Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

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 fantasized 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, 

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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. 

 203 

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 yet.” 

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, six-pack, 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. 

 204 

“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 

 205 

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.  

 206 

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, 

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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. 

 208 

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. 

 209 

“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 

 210 

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