idea, and Vadim let her have control, saw her writhe and take her pleasure from him and he was relieved, thought he finally knew, finally understood, could maybe be normal and fit in, women weren't too bad, especially when they could do this kind of thing.

They had been trying hard to have an affair. She would kiss and pet him, and the journalists would wait for the silver medallist to come to where he was warming up, or getting ready, one famous shot where she was just handing him his fencing mask, her face serene, commanding, something like "go, get him, tiger" in the caption, and he, towering, taking the command, wearing the tight white dress. He had saluted her before the fight against the English captain, had known the man would beat his ass, but the audience loved the old fashioned thing about an attractive man doomed to fail and saluting his sweetheart just before riding out to battle. So to speak.

They had warmed up together, she built on his technique, forced him to fight the whole match, fifteen points, tickled as much fencer out of him as anybody could. Another shot: both of them on the piste, blades crossed, no masks, white dress, and a deep glance. Easily the most beautiful love match, and something romantic about the fact she taught him.

He had tried hard to love her, convinced himself it would be something he could acquire, if he could understand her body he would desire it. He did try, her on top, like that first night, he guessed she knew, knew because of the Hungarian, and the sex happened when she started it, but he found it increasingly difficult. Her body was just like her fencing style - something he understood, from a technical perspective, knew how it worked, but it didn't trigger anything.

He had liked the rest, the journalists, liked kissing her, liked to spend time with her and they laughed a lot, very often somebody pointed a camera their way to get another good shot for some magazine or newspaper, and they both liked the attention. But they should have been brother and sister. That would have made the sex impossible.

She had stopped pushing for it, understood maybe that he didn't really want it. Maybe the fact that he sometimes ended up in the Hungarian's bed had something to do with it.

Still enough to sire a child. He was pretty sure she had wanted a child anyway and had just been looking for a suitable father, selecting the best stallion she could find.

How ironic it was him, of all people.

"They'll expect us to marry", she had said, when he was just staring at her flat belly that held something small, something he had, somehow, caused, and had felt nothing but stunned amazement at what that meant. Father. When he hardly felt grown up at all. The body that only meant something to him when he was trying to touch it with an electric steel blade, tried to guess where she was going, assessed the posture.

He had looked up into her face, unsure whether it was an accusation. But it wasn't. He couldn't understand her, he had expected fear and revulsion, but she cherished what was there. It would be her and the child. He was only the father. And he did like to spend time with her, only just didn't want to have sex.

She had stood and walked over, placing her cool hands on his hot face. "I will protect you", she had said, as if he had offered marriage. No, she had. And she had made the decision for both of them. "I'll be the mask and the steel." Kissed his lips in that chaste kiss, he liked the kissing, liked holding her, and he placed an arm around her waist, pulled her close to rest his head against the place that held something he couldn't understand, but loved. If that meant giving up the sweat and the lust, that sounded like a fair deal.

Vadim blinked, and looked at the man next to him. A lot of success, that giving up. The army had brought it all out again. Just too many men, too much opportunity to bash somebody's face in and take what he needed.

Vadim opened his lips to say 'she fucked me', but while that was technically true, it wasn't. Much more complicated than that. "Have you ever loved without wanting?"

The question, unexpected, too deep and profound for Dan not to be shocking. His answer came out before he could think. "No. I have only ever wanted, never loved."

"Lucky bastard."

Dan fell silent, face closing up towards the other. Too close. Too real. The tension returned, and he fought the urge to tell him to fuck off and stop talking about bullshit that was of no consequence in the middle of a war. Love. Lust. Bollocks.

Vadim berated himself in silence. Oh he always did an excellent job calming this guy down to get into his pants. Too much fucking philosophy, now apply trigger finger to trigger and shoot, Vadim's instructor had said, making snide remarks about him, calling him names for it, told him to fucking rely on the brain stem, the frontal lobes only slowed everything down. Killing is not rocket science. And not existentialist thought. Even though there was something highly existentialist about killing. Or should that be Nietzsche? He had no clue. Real philosophy, the stuff that got printed, was too abstract for his mind.

"Been half an hour yet?" Dan wanted to change the subject.

Vadim checked the time. "Fifteen." Regarded the other man's body. Wanted to turn him around, push the legs under him and fuck his ass. Naked, just skin on skin, wanted to have the other push back against him, demanding more like a bitch, demanding it harder, deeper, he wanted to bite into his shoulders. Well, there we go, he thought. He was fine for round two.

He shifted position and stretched out near the other, within touching distance. Regarded his abdomen, the lines only men possessed, the lines from his hips straight to his cock. Nothing straight about it. Old joke. Reached to touch the other man's cock, eyes on his own hand, squeezing between palm and fingers.

"So that is it? Is that what being queer is about?" Dan's eyes remained level with the other's face, even though the Russkie had turned away from his gaze. "Just grab a cock and squeeze it? Not sure if I'll ever make a proper fag in that case. Seems a bit pathetic."

Death wish, Dan? While longing for the experience of two men in the sickly yellow of a street light, in a seedy part of London.

Vadim shot him a dark glance. "Just checking whether gun is loaded." Oh, he liked his answer. Proper fag. Proper, improper. Uber-fag. Riled him, to get what exactly? Make him feel like somebody who delivered a service. So much for head, asshole, that means it's tails.

He wanted the man's ass, definitely, but being on top that body had to do. For the moment. Shit. Had the feeling the other was less sneering when needy, and he came closer, brought cock to cock, took both into his hand. He was hardening fast, bodies this close, hooked a leg around the other's legs and pulled him closer to make things easier.

Dan forgot the sneer, the mockery, and most of all the sense of inadequacy. The feeling of that cock against his own made him forget everything else. He barely caught the sound that came out of his throat. Sounded suspiciously like a needy whimper. God, how he fucking wanted that cock.

"That …," Dan realised he had gasped, "is more like it." It might have been fifteen minutes, but holy shit, it seemed that cock was all it took. The mind-blowing sensation of absolute equality. Couldn't believe that was all it took to make him want to taste that bastard again.

"Like touching yourself", Vadim murmured. "Only better."

He looked down at his hand, seeing both cocks close together, pressed and squeezed, his hand went through the motions like he was jerking off, with some added circumference. The other's cock was a good size, heavy, straight, uncut, thick enough, not a monster, but who wanted that. Roughly his size, maybe a little thicker. He'd rather die than compliment him on his 'gun'.

Just get him off, Vadim thought, so he comes back, train him to be that, a fag, as he called it. Breathing going a little deeper, a little faster, strokes slower and stronger, giving the other something for his money.

Who was the whore now? Good question, but Dan never asked himself nor bothered with an answer. The sensation of cock on cock made him grind and push into the hand and towards the body. Same strength, bodies, muscles, weight, sharp angular planes and smooth skin over hard flesh. His hand dug into the Russian's flank, forcing himself against the other. Felt like a bitch in heat.

Vadim half-closed his eyes, found it impossible to close them with the other this near, knew too much about unarmed combat to ever forget the Brit was more than a handful of violence. He grinned, felt the keen interest, the way the other breathed and pushed, tried to find a rhythm with him, force his own pleasure. Anything but a passive victim.

That's it, boy, fuck yourself against me.

Vadim allowed his breath to grow harsher, normally careful not to make a sound, focused on breathing when he did this, make sure nobody heard a thing. The feeling unlike any other, not enough friction to come, hardly ever, he did this if he was being nice, and usually as a prelude to something more substantial, more satisfying. Not that it wasn't nice, but not enough. Not what he wanted. Gradually shifting his hips, steered the other while matching the thrusts with his hand, above all, strong strokes, but he needed more friction, more resistance, and shifted his weight on top, their cocks trapped between muscled bodies.

Dan hit his head on the floor when, the other's substantial weight suddenly shifted on top his body. He'd never been beneath another man except for combat - violence of a better known kind. He groaned, lost his capacity for words, eyes wide open, was blind to anything but the sweaty skin so close.

For Vadim it was the strength, the taste of strength, the resistance of a body that remained dangerous even now. Nothing that broke underneath, just echoed his thrusts, the grinding of his body against the smooth hard stomach, feeling muscles tense and tighten, the skin slick with sweat. Almost the only way to use his strength without hurting, wounding, breaking.

Dan pushed upwards, against the body, more friction, more feeling, more heat, and more weight. Wouldn't dream of pushing that muscled bulk off himself, forgot about death and killing while trapped underneath. Forgot about anything at all, but this bastard's body. Didn't give a shit about fag and soldier, enemy and poof. Lifted his head, dug his teeth once more into the muscles between neck and shoulder, grunting, gasping, desperate to come while hands dug into the other's flesh.

Vadim thrust hard against the other, breath going hard and fast, the bite made him groan, but he kept his head down, within reach of the teeth. Fuck, the man biting him was good, the way he didn't care whether it left marks or whether it hurt. It was sex, stripped of any concern, any fear for the other, just the friction of two bodies.

