Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate

“Enjoying yourself, you cunt?” he murmured into the officer’s ear, forcing 

in deeper, the body taut underneath, tight muscles, his own body melting heat and 

lust and hatred and revenge into one heady mix that hit him deeper than any drug. 

Remembered how the masseur used to fuck him, and began with slow, deep thrusts, 

pausing every now and then to murmur into the officer’s ear. “Why don’t you 

struggle? Feels too good, eh?” Which made the man buck, and Vadim thrust right 

into him, so hard the other collapsed with a sound of pain, hands clenching 

helplessly as Vadim found a rhythm, his own exhausted body took forever to build 

up enough pressure, feeling the other widen and accommodate him, softening up, 

strangely, the powerful body accepting him on the most visceral level. 

“Who’s the faggot now,” he murmured, was almost positive the bastard 

reacted, reacted in a certain way when he thrust in, shuddering and clenching, but 

it wasn’t all a fight, not all of it. A nice, deep, dark, absolutely devastating secret. 

Vadim laughed into his ear. “You enjoy it. I know what that feels like. You pressing 

down so you come, too, bitch?” 

Vadim would have loved to pull out the gag and listen to the man’s 

desperate breaths, but at least he could still feel them in his body, as he thrust 

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harder, bringing his strength to bear, getting sounds out of the other man, pain, 

yeah, right, and something forbidden and dirty. 

The pressure built up, impossible to draw this out any longer, triumph and 

release when Vadim came inside, thrust so hard he rocked the bed against the wall 

when he did, then remained on top of the officer. Resting for a moment, listening to 

the way the man’s breath was irregular and forced and nearly seemed to choke 

him. “That’s for Lesha,” he muttered, feeling an odd, destructive gentleness. 

Then, he pulled out, took some of the bed sheet to clean himself up, closed 

his trousers up and leaned against the wall, studying the still figure on the bed. Fit. 

Strong. A complete and utter bastard. And an ass that looked raw and glistened 

with petroleum jelly and Vadim’s cum. 

He contemplated fucking him again, waiting for a little and doing it again, 

because deep down, where the climax had not sated the anger, and where his own 

darkest desire had come alive, he loved the feeling. Loved the struggle and the 

anger, loved knowing how much the other hated this, and bared his teeth in 

another grin. Faggot, yes, but that didn’t mean he’d take things lying down. But 

there was another thing, and that was making sure Lesha was alright. 

He rummaged through the bastard’s kit and belongings, found penicillin 

and knew Lesha would need this, then stepped back to the bed, took the bastard by 

the shoulders and turned him around to look him in the eyes.  

The officer didn’t meet his gaze. And he’d been right, there was an erection. 

Vadim grinned. “You should have told me before...I could have fucked you sooner, 

would have saved us some trouble, correct, suka?” 

The officer’s eyes stared at him now, but Vadim didn’t feel like relenting, 

didn’t give a damn about consequences. Not anymore. “If you do so much as look 

strange at my friends or myself, I’ll grab you again – and I’ll bring a bunch of 

friends. We’re all badly in need of a nice spirited devuchka. I’m sure we could 

keep you entertained all night, sweetheart.” 

Only to drive his point home, Vadim took hold of the officer’s cock, 

stroking him once, twice, slow, strong motions. He was positive the man was dying 

with fear now, and probably something else, too, which was not revulsion. “I could 

leave you like this, or maybe fuck you again...” The man’s eyes widened, and he 

grunted something around the gag, which Vadim took as disagreement or a plea. 

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“But I have to check up on a friend.” He smiled again, as he turned the 

officer onto his back and loosened the restraints enough that the bastard would be 

able to free himself with a little time. “You better behave, because this is just a 

faint idea of what I can do to you if you cross me again, bitch.” And he meant it. 

Nothing tasted or felt like power. Nothing he’d ever tried before. Nothing as 

intoxicating as control. 

He gave the officer a series of slaps that were almost gentle, then left him 

alone. Sated, heavy, very very tired, but still concerned for Lesha. 

 

Vadim fell into the rhythm of that garrison, helped with training and 

inspection, led a few patrols before he began to slip. He deliberately made mistakes, 

and badly concealed a completely random temper and subtle failings in his 

discipline, showing clearly that he was in trouble. It was quite simple, really. Tell-

tale signs that he appeared too sluggish to cover up. 

Eventually, Alexei Ivanovich Petkov came into his room. A major himself, 

that meant no stupid rank-pulling, as if his old friend had been the type. Granted, 

he was only regular army, but still, as Vadim had expected, a damn decent guy. 

“I guess we need to talk.” 

“Talk?” Vadim feigned ignorance. 

