Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

1981 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. 

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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 Pashto 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 

chicken scrawl. 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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

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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.  

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“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. 

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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 

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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,