Shamelessly grinding and groaning beneath the Russian, Dan let go of the flesh between his teeth and bit back a cry when the end of it all came too soon, yet never soon enough. Convulsing against the body that was manipulating his own, and he lost himself in the orgasm.

Vadim felt the wetness between their bodies, saw the other's face, the way he wanted to call out, but remained silent, face alight with an animal's feelings. Nothing ashamed, nothing guilty. He pondered just for a moment, no more than a heartbeat, to turn the Brit around, helpless as he was now, and fuck him anyway, and grinned at that thought, and then felt he was too close himself, and pushed harder, the thought of that ass, that man wanting him went through him and he came, hands on the other's shoulders, upper arms, fingers digging into his skin. Wanted to stay, like this, waiting till he could breathe again. Masked this with licking some sweat off the other's chest, smelled the fresh sweat that would dry too soon.

Dan's heart was hammering, faster this second time, took longer to calm. "So," Dan struggled for breath, eyes half open, staring into the dusk, "that's more like being a fag." He lay still for half a second, before pushing the Russian off, rolling over. Couldn't allow himself to lose himself in this madness. "I got to go."

Vadim felt heavy and tired, but couldn't just lie down when the other got up. Found the rag he wore as a scarf, wiped himself down with it, felt thirsty and dazed.

Dan rummaged in his bergan, found a suitable rag to wipe himself down as well. Felt sticky and sweaty, but strangely not soiled. Decided to worry about the distinct lack of guilt or shock about the way he had been humped by another man's body and gotten off on it. Was going to dwell on that miserable attempt at cock sucking later. Cock. Damn. He'd be a fool if he thought he'd stop thinking about that cock anytime soon.

Vadim was watching the other put himself back in order, chewed on the words. "I need to see you again." Expected mockery, something about the fag stuff that the other threw at him all the time.

Why, Vadim?

Because he wanted that body again, wanted to feel that rage, that desire, but most of all that body. Nothing he could get from a comrade.

Dan's hands stopped in mid-motion. Again. Need. The offer to fall back into this insanity again. Cock. Man. Flesh and blood and muscles and heat.

"I can be at that tea house", Vadim murmured.

Dan nodded. "In seven days." He'd be wanking himself into blindness before then. "Leave a message there if you can't make it and vice versa."

Vadim exhaled, hardly realized he'd held his breath like that. This was going well. He nodded. "Seven days." He watched the other, didn't feel smug, just relaxed and pleased, most of all with the fact the Brit wasn't attacking him and there was no need to attack him. Not at the moment, the tension gone. It would grow back out on the streets, but this place wasn't part of that any more. He stepped up to the door, pulled his knife free and slid it into the holster at the back of his trousers.

Dan sat down on the floor to pull the socks back onto his feet, looking for his boots. "I'll have another place by then."

Of course. It was easier for the Brit to organize a safe house. Made perfect sense. Plenty of work up to then, he could keep himself busy. Vadim wondered what that guy would write into his report. 'Bribe', probably. Random bribes to get round in Kabul. They might not even mind if that guy paid the occasional hooker. They went for around 100 Afghani, not a massive amount of money. Vadim took another of those protein bars and began to chew, eyes on the other man. He could get used to this.

Dan was watching the Russian from the corner of his eyes, would never leave the man out of his vision, wouldn't ever trust the bastard. Tying his boots, he stood back up, throwing the shirt over his hand and grabbing the jacket, the rag loosely wound around his neck. He watched the other for a moment before reaching into his bergan and pulling out a handful of those bars. "Here." He dropped them onto the blankets. "Looks like you need them more than I do. Good mother, your Russia, she takes care of her children, eh?"

The comment sharp enough in Vadim's ears to be mocking, but not serious nastiness. Nothing about getting paid for his services. A gesture that was kind without embarrassing either of them, and felt almost natural after the man had fed and washed him, up in the mountains. Few things that could embarrass them at this stage, after the things they'd done.

Dan shrugged, looking around the room to get hold of everything that was his, and closed the pack. He walked to the door, unlocked it and took the padlock out. He'd never return to this place, not now that the enemy soldier knew about it. "In seven days." He left the place without another glance.

Vadim heard the door shut, then looked at the scattered bars. "You have no idea", he murmured in Russian, into the empty room. No way he'd ever admit how the conscripts were blowing all their pay on merely buying food and how even that kept them just this side of starvation. Food shortage, and the same food over and over if there was actually enough. He had privileges as an officer, but athletics grade protein was nothing he could get his hands on even with the rank. Let alone the other things he craved.

* * *

Seven days later, in the waning heat of a late afternoon, Dan was sitting in the tea house, sipping a tea so strong and sweet, if it had any more sugar it would have crystallised. Sitting cross-legged on one of the carpets, a plate of baklava in front of him, working his way systematically through honey sweetened pistachio, rosewater and marzipan pastries. He had been sitting in the shade for over an hour, seemingly relaxing while secretly tense. Had chosen a space opposite to the entrance with the wall in his back. Old habits died hard and in this place, and while waiting for an enemy, those habits would keep him alive.

The tea house owner came to refill his glass, and Dan observed the dark brown liquid being poured into the small, gaudily painted glass. Accepted another handful of heavenly baklava, his fingers sticky from the honey when he paid from a wad of notes. Never leaving the entrance unwatched, not even for a second.

Reaching for a pastry, the heat in the pit of his stomach was growing more intense as time passed. Would the bastard be insane enough to come? He should kill the Russian. Get it done and over with. Licking his fingers, his gaze was drawn to the plants once more that grew around the shadowed entrance.

* * *

For Vadim it had just gone from bad to worse, life alternating between frantic activity and complete boredom, he never really knew what awaited him, an exercise, a friendly encounter with Afghan officers, none of which were worth the space they occupied, or time to kill, lots and lots of time to kill. He amused himself a little with Gavriil, but that amusement was more like a body function, eat, drink, shit, come. Wrote the occasional letter home, received things in return, a book, a report on the children.

He found it hard to read about them in this place, felt vulnerable when Anoushka's horrid handwriting wormed its way into his eyes. Officer, Spetsnaz, and father. Hard to tell which of these words made the whole thing a joke. Every time he had settled on one, it began to shift in his mind. Some officers had photos of their families on their desks, and the rabble showed off girlfriends, but most often sisters, so fucking young many had never had a girlfriend, as he could tell from their stories of unlikely anatomical details.

He traded shifts for vodka, shrugged when the other officer said something about an 'Afghan sweetheart', yeah, very likely, that, and went to the tea house. Forcing himself to check for other soldiers, anybody following him, had a good walk around that part of Kabul before he went anywhere close to the tea house, then stepped into the gloom, and through it, into the garden area.

Spotted the man spotting him, looked at him for a long moment, then went towards him, in a semi-circle, almost. Most of all he was bored, and irritated, useless in this place. Might have to do with the fact his right wrist hurt after an exercise where he damn near tore his arm off, but while the shoulder and arm muscles supported his weight, his wrist disliked it more, as if they had both been weakened from that fall, years ago. Or it was a mental thing, as the doctor had said, who couldn't see any damage on the x-ray. He was supposed to be careful. He had taken the firm bandage off - it only supported the wrist a little, but he'd be damned if he showed the other any signs of discomfort. He'd heard the occasional question whether he had hurt himself jerking off, and he was not inclined to invite any more of those.

"Good afternoon." Vadim paused, wondering why he allowed the other to make the decision whether to drink tea and eat and then leave, or leave right now, then thought, whatever, he doubted the other was interested in conversation.

Dan checked his watch, good sturdy built and a squaddie's favourite, got up, wiped his hand on his camo trousers, nodded. "I got an hour." Turned, left the plate of sticky sweets discarded, moved towards the side exit that led into an alley, away from the market.

Vadim followed. No conversation. Okay. He walked as casually as possible, like it was perfectly natural for him to be there, lead here by what could be anything. Reporter, spy. Either of the two, and both would be bad if the KGB caught wind of it.

Dan walked through several streets and turned a couple of corners without ever looking behind. Reaching another of those small houses that were barely more than a hut and a room. He was careful this time, had been attacked before, but now the knife was lying comfortably in his palm as he undid the lock. Pushing the door wide open he did not step inside. Waited for the Russkie, even though he didn't expect the bastard to be so careless to bare his back. "I remember the promise," reassured the other they weren't here for killing, but fuck, he would, if he had to, "no attack."

My Afghan sweetheart. Vadim smirked, looked at the man, his hand near the knife as he passed him, turning his head to look at the other in passing, close enough to smell him. Good smell. Then stepped inside, exposing his back only for a heartbeat before he brought it against the wall inside, like securing the entrance.

Dan smirked at the Russian's wariness, good to know it was matching his own. Secured the lock and bolted the door, he turned to face the other. No nonsense, not this time. He shrugged out of the jacket, unwrapped the rag, dropped both onto a pile on the dusty floor. Unceremonious and uncaring, but a movement of his hand gave proof to just how cautious he was. The knife, blade flashing in the gloomy light of the deserted room, stashed securely into yet another pocket.