Alexei closed the distance and took his arm with both hands, pulled up the 

shirt. Revealed the marks. “What’s this?” 

Vadim looked at him, did not speak, did not comment. Remembered the 

crush he’d had on the young man, his protectiveness, the closeness, but he’d never 

acted on it. Not even later, when he had started to take what he wanted. Lesha had 

trusted him and respected him and, in his own way, loved him. He just couldn’t 

destroy that, as much as he’d wanted him. Funny. One good decision there. 

“You getting into drugs? Heroin?” Alexei sounded genuinely concerned. “I 

couldn’t care less if you weren’t who you are.” 

“What? Spetsnaz?” 

“A friend.” 

“I see.” And he did. The old bond still held. They were still friends. 

Alexei looked on the verge of slapping him. “Fuck, don’t give me that. 

What happened? I heard you flipped badly in Kabul. When did you start this?” 

“A couple weeks.” 

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“I need to report you. And lock you up.” His thumbs dug into Vadim’s arm. 

“Or I take some morphine and piss off into the mountains until it’s over.” Vadim 

looked at the other. “Like they do when it gets bad.” 

“That’s suicide.” 

“I can’t go into prison. Don’t do this to me. Give me a chance.” The words 

came easy, too easy, almost. He reached for the other’s shoulder. “I’ll take 

morphine against the pain, find myself a nice cave and you tell people I’m doing 

patrols of the passes. We both keep quiet, and I’ll owe you this time.” 

“Who tells me you will come back?” 

“Do I look like I want to go native? I have a family in Moscow. I want to 

get out of here alive as much as you do.” 

 “And if you don’t beat this?” 

“Medical exam when I come back. If the medics find anything, do your 

duty. But give me a chance.” 

Alexei looked him in the eye. “Fucking shame if we lost you. You think 

you’ll manage?” Both hands on his shoulders now, one hand went to his neck, 

forced him closer. Ill-advised brotherly touch. Vadim’s mind reeled. 

“I have enough morphine to last me.” 

“Can you kick the morphine?” 

“I’ll try.” Vadim gave a lopsided grin. “Might take me some weed or 

vodka.” He pulled the shirt down, turned away, twisted out of that grip, didn’t want 

to smell the other. Too close. He went to his bergan, tossed a bag of heroin on the 

bed, and the syringe. Italian make, nobody used the Soviet make, they broke too 

easily and were never sterile, not even with their first use. Left the fabric already 

flawed. “Take this. Burn it.” 

Lesha, now the keeper of this most damaging secret, took the stuff. They 

both were perfectly capable of keeping secrets, that was one of the things Vadim 

had always liked about his old friend. 

Alexei had no idea what had happened that night, he’d slipped right into a 

fever. He had caught pneumonia, which had come under control, thanks to the 

penicillin, but, likely, even more thanks to the fact that that bullying officer had 

blown his own brains out with his Makarov. The suicide was a complete mystery – 

it had happened the following night, after the officer had fallen mysteriously ill and 

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not left his room. Forty-eight hours after his personal encounter with Vadim, the 

man was dead. 

“When are you leaving?” 

“Right away. Before the shakes.” 

The commander nodded. “How long?” 

“I’d think about two weeks.” Vadim shrugged. “You cover me?” 

“Shit. Of course. You’re a friend, Vadim.” 

Above all, I’m one cunning motherfucker. Vadim nodded, as if ashamed, 

didn’t meet the other’s eyes, shouldered the bergan. And was on his way to 

Kashmir. 

He left the uniform buried under a pile of stones in a remote valley that had 

neither inhabitants nor name, navigated with map and stars, wore native clothes, 

and vanished into the wilderness. Crossed the passes, attacked and killed a 

Pakistani patrol, took their kit, their car, drove all night, hid and rested during the 

days, driven by one thought: Dan’s infection, Dan fighting for his life. He might 

already be dead, but at least he’d hear that from the doctor. 

He’d follow him, and wondered what that meant, following, but didn’t 

answer it, knew it in his bones. 

He’d follow that body anywhere, to Kabul, to Scotland, he’d find a way to 

confirm he was dead, even if he had to dig up that body in a country he didn’t 

know. He needed absolute certainty. 

He had to give up the jeep, got too far into the country, went by bus, on foot, 

felt like the world was moving and he wasn’t, had no eyes for anything but for the 

ground and potential danger, ate what was sold or given, what he could steal or 

pluck from the trees; mango never tasted anything like this, he thought, sitting near 

the road under a tree, begged rides with natives, who thought him either a deserter 

or a tourist. He spoke English and was fairly confident they couldn’t place his 

accent, not the way their English was rather rudimentary. Told them nothing, really, 

kept his head covered, hair was starting to grow out anyway, and he kept his guns 

and knives hidden on his body. 

