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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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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. </