He stepped closer, pulled the shirt over his head, blinded only for a minuscule moment, threw it onto the existing pile. "As I said, cunt, I've only got an hour." Suddenly lashed out and pinned the Russian's shoulder to the wall, the other hand pulling the neck of the uniform tunic open. Connecting teeth and lips with the burn mark on the Russian's neck.

Vadim was surprised, then the guy's lips, and shit, this was good, good already. "Hour is plenty." He moved his head out of the way, the scar was sickening, the reason he was careful about undressing, just didn't want to expose himself like that. Thought about the knife, lazily, but those … sucking biting kisses went right into his body. He took the other's hand and brought it to his groin, press it against his cock. "I brought you something."

"Good." Dan's voice husky, ragged breath against sweat-damp skin. His hand didn't just grope and squeeze, familiarising itself with that cock, it wanted more since he'd found what he wanted. He fumbled with the buttons of the Russkie's trousers, didn't bother with the belt this time, freed the cock while his own was being handled, all the while biting-sucking the muscled flesh. He was getting addicted to that neck.

Vadim bit back a groan, hot, sweaty hands, strong, rough, his own hands starting to stroke the other, the enemy, torturer, foreigner, equal, the stuff in his neck making him dizzy, worse than the heat. Leaned his head against the wall, smelled the other's hair, sweat, heat, hands moving on their own, tensing lightly when the Brit squeezed, an echo almost of the other's motions, mind blank, tuning in to the moment, the desire, raw and pure.

Dan's strokes matching the other's. Like his lust, fierceness, the anger that fuelled more lust in return. Believed in the intensity of hatred, transmitted through his teeth and lips, assaulting skin and flesh, tasting sweat and musk. Would be easy prey for a hunter right now, nothing in his mind but the need and greed to feel a man's flesh and taste a man's lust. This man's. Dan couldn't get enough of the body he was crushed against, the strength that matched his own, and most of all that cock. Would always want more, and always took it.

The way the other handled Vadim bordered on pain, too much force with just sweat between the rough skin and his cock. When the border to pain was crossed, he could feel something break, something give, and a moment of fear, of being without defences, and fuck, pain should not do this, but Vadim came, clenching his teeth even though he wanted to breathe, gulp air, couldn't get enough air into his lungs, reached out with his other hand, squeezed the other's balls, rolling them and jerking him off, fucking wrist hurt, but he had to distract the fucker, and made him come.

He was leaning against the wall, breathing hard, feeling sweat run down his neck, which was raw from the bites, pain now became heat and glowing, and there was the lingering fear. He wanted to drink, but couldn't move. Just waited for the other, waited for him to recharge. The Brit was getting more and more … assertive. Bossy, even. He wasn't quite sure whether this was really what he had wanted. Bullshit.

* * *

The second time was just like the others. Hands, again, borderline pain, as if the other tried to punish him for the whole thing, and the fear was back, the fear from the mountains, the things he remembered from the mountains. Something blocked clear thought, somehow he couldn't hate him for it, instead desired him more.

You sick motherfucker. The next times they met, always at the tea house, always a different place to get off, biting and grinding, hands, rubbing, pushing, sweat, this began to feel as natural as cleaning his rifle, and in a way it was, but Vadim noticed the other did handle him with more confidence, with fierceness that was nothing like the man who'd asked him to be taught about cocks. About being a fag.

Vadim could feel control slipping, every time a little more. The other biting harder, demanding, sometimes mocking. He could see the other would just seize and take control, and he couldn't let that happen. Needed to get the upper hand again, needed to push him, unbalance him.

Cleaning up after one of their encounters.

"I'm off to exercise for rest of month. Can make second week of next month. Same day." That would give him a week to heal up after the 'exercise', which was mostly more of the usual stuff. Vadim didn't want to meet this guy in anything but a good shape, not how things were going. Plenty of reason not to. "Ah, by the way, next time should be more interesting. I think I know your fingers now by name." He glanced up, grinning, ready to block an attack. "Keep me interested, suka."

"If you're getting bored, find yourself someone else, cunt." Dan sneered, buttoning his trousers, "I'm sure one of your conscripts will gladly take it up the shitter."

Unsure what 'suka' meant. 'Bitch', he reckoned, bloody Russian, once a cunt, always a cunt. Dan was more pissed off than he showed. Bravado in the face of an enemy.

Vadim laughed. "You don't think I have couple of those?" Bored of Gavriil. Usually only allowed him to suck him off when he was too lazy to jerk off, to relieve the tension and boredom, if only for a few minutes.

"Do me a favour and get yourself killed during the exercise." Dan snarled, grabbed his dusty shirt, threw it over the t-shirt. Weapons hidden in their usual places, ready to leave. "Saves me the trouble." He was out of the latest run-down room before he would cave the bastard's face in.

'More interesting', fucking arsewipe.

* * *

Cunt or not, one month later, Dan was back, blending into the background of the teahouse. Dark hair and eyes, deeply tanned skin. Sitting and sipping, eyes half-closed. The owner was becoming an acquaintance. Useful, bribed, never knowing enough to cause trouble. Mutual agreement of 'hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil' and a handful of Afghan notes. They understood each other, transactions without words.

That day, Dan was smoking something sweeter than his usual fags; the hashish pure, his mind the opposite. Nerves on edge. Suka. Fuck you, Russkie.

Vadim did come on time, mind and strength drained. He was exhausted, night marches, alarms, pure sadistic pleasure to drill them till they dropped, and restrict water and provisions, and when the body was weakened, weaken the mind, too. Sleep deprivation. He wanted to rest up, but he'd miss the appointment, and he was too fucking curious whether the other would show up or had managed to wean himself off the dangerous little game. He grinned as he saw him, and the grin widened as he smelled what the other was smoking. Another easy game. He'd be in control. He sat down, and ordered tea, snatching two bites off the platter that stood before the Brit. Pistachios, honey, sugar. He chewed, stuffed another between his lips, quite good-natured at the moment, masking the tiredness. "Good stuff, eh?"

Dan's eyes opened a fraction more, the pot was good, but he'd deliberately chosen a small amount. He smirked, took another drag, kept the smoke deep in his lungs before allowing it to escape. "You look like shit, Russkie." Offering the joint to the other. "Shame they didn't finish the job."

Vadim glanced at the joint. Thousands of warnings from coaches and trainers and nutritionists, keep tight control over what to put in his body. He had experimented, of course, but never smoked. Cocaine, pills, yes. He shook his head, instead grabbed another handful of the sweets. The other was exactly as he remembered, every line, every hair. Had wanted him more than sleep, craved to get that ass again, that strength. "Tree planting can be hard work. Reforestation."

Trees. Sure, arsehole. Dan smirked, peered into the sun, missed his shades, would draw too much attention in this place. He threw the joint onto the ground, extinguished it with the heel of his boot. "Come."

Dan stood up, left a handful of coins and notes, and walked out of the teahouse. They both knew why they met, no point to waste time. He was making his way to another part of Kabul. With the same set-up and a similar house.

Vadim checked for eyes and ears that took too much interest, but no such thing, it had been a quiet month in Kabul, as far as he was aware. Adjusted himself as he walked, shit, a month, and he wanted the other, remembered too much, remembered that neck, and the way the other bit and sucked his own neck. Always good for a quick relief of pressure, but it was much worse when the other was actually there, there to touch and grind into.

He entered the house, thought he'd be happy with a handjob, it was newer now that the other had been away for a while.

Dan did the usual, the month hadn't changed the ritual of waiting for the Russian to step inside, then lock and bolt the door, getting acquainted to the dim light. The shutters always closed.

"There are energy bars over there." Dan pointed behind him into a corner with his bergan and a rolled-out sleeping bag. "Figured you'd need it." He smirked, the nasty grin unseen by the other. Waiting for the Russian to turn his back, he counted on the other's greed to get some of the sickly sweet protein stuff down his neck.

Fiddling with the lock a bit longer than usual, Dan glanced behind him, bent down the moment the Russkie turned, came back up with unexpected speed, sneered as the hefty club that he had stored in the corner came crashing down on the other's temple. "That interesting enough for you, bastard?"

He watched the body crash to the dried-mud floor, smirking. "Time for another fag lesson, I think." He had to be quick, rushed to his bergan, pulled out ropes and dragged the unconscious body towards the centre of the room. He'd chosen the building specifically for its low beam and the pillars that stood closely together. Sturdy wood, just right for a Russian cunt.

Opened the Russkie's uniform tunic, beret already on the floor, pulled the shirt underneath over the other's head. Bared the chest, then bound the hands together at the wrists, in the front.

Threw the rope over the beam and pulled, grunting, the weight was considerable. Managed to get the unconscious body upright, hanging off his bound wrists. Secured the rope, hurried to open the polished belt buckle, smirked as his fingers ran over the Soviet star. Dan pulled the trousers and briefs down, as far as they would go. He needed access for what he wanted.