Rode on ramshackle trucks, slept between sheep and goats and cages of 

chicken, trucks only stopped for prayer. He waited, rested as much as he could, 

needed the rest, he was on his feet most of the time, desperate for yet another mile, 

too far, too fucking far, asked questions, found the British hospital. 

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He arrived in the middle of the night, had planned to sleep somewhere close, 

but his thoughts were fixated on one thing. Dan dying, and every breath of rest, 

every hour of sleep could be the one, crucial, wasted opportunity. Felt like death on 

two feet as he got into the hospital, barely coherent with tiredness, asked to see 

Dan McFadyen, urgently. Needed to see him, please. 

Oh gods, and in Allah’s name and the names of whatever other gods they 

prayed to, please. 

They kept telling him that now was not visiting time, that he should go 

home and wait until the morning, and that no, he should not get so aggravated, 

because the gods were wise and knew who should live and who should enjoy the 

beauties of heaven. 

They were talking to him like to a child until he got angrier and angrier. 

The night porter at reception began to get upset at the aggression and the repeated 

question for one Dan McFadyen. They were about to call for security when a 

doctor on night shift walked past. One glance at the tall blond-haired man, who 

looked as if he’d keel over with exhaustion any moment, and then a swift 

conversation in Hindu. Words that increased in pace and intensity, until the 

discussion stopped, reception nodded, and a security guard was called. 

The doctor turned to Vadim, explaining. 

“It is not custom that patients have visitors at night, but since Mr McFadyen 

has not received any visitors, we deem it appropriate for you to have five minutes.” 

No mention of the guard who stood at the ready. Nothing, just a tired smile 

of politeness, and the typical Indian nod. 

Vadim shot the guard a glance, thought ‘touch me and I’ll break your neck’ 

then turned to the doctor. “Five minutes?” All he needed. Five minutes to see and 

touch Dan. Needed to see him. Would only believe he was there when he actually 

stood in front of him. His bed. He swallowed. He was hardly coherent, and knew it, 

couldn’t wait, couldn’t pause, his legs and feet were murder, his mind frayed, tired, 

so fucking tired he wanted to die, forced himself to appear as normal and stoic as 

he could, was more staggering than walking. “What’s his condition. How bad? 

Will he die?” 

“The patient is stable.” He doctor gestured towards the corridor, the guard 

following without any reaction to Vadim’s glare. “Still battling with the after 

effects of infection, but that was to be expected with the extent of injuries.” 

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Stable. Infection. Two words that registered, everything else just slipped 

past Vadim. He nodded, walked near the doctor, listened, wanted to rush in, didn’t 

even know where, needed more patience. 

“You need to wash your hands and change into protective clothing.” They 

walked through a door into the intensive care ward, and then towards the visitor 

room. “You have five minutes every hour, unless we deem it beneficial to the 

patient to receive prolonged visits. If the patient should be aggravated, there shall 

be no forthcoming visits.” The doctor glanced to the side, never quite fully at 

Vadim. 

Aggravated. Beneficiary. Whatever. Long, complicated words. Every 

heartbeat brought him closer to Dan. Dan who was not dead. Not dying. Stable. 

Was there a nicer word in any language than that? 

“Here.” The doctor pointed to a wash basin and soap, then the shrubs that 

consisted of long coat and hair cap for visitors. 

Vadim washed, didn’t think, just did, took off some of his clothes, wide 

trousers, a shirt, took off the rag, scrubbed his hands, fingernails, short and bitten 

off, saw his face red and burnt, didn’t care, saw the glint in his eyes, thought he 

looked like a lunatic. Washed his face, the neck, and got into the stiff coat that felt 

like it had been laundered a hundred times, cooked, boiled, starched, ironed. Filled 

it out, tight at the shoulder, reached for the cap. 

Wanted to see Dan, so badly, and felt the bile rise with fear. Didn’t want to 

see him hurt. Not like that. Nobody had mentioned burn wounds, abdomen they’d 

said, hadn’t they?, but he feared Dan would look so bad he wouldn’t recognise him. 

Formed fists with his hands, scared, as scared as he had the strength left to be. 

The guard followed even when the surgeon opened another door that lead 

to the ICU. Window fronted rooms like glass trays mounted on microscopes. 

“The guard will take you.” The hallway quiet except for bleeping, and the 

hushed tones of nurses and doctors. 

Vadim nodded, waited, followed like a man that had no other choice, didn’t 

quite believe he’d made it, felt unreal, a nightmare, one of those endless dreams. 

Smells, feelings, he wanted to sleep, desperate, didn’t know what he wanted, knew 

he was disoriented and exhausted. 