The Russkie was starting to come round, Dan raced against time, knew he'd have a boot smashing his face if he wasn't fast enough and didn't secure each ankle on one of the beams, managed to finish his task before the other regained consciousness.

He stood up and stepped back, pulling his favourite hunting knife out of its sheath and fingered his shirt for the packet of Russian coffin nails. Lighting a cigarette he stood and grinned, watching, a mere arm's length away, blowing smoke into the other's face while playing with the blade. "Interesting enough, cunt?"

Vadim's temple was one throbbing mess. Eyes opened, couldn't focus, rolled this way and that, but he smelled something. Fire. Pain. He came the rest of the way with a start, heart suddenly beating so hard it made him nauseous, dizzy. Breathing fast, his body kick started from out to overdrive, understood his situation with the clarity of a scalpel cut.

The Brit would kill him. This way, he could fuck him, easy, and then cut him open. Cut off his cock, stuff it into his throat, then cut his jugular. Breath going even faster. The pain in his head forgotten. Now felt the burn on his wrists, his weight, body shifted to stand upright, not leaning forward. Smoke. The scar right under his throat.

Vadim felt the sweat, the way it cooled him, the way it made his skin shine. Nameless dread, fear, the whole thing came back, the mountains, the torture. The other would start again where he'd stopped. Had broken the rules. Of course the Brit would not follow the rules. He'd been insane to believe for a moment he had the other in a place where he'd be safe, safe to handle. Couldn't bring his legs together, not protect, not stand secure, no leverage, no freedom. He didn't want to show the fear. Didn't. Couldn't. Tried to summon rage, tried to keep one in control with the other, siccing the other animal on the thing that was his fear. Saw the knife, stomach tensed, he had no defence, nothing, against that blade. That very same blade that had almost …

Don't think about that.

Don't.

Vadim tried to breathe, tried to control his face, keep the mask up, that stoic façade, but the other wouldn't believe him. They knew each other too well now, he could fool a stranger, but not that man. He coiled his strength in his body, relaxed to gather strength, then threw himself against the restraints with everything he had, fighting, hoping that the pain and stress would get the fear under control.

Fought for his life, fought against the fear, mindless, bruising his skin, maybe tearing it at the wrists, boots protected the ankles. He didn't believe any of this would give, least of all the other man. Struggled, because he had to, it was the only way to deal with the fear, sweating, breathing hard, and managed to do what he needed. Anger. Pain.

Dan's eyes widened, surprised, hadn't expected quite that reaction, just rolled with it. That fucker was a force of nature - or natural disaster, rather. Took a step back, watched, fag in the corner of his mouth, cleaned his nails with the knife. Smirked.

"I'll kill you. I swear I will kill you." Vadim was staring into the dark eyes. Pain brushed over everything, the lust they'd shared, their dirty little secret habit, the fact he had never managed to take revenge, the fact he had offered, and offered again. Gone now. Enemies again. It was a fucking relief.

"Hold the horses, Russkie," Dan took a drag, smoke curling out of his nostrils and from between his lips, "you don't do anything by halves." His smirk grew, head slightly tilted, studying the sweat gleaming body that fought for its life. Fuck, that was good. His head was spinning with an overwhelming sense of power, and not from the dope.

Dan stepped closer, close enough until their chests almost touched, but his head out of head butting harm's way. "You wanted it more interesting." Spoke through the fag, still between his lips, smoke curling between their faces, "is that interesting enough for you?"

Interesting? What the fuck …? Vadim didn't have anything to attack him with, teeth, maybe, if the bastard would get that close. Tear his face off with his teeth, his ears, the human face was nothing but a collection of targets, ridiculously placed on the outside of protective bone. His face sneered with disgust at the smoke, he hated that smell, hated the bite in his lungs, worse than dust, because dust did not create round obvious scars right under his throat.

Dan's free hand grabbed the other's unprotected balls, squeezing hard.

The Brit would cut them off. He would. Would get him up and cut it off. Vadim would have jumped out of his skin if that had been possible. His skin crawled.

If I cut your throat, would you come?

He was fighting for breath, the squeeze, his fucking body thought this was a game, or it was the fear, fear could do this, could mimic arousal. The knife. His eyes fixed on the knife. Nothing in the world but the knife.

"Seems that it is interesting enough." Dan's smirk grew to nasty proportions, moving his hand from the balls to the cock that was starting to show signs of arousal. He spit the fag to the ground, continued to stare, bared his teeth in a feral grin before lowering his head, licked across the jaw, down the throat, towards the round scar at the hollow. Tasting sweat, fear, anger and heat. Dan sucked the flesh, a groan escaping. Too fucking good. Knife blade warming against the other's damp chest, lying still, for now.

Vadim shuddered, hard, felt the tongue like fire, like ice, like ant poison, the knife too close, he could feel the flat of the blade, a flicker of the wrist, and it would sever skin. Another flicker, muscle. Bastard. Fucking bastard, break him first, make him enjoy getting killed. You fucker. He remembered in the mountain, remembered he'd been able to fluster the other, crawl into his mind, touch him in ways that unsettled. Nothing like that now. The other knew about himself, and was completely rational, and that brought the fear back. That was the original torture, the part with the rag, not allowing him to breathe, making him retch and vomit.

"Remember I asked for lessons on how to be a fag?" Dan murmured against the skin, before teeth and lips once more attacked the scar - his mark. "Time to continue, I think."

Move on to shitstabbing. Then killing. Vadim shook his head. "Taught you … well … already." The cynicism didn't carry, his voice lacked inflection. "Just … make no mistake, and make sure I bleed out. Like you did Vanya."

Dan laughed with an ugly sound. Came up, face to face, less than an inch apart. "And fucking you, like you raped me?" Lips curling into a grin, it never touched his eyes. Heady with power, awakening lust. He knew what he wanted, but had to bind the other to allow himself to get it. Fucked-up logic.

Vadim stared at him, not gracing that with an answer. The truth. Nothing but the naked, cruel truth. It was only fair. They'd be even.

"You'll bleed," Dan whispered, "don't worry, you'll bleed to the last drop."

Vadim closed his eyes, impossible to stare at him now, impossible to have it confirmed. He'd die tonight. He'd die with sore feet, brain sore with lack of sleep, with the taste of the mountains on his lips. Fought hard to control his breath, fear clenching his lungs. Staring again as the other shifted.

Blood. Cum. Life's essence. Dan tilted his head, looked up, while going down to his knees. The knife went with him, but didn't touch. He said nothing, just burrowed his face into the other's crotch, inhaled deeply. Shit, he shouldn't get so fucking high on this scent of musk, man, fresh sweat and dusty heat. "Now, how does this work …"

Vadim couldn't breathe, nearly forgot how to do it. Shit. Shit. Worse than the torture before death. More humiliating. What was the fucking plan? He couldn't think clearly.

Dan's tongue trailing along flesh, hand aiding, both moving together. Tasting, licking, rough and demanding. He'd been shit at it the last time, he'd get this time what he wanted.

Vadim's legs straightened, he got on his toes, shoulders taking some of his weight, as if to get away from Dan, but his cock was hard, damn him, troublemaker, body just flesh that reacted, despite the fear. Because of the fear. Stared down at the other, who focused on his cock. Shit. No way to force him, no way to slap him away, but the sensations still good, even now, even bound and scheduled to fucking die. Clenching his teeth, trying to stay unmoved, or at least silent, gather himself, stay himself, stay in control as much as possible.

Dan pulled back, looked at the cock before him, savoured every moment. "So that's what it's like to be a fag …" Knife in his right hand, cock in his left. Blade or balls - the sharp edge won. Knife slowly moving up the leg, towards the groin. Had been there before, but in a less powerful position. Dan's head moved back down, this time sucking, imitating what the other had done and countless big-breasted bimbos before him. Lips firmly around even firmer flesh, but no friction as intense as the sensation of the steel against sensitive skin. Death and lust.

Vadim gave a surprised, agonized sound, bit it down, the fear of the blade made his cock jump, and the sensation of the heat and wetness freaked him, shouldn't happen, couldn't happen, fuck, this was sick, wrong, wanted his hands free, needed his hands free, tensed every muscle to keep control, to make sure the knife wouldn't slip, and then, the lips around his cock, what a sight, what a fucking sight, the bastard relished it, got a feeling for the control, the power that brought, there was no way how he himself could be more powerless, knife, tied up, cock between another guy's lips, teeth close, always possible.

Vadim pressed his eyes shut, but that was even worse, left only feeling, while his cock strained, growing harder, or that was what it felt like. Would the other make him come and at the same time open the femoral? A shudder gripped his body and didn't let it go again.

Dan had time, even confidence. Didn't matter that he wasn't sure how to suck that cock. The Russian was in his power, experimenting with sucking and friction, all the while the blade pressing against the balls, forever present. Running his tongue along the underside; lavishing time and attention on the uncut head, getting hard himself from the sensation of taste and smooth-ridged hardness. This time sucking down as much as he wanted, completely in control, no danger of choking. The bastard was his, and he took his time. Admired veins, licked pre-cum, experimented as if he owned that cock. His cunt. His enemy.

Vadim managed to breathe, to remain silent, just like with Gavriil, or Vanya. Couldn't show more weakness than tension, and fast breathing. Couldn't moan, or groan, couldn't, above all, move, the sensations tantalising, arousing despite the intention and what they meant, firmness, heat, tongue, lips.

Vadim let his head fall back, concentrated on staying completely silent, could feel the other fumble around, try things, take him deep or focus on the tip, less concentrated on any kind of rhythm, any kind of getting him off. He felt a sickening lurch when the other tried teeth, tensed so hard he almost lifted himself off the ground, just the scraping of teeth. He would come if the other cut him. His body wouldn't be able to tell the difference, it had blurred long enough. Release, climax. He shook his head. Don't think about it. Don't remember Vanya's cut throat, the way his windpipe had looked, the cartilage of the voice box visible in the gaping cut.

He turned his head to the side to bite into his shoulder muscle, desire turning to anguish, and raging through his body. The fear was part of it, added edge, and that made him bleed just as any knife. He couldn't beg, they'd been through this already, appealing to any kind of soldier's integrity wouldn't do it this time. He had nothing to offer. The other had him under control, every response of his body, and he couldn't end this, couldn't speed it up, and he didn't want it to end, because then he'd die. If anything, that made it better.

And that caused a darker kind of fear, a fear of himself.

Dan didn't notice any of his victim's fear; sex-partner, tool and toy. Continued to take his time, exploring that one, central part of the other's body. Fixated and focussed, on smell and taste and sensations, until he started to realise which reaction were caused by what and how he could get the Russian to groan or inhale sharply or hiss in a certain way. Felt the cock twitch when he squeezed the balls in just that certain way and pressed his fingers against the dam close to the anus. Began to get addicted to the sounds the other tried to repress and the tensing and sweating when he sucked down as far as he could and added just that extra amount of pressure.

Dan did it again, pushing down, almost gagging, but this time in control. Harder, faster, the blade almost forgotten, steel resting against delicate flesh. Fierce; violating himself while using the other. Learning and teaching himself to suck cock and abso-fucking-lutely loving every second of the increasingly brutal pace.

Vadim felt the tension built, could feel the other was driving to make him cum now, and the pressure was getting bad, between his legs, his body burning and melting and beginning to get there, friction, heat, and he bit harder into the muscle of his arm, tried to take some control back with the pain. He was getting closer, closer to death. Hips moved forward, but could only go that far, no real strength, no force, more begging than thrusting, every muscle starting to tense, to knot up, thighs, stomach, ass, he could feel his guts tighten, and fought climax like he had never fought anything in his life. Don't. Don't. He was dripping sweat now, could hardly breathe, knew he needed to breathe, relax but couldn't. Wouldn't warn, couldn't.

Speak. Think. Breathe. Couldn't beg. The fear was just as bad as the need now, a sharp-clawed monster digging for his heart, relentless, eating him. Stop, he thought. Please fucking stop.

He didn't want to die for this. Then the other just pushed him over the edge, pressure mounted and crashed, intense like lightning, he came so hard he thought he'd collapse, legs going weak, his shoulders taking the weight as he came, shuddering, a toneless sound choked in his throat.

Dan's throat was suddenly assaulted again, but different this time, voluntary, not held, not forced, and it was he whose fingers were curled around the long-forgotten knife. Dan's throat was filled with cum, the taste he had found and wanted, and wanted again. Blade scraping along the thigh while Dan's hand started slipping, holding onto hips and cock, swallowing, keeping the friction up, sucking the other dry.

Shit. He was a goddamned fucking fag and he loved it.

Cock still between his lips, tongue lapping-licking, knife somewhere half-mast along the Russian's thigh.

Vadim shuddered, tensing again, his body so grateful, enjoying it so much despite his brain that was just panic now, anticipation of death, just couldn't think anything but that, death, blood, weakness, darkness, cold. Rotting bodies. The sensations were good, fucked up good, the eagerness that was nothing but to take revenge, to show him just how weak he was, just a prelude to death. It didn't make sense the other kept going, but he was beyond arguing, beyond logic and reason.

His teeth released the muscle - no, it wouldn't hurt tomorrow, because there was no tomorrow, and he rested his forehead against the arm, feeling his own body shiver and shudder. No strength in his legs, no strength left in his body.

He wanted to beg for his life, felt the fear, the cowardice. Wanted to do anything if that meant he would live. But the other wasn't finished with him. Would he fuck him with that knife this time? Like he had almost done … "Nyet", he breathed, and suppressed the sound at once.

Sounds from above filtered into Dan's thoughts. Heard the word, made no sense, didn't matter. Let go of the cock, reluctantly, wanted to keep it where it was, if cock-sucking-tasting-swallowing was what being a fag was all about, he wanted nothing but to be a fucking fag, and with ten-star rating.

He looked up, licked his lips, remembered the knife, moved backwards. Still on his knees, Dan dropped the blade, reached for the pistol in its holster in the small of his back. Had prepared for everything - or so he thought. Didn't have a clue what the fuck was going on in the other, couldn't risk being torn apart by an irate Russian cunt once he'd untied him.

Vadim could feel the other leaving, felt sweat beads trickling down his sides, down over his flanks, run down into the camo trousers, which were down to his knees. Waited for a shot, a sharp impact, then nothing. Expected the other to go behind him and put that knife into his body. Seconds passed, and he was still alive, and he thought suddenly, maybe the other wanted to look into his eyes when he killed him. Maybe that. He didn't raise his head, it was too heavy, neck muscles not supporting the weight.

Dan drew the pistol, scuttled backwards, crouched on the mud-pounded floor. The knife beside him, forgotten and discarded. "If I cut the ropes now, do you attack me?"

Why would he do that - cut the ropes? "Do what you want", Vadim murmured in English. "Nothing I can do about it." Don't fight. It will hurt worse when you fight. Nothing you can do right now. Just don't allow him to gloat. A shudder running through his body. Proof in point, his cock was going to get him killed. The other kept the upper hand, kept the last word. Didn't look at him. Didn't want to stare into a muzzle.

Dan nodded, didn't believe a word nor the fucked-up stance. The Russkie malleable and meek? Bullshit! "OK." He was sure the other was trying to trick him into believing he was no threat, but picked up the knife, shifting the pistol into his left hand.

Staring at sweat, glistening on pale skin, in parts sun-burnt and almost raw. Muscles, perfectly defined in ways that Dan would never achieve. Dan, the soldier, runner, para and fighter, never the perfectly balanced sports god. Couldn't keep his eyes from that body, he suddenly grinned. Fuck, that had been a ride to remember, and he wanted it again. Would wank every night - and every day if given the chance - to the taste and sound of the Russkie. He stood up, went over and started to cut the ropes at the ankles, carefully keeping out of harm's way.

First thing, Vadim brought his legs together, nothing but a reflex. Stand properly, securely, protect himself against a knife that didn't come. Had no idea what to expect now, maybe a beating, maybe a shot, maybe he was taken prisoner and would be marched to the embassy. The panic still eating at his mind.

Dan didn't want to get killed once he had cut the ropes that secured the arms. He cut them swiftly, took a quick step back.

Vadim's arms came free, and bared his face. He didn't want to look at the other, didn't want to risk it, just reached for the camo trousers and pulled them up, hoped that wouldn't trigger anything, scorn, violence, or a bullet. When had he been so scared last time? Oh, Vadim knew. Mountains.

"You do remember the rules, aye?"

Rules? What rules? Vadim glanced at the other, tried to read that expression. Failed. He had no idea what was going on. Reached up to touch the place at his temple that hurt. Swollen, but no blood. Well executed blow. "Want me to kneel for bullet?"

"What?" Dan didn't get it. "Fucking Russian weirdo." Kept the pistol trained on the other, certain now the odd behaviour was just a clever ruse, grabbed his bergan and rolled up the sleeping bag one-handed, stuffed it inside the backpack.

The Brit had lied, Vadim thought. He wouldn't get killed. Not like this, not today. He shuddered, could feel a moment of nausea, the stress coming crashing down, and staggered back against the other wall, reached for it, supported himself as he crouched. He felt weak, weak, tired, humiliated and exhausted, the fear embedded so deeply in his mind it didn't just leave. He wanted to scream, and run, and go home, wanted to leave this place, any place like this, the country, the army, any place with soldiers.

"No killing." Dan repeated. The rules, could remember only the one, everything else paled in comparison. Didn't want to kill, just suck and fuck and rub and touch. Heaved the bergan onto his back, moved towards the door, all the time carefully watching the other for an attack. Wired, wary. Didn't trust the bastard one second.

"Seven days. Remember." Dan opened the lock of the door.

Vadim shuddered uncontrollably, fists clenched, face stony, but his eyes felt like they might burn. As if he hadn't blinked, hadn't closed them for an eternity. He wiped the sweat from his face with his arm. "That …" His voice was not to be trusted, "all you wanted?" Touched his swollen, raw wrists, could feel the touch from those lips linger, just like the blade right to his balls. "Serious? You mean it?"

Dan's eyes narrowed, didn't get it, no fucking clue what the hell was going on. "Your own words. Keep it interesting. I did, cunt. What else."

Dan sneered, bared his teeth in triumphant arrogance, opened the door. "Teahouse. Next week." He'd be there. Addicted.

Dan slipped out of the door and vanished into the labyrinthine streets of Kabul.

Vadim drew a breath that nearly choked him. Couldn't even think of counterattack, took the arrogance, arrogance couldn't kill him. Scorn, whatever. He'd live. Interesting. Fuck Chinese sayings. Too interesting. Too close to death.

Cut it right there, Vadim. This one was too close. You can't go on like this. Not like this, not with this man, not in this city. You have a duty, a family, a job to do. You can't throw all that away.

He nodded, to himself. "Too close." Swallowed. Needed water, should have smoked the weed, would have helped now, but then, this had almost driven him insane in a sober mind. What a drugged mind would have made out of it ...

No grenade being lobbed through the door. No boobytrap. He'd live. But had died too often just now. He stared at the ropes, could feel his wrists burn. Another thing he'd have to hide. He didn't care. He'd live. He wouldn't throw this away, wouldn't put himself at risk again. Being special forces was bad enough without some sick fuck as a fuck buddy who was the enemy and capable of taking him out. Madness from the start. But he had woken up now. Had sobered. Was back in his mind.

He would focus on winning this war. No more tea houses. No more tying up, no more knives and torture. No more sick release. Too risky.

* * * * * * *

Seven days later and Dan sat in exactly the same spot as before. Confident the Russian would turn up, as he had always done. A sick puppy, just like himself. He sat and drank his over-sweetened tea, smoked some weed that the owner was supplying to him at no extra cost, could allow himself the luxury of a semi-stoned mind. His duties were negligible, hadn't received any order yet, just to lie low. Was eating plate-fulls of baklava, and waited.

Waited.

Nothing. Dan sat and frowned, wondering if the cunt had been killed. Too bad.

Perhaps duties that kept the other away. He sat for hours, waiting, wanting, left finally with a sense of emptiness and frustration.

Maybe next week, or perhaps the Russkie was simply rotting somewhere in a tin case, draped with the Soviet flag.

* * *

"You finally decided to make major, huh?" asked the Major.

Vadim almost dropped the weight onto his chest, but lifted it again and let it rest on the frame of the bench. He sat up, regarded the other Vympel. Tough as leather. The leather of a crocodile, most likely, and not the soft belly. Didn't think the other expected him to salute or snap to attention, they were both off duty, both working out. The Major had a towel around his neck, wore the striped undershirt, and Vadim could see that the body was only a few years away from sagging, but at the moment, he was like the knotted leather of a whip.

"You seem more focused, Krasnorada."

"I realised life is short."

"We will be sent away soon. Out there, I want you to be awake."

"I am awake, Sir."

The Major waved that away and stepped closer. "Empty mind. You are thinking too much, Krasnorada."

Thinking about the other man. Seven days now. That's why he worked out, couldn't find rest, couldn't find peace, allowed him only to think of the other when he was in bed, and more often than not, the spike was taken off with vodka. Sometimes he'd jerk off, but most of the time, he was too tired or drunk or both. "I am aware of that, sir."

"You'll soon get transferred to the front."

"As much front as it can be in this country. Thank you, Sir. I was getting cabin fever."

The other would stay in Kabul, most likely. Duty would keep them apart. He'd get used to not meeting the enemy. In uniform, at several hundred yards, it would be impossible to tell the difference. Killing was less agonising than being at each other's mercy. More natural. More acceptable. Saner.

The Major knotted the skipping rope in his hand, and hit Vadim square in the chest with it. It fucking hurt. Vadim stepped back, felt the backs of his legs connect with the bench. "Sir?"

"You must never forget where the front is", said the Major. "A man of your intelligence shouldn't doubt even for one heartbeat."

Vadim felt his hackles rise. "I did not doubt, Sir."

"Or question."

"Or question, Sir." He kept his lips pressed together, felt found out, bared, and kept his gaze neutral, forced himself to relax.

The Major looked at him for a long time, then nodded. Vadim didn't dare feel relief.

* * *

Another seven days and Dan had made his way back to the teahouse. Warring between hoping and dreading. What if the fucker didn't show up, he should be glad, the insanity would end at last. What if he did and what if he didn't; what if he'd never taste that bastard again, never touched, never punched, never bit and never sucked. Shit.

The owner greeted him like an old friend, one hand had been washing the other and the teahouse had remained an eye of calm in the storm of Soviet occupation. Baklava was soon brought, and strong sweetened tea, but Dan refused the hashish that time, had to keep a clear head.

He'd received orders, not much longer and he would have to vanish, across the border into Pakistan and from there back into the mountains. Going into the landscape of majestic solitude, of skies and rocks, caves and sheep and houses hewn into the rocks. Ten more days and he'd be gone, perhaps forever. Didn't know much of his mission, only what he needed to know. The less he could be forced to tell, the better. Knowledge could be lethal, and he wasn't ready to die.

Dan sat and waited. Again. Cursed himself, drank the tea; angry, worried, pissed off and fuming, ate the sweets. Had he gone too far? Scolded himself for that ridiculous thought. Missed the cunt and that body. Only that body. Not the man. Just the fucking insanity and the lunatic lust.

* * *

Vadim was restless. Today. The tea house. Lifted weights, could feel his body change as he ever increased the amount of weight, did it slower, more intense, groaned and nearly screamed in the weightlifting room, would have much preferred to groan that other way, but fuck that, his duty was to stay alive.

Tied up. The enemy sucking him off. Fourteen days. Two missed opportunities to blow steam. Images tantalising, the other's body, the smell of sweat, harsh breathing. Tied up like a pig for the slaughter. Fuck you, Vadim. Don't.

He'd be gone in the next few days. Not another week. No more opportunities. He didn't have to follow him. He dropped the weight and got up from the bench, burning with exertion. A quick wash, still hardly enough water, hardly enough for drinking. Left the barracks. Thought what the fuck was he doing, headed into Kabul, market, tea house.

Dan had been sitting and waiting for hours, debating with himself that he was a stupid fucker and sad fag, waiting for a 'date' that never arrived. Telling himself he was about to leave, like he had been half an hour ago, an hour ago, two hours ago, three ... Wallflower. Leftovers. Unwanted. Waiting, and what a date he had been waiting for. Fucking enemy, soldier, bastard and Russian cunt. Needed him. So much his insides churned and his body was tensing in near-pain.

Dan almost jerked, finally spying the tell-tale silhouette of the other. Pushed the shades back down over his eyes, didn't give a shit about drawing attention, sipped his tea. Cursed the hand that dared to shake.

Vadim ordered tea, went to the usual place where they met, sat down. Fear. He'd tell them it had to end. They were enemies again. No way they could keep doing this. Too much fear.

Dan raised his head, stared at the other, eyes hidden behind darkened glass. Wanted to rip the uniform off the wanker and assault skin and flesh with teeth and hands.

"Wondered if you were dead."

Vadim glanced up, hated the shades but of course that was why the other was wearing them, deny him eye contact. "No. Moving to front in few days." He couldn't lean back, the tendons in his body felt too short for that, he saw the weapons on the other, remembered that man's control and felt the fear surge back. What the fuck had happened to him? The other had let him go. Or rather, crawl away, torn open by fear. But the knowledge he had enjoyed this. Would have enjoyed everything, including getting fucked. As long as it wasn't death, he could enjoy anything.

His tea arrived. He waited till the Afghan was gone. Looked briefly at the plate with the sweets, but couldn't eat, not the way his stomach was one white-hot knot. Worse than eating in the scope of a sniper. "Might be few months." Tell me to fuck off, now, Brit. No, tell him to fuck off, Vadim. He has broken the fucking rules.

But what a blowjob. His face twitched. Indeed.

"Months?" Dan's brows rose, visible above the shades as he reached for another piece of the sticky pastry. Hand hovered over it, realised he couldn't get it down, stomach churning close to being sick. Shit again. "Don't you Russkies ever get R&R?" Masked the movement to the baklava with taking the tea instead. Too bad the glass was empty - how lucky because his hand was shaking even worse. Wanted that bastard; needed the fucker. Months. Fuck. Could be a year if unlucky with both their missions, not much of a fucking chance to get out alive.

"I'll be off, too." Dan couldn't say anything else, wouldn't. "No fucking clue when or if I get back."

And I need your body so goddamned badly, I am close to begging, you fucking cunt!

Vadim nodded. They'd both be gone. Much better for their sanity, their lives. A few quick encounters, nothing they couldn't forget, wouldn't forget in the hail of bullets. Back to being proper enemies. Those lips around his cock. The way the man had pushed himself to get him off. The way that man had fucked his mind, letting him believe he'd die. You fucking scared me. I can't deal with the fear. Not like that. Not like you fucking tortured me in the mountains. Can't forget it, will never forget it. You damn near broke me with that. Without actually beating me up, no blood, just … fucking fucked my mind.

Vadim inhaled. "Likely heading south. We have trouble there." Nothing the other wouldn't know. "Behind lines." He took his tea and sipped it. "Earn some tinsel."

Dan shrugged, "Tinsel's cheap, just like tin coffins." He pushed the shades off his eyes, let them perch on top of his forehead. Scrutinising the other, but couldn't read him, hadn't learned the codes yet. "Seems our last chance, then."

Vadim shivered. No. Yes. He wasn't in control. How could he be in control. How could he do this? How could he even want this? One last time? Why the fuck had he come? To talk? They didn't talk. They never talked. Looked into the other's eyes, didn't see aggression, didn't see scorn, spite, anger, or worse, ridicule. Nothing.

"I …" The English syllable hung in the air. One last chance to get off. I'm fucking scared of you. "… don't plan to go home with black tulips."

"Good thinking, because tin boxes sound like a fucking stupid plan to me." Dan smirked, but didn't feel anything inside like the cool exterior he presented. Would suck the Russkie off this time without the safety of ropes nor weapons.

"You got time?" I'm so fucking desperate I want to jump you right here and now. "I got another safe house."

Vadim blinked. That sounded. Not like hatred. Not like the other would bash in his skull and fuck what was left of his pride. Shouldn't be here, shouldn't think of those lips. The heat of that mouth. Last time before the mountains. And plan or not, he could still die. He just needed to be careful. Alert. Not trust him, not even for a heartbeat. "No ropes. Almost broke my fucking wrists."

Dan tilted his head. "Deal. No ropes. No weapons. For both." Didn't trust the Russian, not after the last time, the fight, the panic, and that niggling feeling that he had gone too far. But how? How could he ever step over a line again, after the torture.

You trust that promise? Do you? Fuck you, Vadim, you'll get yourself killed, in a messy way. Nothing clean about what that man will do to you. Vadim hesitated, felt the fear overpower the need, the need that was in the background, the fear all over it, swarming insects crawling into every thought.

"Come." Dan got up, threw Afghani notes onto the blanket. Had paid before but paid again, always twice. It helped his dealings with the natives. "Not far." He turned, started to walk out of the tea house, but this time slowly, turning back to see if the other followed. Less cocky and sure, or maybe just too damn frustrated.

Vadim didn't want to, but the lips. The hands. The strength of the other. All that strength that could destroy him if he chose to. He felt vulnerable. Didn't want to follow. One last thing. One last time.

He kept his gaze down, felt defeated, knew he was being stupid. Hand near a knife. Just waited for a movement from the corner of his eyes. Would fight and kill at the slightest hint of danger.

True to Dan's word it wasn't very far this time. Two streets, three corners, and they had reached the same type of building in a similar kind of shitty place. Dan unlocked the bolt and stepped aside, waiting for the Russian to catch up. Slipped inside, immediately turned back round, wary of an attack. Stayed in full view of the other. Hands up, showing he had no weapon.

"No attack this time. I promised." Again that head tilt, Dan's voice growing huskier, memories of two weeks ago. "At least you can't complain it didn't get more interesting." Smirked this time.

Vadim moved with his back against the wall, shut the door with his heel, locked it. Breathing. Mockery. "Yeah, bit in mountains … that was interesting, too." Shit. Crybaby. Mewling crybaby. He shook his head, put a grin on, masking how much he had let on. "Good cocksucking, though." Eyes narrowed, a challenge. "Not bad for second time."

Dan's smirk grew, a dangerous edge to it, but far too desperate to allow the aggression to take over. He wanted, needed, had to have that man. One last time. Couldn't let his own arrogance nor pride blow it.

"You saying I'm making a good fag?" Dan didn't wait this time, shrugged out of his jacket. Was getting colder in Kabul. "I say I need more practice." Wasn't ashamed of his greed. Cocksucker. Cunt. Whateverthefuck.

Vadim wanted to jump back. Remembered the teeth, remembered too much how much he had wanted and how much he had feared the other would kill him the moment he came. No knife. Please no knife. His face twitched. Did he want to give him that much power again? No. Yes. Didn't want to suck him, but then, that would give him control, things would go at his own speed. Yes.

"Undress. All of it. Down." So he couldn't hide a weapon. Important. Vadim took off the tunic, shirt, stripped down to the dog tags, camo BDUs, boots remained for the moment, while he watched the other. His body was still pumped up from the workout, muscles swollen with blood and strength.

Dan shrugged, pulled the shirt off, bent down to unlace the boots before kicking them off. Didn't feel right to undress himself, an awkward moment, scolding himself for his bloody idiocy. Continued to undo belt and trousers, pushed them down and stepped out of the faded and worn army issue. Stood in socks and nothing else, having gone commando as usual whenever possible.

"Might be off to eagle's nest", Vadim murmured. Twelve months in solitude. Patrols. Watching the road. "More likely, run security for the convoys to south."

"You fucking Russkies with your fucking insanity. Eagle's nest. Twelve fucking months and no R&R. No wonder you're so fucked-up." Dan sneered, finally got around to his socks, non-standard issue and a thousand times better than army crap. He stood naked, arms crossed in front of his chest, gaze challenging. "Just don't run into me. A bullet would ruin our next tête a tête."

Vadim stepped closer, eyes on the round bullet scar on the other's shoulder. That had ruined nothing. Not that one. That body. No weapons, no guns. He opened his belt, detached the pistol holster, put it on the ground to the side. The knife went there, too. Now he could want this body, could allow feeling needy and wanting to touch.

"I go where ordered." Vadim shrugged. "Working on next rank." Making major. That would be nice, actually. Afghanistan was the way up. Nothing like a war zone to keep those ranks and medals coming.

"We're not that different, then." Dan shrugged as well, "I do my duty. No more, no less." As long as it gave him the adrenaline thrill he had been seeking all his life.

Vadim stepped closer, running his hands across the other man's chest, down his abs, one hand went straight for the cock and balls, closing finger and thumb around them, behind the balls, pulling and squeezing.

"I'm out of practise", Vadim murmured. "Tell me, why did you not kill me? What do you want?" He went down on his knees, ran his tongue over the other's balls. Sweat. Salty musky taste. Pulled the cock and balls up to lick the underside, brush them with his cheek.

Dan inhaled sharply, "Shit!" hissed between his teeth, hard to form a thought. Hard, yeah fuck, the irony of the word. "Why the fuck should I have wanted to kill you?" He shuddered, looked down, watched his cock, the head, those lips, the face and heaven and hell, the feeling he got was more intense than any battlefield he'd ever been on. "You wanted a thrill, you got it."

Thrill, yes. But too much. Had given up. Resigned to death. Broken. Snapped. Begged for his life without being able to. Come apart. Nothing that Vadim could just do. Not in his fucking profession.

"I thought it was for the power", Vadim pulled the foreskin back to completely bare the head, studied it, rolled his neck to relax for what he had in mind. He'd be damned if he couldn't get the other to lose control. Flicked the tip of his tongue across the head, the slightest of touches, checked on the other's reaction. But then, he certainly didn't mind if it got too close to discomfort.

"Fuck," Dan searched for anything to steady himself, while staring down, "Bloody hell, you know what you're doing." Like no one before. No bimbo, ever. No whore.

Vadim kept the grip strong around the balls, increasing pressure with his fingers, closed his lips right after the flaring tip, tongue circling around the small opening, the taste there different, not particularly pleasant, but he knew what it did to a man. Laid off the intensity, took the cock deeper, running his tongue over the underside, taking him slowly, intense, neck and jaw tensing, offering resistance and friction, slowly taking him to the throat. Now, that was a proper skill, that was mostly willpower, control of breathing, nothing more. His drill instructors would kill him for what he used his various skills for. He almost laughed.

Dan couldn't find support nor leverage, felt his body wanting to slump, then tense, first stagger, then turn rigid, shudder and tremble, then lose balance. "Shit … gotta … hold onto …" desperately trying to get closer to a beam or wall without losing those sensations. Fuck, that bastard was better than a whore, addictive unlike anything before and he knew he'd want it again, couldn't exist without it anymore.

Stomach muscles tensing, cursed his need and the far-too-fast arousal, reacted to the suction, friction, scraping and licking like Pavlov's dog. Would reduce himself to begging if the fucktard stopped right now. "Gotta … come … soon but ... balance …" Stammering idiot, nothing but a quivering piece of meat, willingly in the power of an enemy.

Vadim pulled back, chuckled, kept his hand around the other's cock and balls, other hand turned Dan so his back faced the walls and pushed him against it, flat hand against his stomach. He wanted to mock him, wanted to make sure the other knew how helpless he was now. Don't even need ropes and knife for this.

Helpless, Dan knew it, didn't give a shit. Slave, servant, fag, cunt, bitch and suka. Whatever, wherever, whoever. Pressed with his back against the wall, Dust mixing with sweat in his back, stare fixed onto cock and head of the other. Wanted to scream, hit, hurt and made to feel in return. "Shit … shit …" mindless, stupid, garbled words and sounds from his throat he should be ashamed of.

Vadim looked up, licked his lips, eyes narrow. I'll fuck you now. And nothing you can do about it. He sucked the cock through near-closed lips, focused on the tip again, allowing it to slip free and took it in, in and out, sucking, pressure, tongue then invading the slit, snaking against it, while his hand kept the cock under control. No ramming inside, and very likely no cumming until he allowed it.

Dan hit his fists against the wall behind him, prisoner, owned by his own lust and that goddamned clever tongue. Teeth. Lips. Fucker!

Vadim was laughing inside, the way the other grew desperate was a sight to behold. Of course he knew what he was doing, but he acted as if he did this for himself, when he really just put on the show for the other. Changed gear every now and then, two deep motions, taking the cock into his throat, a third time, less deep, two more deep ones, then back to the tip that was leaking precum, cleaned that away, pulled the cock free, just cleaned the tip, went into the opening again as if to take the rest, ignoring the taste, this was mostly a lesson, some odd kind of payback, nothing but control for as long as he could keep it up. And that could take a while, because the other was defenceless.

His free hand began to fuck that cock, wet with saliva and sweat, pumped him a few times, while he kept licking the tip, loved how the other sounded, nearly whimpering, those fists clenched and helpless. No rope necessary. The other had dropped his defences. He'd be dead if he wanted. His choice, his decision. The man was his. His free hand slipped between the other's legs, to touch the dam, press there, slip further, while he took his cock deeper again, as deep as he could - and his wet finger found the hole, and pressed in, slipped the finger in deep, and released Dan's cock and balls. Now cum, bitch.

"Holy fuck!" Dan lost it, yelled out, too many feelings assaulting his body, sensory overload. Sensation of the wrong fucking type and the most right one ever in his life and fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Crashed down, under, knees buckled, useless fists hit his own thighs, the wall, scrabbling-clawing at flesh, his own. Convulsing, shuddering, stammering words with no meaning, completely lost. Came into the enemy's throat, with the enemy's finger up his arse and to the enemy's knowledge that he was completely in the other's hand. His. My cunt? Fuck that, his bitch.

"Fucking bastard!" Dan couldn't get his body under control, only half-managed words, wanted to kick the other, punish the Russian, but that finger, the added sensation, was too bloody good, and he just collapsed.

Vadim pulled back, needed to get out of reach, the rage was there, only the fact the other was not nearly coherent enough to fight now, too weak. He wanted vodka to wash the taste away, headed towards the other man's bergan, dug inside without taking his eyes off the enemy, found a bottle, glass, opened it and drank. Whiskey. Excellent way to purge that taste. He kept the bottle open, swirled the golden liquid around, then, maybe as a manner of offering peace, stretched out the hand with the bottle, some tension in his body remaining. Ready to jump back.

Dan had sunk to the ground, slowly sliding along the wall until he hit the floor of dried mud and dust. Covered in that shit, sweat and red crap creating an itching paste on his body, cooling rapidly even though his heartbeat was still hammering.

"Fucking arsehole." Not half as much venom behind the words as expected. What damned point was it now to beat the crap out of the other. Dan had liked it. Too much. Bastard. Had known exactly what to do, unlike himself. He grabbed the bottle without looking, gulped down a fair amount, wiped his lips. Narrowed his eyes, only then studied the other, gaze pointedly falling on the still soft cock. "Bloody disinterested for someone with your skills."

Vadim smirked, following the gaze and getting the meaning. "True." It gave him next to nothing. He was too aware, too himself, and the main aim was to control the other. It was interesting, in some way, the first time with a man, because they were always challenges, but once he'd mastered those, it was a routine thing. He'd done this for few men, and he didn't really need it, didn't really want to. "I guess too much interest gets you into trouble", he mused. "No control. It's something you do."

Dan shook his head, swallowed another mouthful of burning liquor before handing the bottle back. "Bullshit. I like it." Giving too much away, but what did it matter. Either of them would probably be dead in a year, he'd put money on the Russian going first. "Cocksucking." Bared his teeth. "I've become a right little fag, eh?"

Vadim's eyes narrowed. Fag. The word continued to rile him. "I know. Have guy who nearly gets off on it. Does it himself, saves me trouble." He indicated wanking with his right hand. Gavriil. "That guy's fag. Girly guy. Can't wait to get fucked, he'd even put on dress. That type's fag. And you are not. Neither am I. You like it, cool, fine, that means nothing. Doesn't make you fucking girl." Took more of the whiskey, waited for an attack, but there was no tension in that body. The other was simply sated, and that made fighting near impossible.

Dan shrugged, almost laughed, sound stuck in his throat, couldn't be bothered. Pulled his legs up, one arm around his knees, still studying the other. "I should smash your fucking face in for that finger up my arse." No real conviction behind these words, either. Damned satisfaction, the come-down after a climax could be a killer. He'd become careless.

"Can't be bothered to beat the crap out of you. The mountains will do that for me. If not them, then the Mujahideen and if they don't make it either, then some shit that happens in a bloody place like this." Dan shrugged again, didn't seem to care either way.

Vadim gritted his teeth. And that was exactly why he shouldn't have returned after last time. "You could have left me to the goat-fuckers that time." Challenged the other, challenged that assumption. "You think I'd get caught in place like this? No way. Mountains? I'm trained to deal with mountains. Bandits? Fuck bandits, I'm spetsnaz." He bared his teeth. "I'll outlive you, bastard. I'll outlive your mission."

Dan smirked, "Spetsnaz? Fuck spetsnaz. I'm SAS and we all know the British Special Air Services are the best." Cap-badge pride, the right of every soldier. He wiped his lips, pointed at the bergan. "Protein bars. Hand me one." Wordless understanding between them by now, the handful of peanut butter ones were always for the Russian.

Vadim crouched to reach inside, tossing him one of the bars, stuffed his own pockets with them, always watchful. "Just in case we're both alive … will you be back?"

"I'll be wherever they send me, but seems it will be more likely here than anywhere else." Tearing the wrapper off the strawberry flavoured one, Dan bit into the bar as if he hadn't eaten for years. "Six months at the earliest. I'll leave a message in the teahouse if it's still there."

Vadim wasn't hungry. At least the other's mission was long term. He doubted it would be as long term as his own deployment, but he wouldn't just vanish. No address, no place to reach him, just the tea house, which he might not be able to reach himself, trapped in the mountains with comrades, hunting insurgents, or escorting one of the convoys. One convoy could take weeks, and the Red Army needed to ship in each and every piece of equipment from Soviet territory right into Kabul, over roads that hardly deserved the name, through passes that swarmed with bandits, constant danger of mines and snipers. But the other option sounded worse. Eagle's nest. He really hoped it was protecting the convoy - or getting flown in when a convoy was under attack. "I'll check for messages. I might be gone for longer. Seems it's some kind of testing ground."

Decided to make major. He had the feeling his superior had something special in mind.

"In that case," Dan swallowed the last piece of sticky sweetness, "I better get one more practice in." Didn't know what he felt about this, not the cock nor its sucking, but the time of separation. Six months, twelve. He didn't believe he'd ever see the bastard again. Couldn't understand why he felt numb.

Dan simply crawled over, pointed at the other. "Your cock. Now."

Vadim gave a surprised laugh, stood to lean against the wall. Don't get your hopes up, I'll be back, he thought, but he had no idea what state he'd be in. Very likely the major would wear them down, work them to the bone, knew what they could endure and would push that limit. Very unlikely he'd have any time to miss something, or energy left to think of sex. He'd be lucky if he got enough sleep and water, no way there was vodka or sex in it. "Just don't cry for me, darling," he murmured in Russian.

Dan looked up, on his knees, still managed to smirk and answered in Russian. "You should be so lucky." Then concentrated on his task.

 
 
Special Forces Chapter VII: Army of One
 
 
Warning for Readers

The following work of fiction contains graphic homosexual interaction, violence and non-consensual sex. With this work of fiction the authors do not condone in any way any form of intolerance and injustice, e.g. racism, sexual harassment, incitement of hatred, religious hatred nor persecution, xenophobia and misogyny. Neither do the authors through this work of fiction promote violence nor make light of such grave matters as genocide, any taking of human life, murder, execution, rape, torture, persecution of sexual orientation.

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All characters are fictional. Any similarities with living or deceased people are coincidental. In case of real life events, creative license has been applied. Special Forces is intellectual property of Marquesate and Vashtan. Copyright © 2006-2009. All rights reserved.

 

 
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Published 16 October 2006