Dan’s unit was in its own area, through yet another door, with only one 

window spanning across the corridor. A special ward in an already private hospital. 

 623 

The smell of plastic and disinfectant pervading the air, and the constant noise of 

bleeping and whirring reached through the open door. The window allowed a full 

view of the patient, whose eyes were closed. Clipped dark hair in stark contrast to 

the white pillows, and the sickly pale skin beneath the former tan. 

The machines stood all around the motionless figure on the bed. Still 

hooked up to keep track of heart rate, blood pressure and oxygen saturation 

through arterial lines and intravenous catheters. Lifelines curling from nose, torso 

and limbs to bags with different solutions and probes that measured temperature, 

blood pressure, heart rate and respiration. Even though there was no respiratory 

tube anymore, only a small unit taped below the nostrils, the probe that kept the 

patient alive was still in his stomach, running through his nostril. 

Nil by mouth—except for a few sips of water that they had started to allow. 

Dan was asleep. A still and fragile figure in the centre of medical machinery. Thin, 

frail, having lost a substantial amount of weight, his facial features had sharpened 

and his eyes had sunk in his head, giving the impression of a skull, closer to death 

than life. They had shaved his head, easier to keep clean. His left hand thickly 

bandaged, his right still restrained to the bed. But he was breathing on his own, and 

his heart was beating in a steady line, flashing across a monitor. 

Doctor, guard, all forgotten. Dan. Vadim walked closer, first time in days 

without the weight of the bergan, had left it where his clothing was, moved closer, 

all those machines that were shielding. Not as bad, was his first thought. In one 

piece. He could see both legs, both arms, both hands, all the fingers. Both eyes. 

Dan looked young with that short hair, he could see the shape of the head properly, 

something his fingers had known, only once his eyes, had missed the feeling of that 

hair on his skin. Dan, not Dan, not reckless, fearless, sweating Dan, not alive, 

vibrant, insulting Dan. And still him. Shadow of a man. That was what a bomb did 

to a body, yes, unless it tore it apart, he checked the legs and arms again. All whole. 

Did not comprehend, it was all wrong, the bleeping, the lines, the cables, Dan not 

responding, not resting, just switched off. Vadim squeezed in between a machine 

and the bed, reached for a hand, the one that wasn’t bandaged. Clean. Aseptic. No 

pressure, no strength, the hand that had hit him, cut him, the hand that had been 

everywhere on his body, the hand he had fucked, that had fucked him, the hand 

that had covered his nose and mouth so he kept damned quiet, that same hand 

wasn’t itself anymore. In one piece. Stable. 

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Nothing he could do, no need to rush, no need to not waste any time. He’d 

made it. Dan was here, what a mercy, unexpected, hoped for, alive, breathing, 

secure. Lapushka. The pressure started from somewhere in his chest, it felt like a 

laugh, but wasn’t, was as much a laugh as that man was a soldier. Casualty. They’d 

take him home, career ending wound. It didn’t matter now. He’d rather see Dan 

leave for Scotland than see him dead or wounded. 

Lost him, found him, and the pressure rose and he felt it crawl out of his 

throat, too fucking tired to care, knew it was the stress and exhaustion, nothing to 

be ashamed of. Dan wouldn’t even notice, and he didn’t care who else saw it, and 

he let it go, went to his knees and cried, held Dan’s hand and cried against his arm, 

tried to be silent so they wouldn’t kick him out, nearly choked on the shit, felt like 

he was trying to breathe fire, salt, cried so hard every muscle in his body hurt. 

Wanted nothing but to curl up at the bed and guard it like a dog, had slept in worse 

places in the last weeks. 

The hand in Vadim’s twitched. Attempts at pressure, fingers pushing 

against the palm. Awake. As awake as Dan could be, while still on morphine and 

sedatives. The hand tried to move, gave up, as if resigned to being restrained.  

Vadim looked up, didn’t care the fucking tears were still running, couldn’t 

make that shit stop, just couldn’t, control never worked with Dan, he should have 

accepted that by now. “Dan?” he asked, hardly trusted his voice – or anything. 

“You awake?” 

The machine that monitored pulse sped up, the bleeping noise increased, 

and the fingers made a greater effort to push against the other’s. Dan’s eyes were 

open the moment Vadim raised his head. Dark eyes, large, so fucking huge in a far-

too pale and thin face. Even the scar stood out as starkly as it had done three years 

ago, when it had been fresh and angry. He was merely looking, those bloody big 

eyes simply staring. Disbelief, pain and fear and tiredness, but most of all a sense 

of recognition. 

“You...real?” Dan’s whisper was rusty and brittle. Disused and raspy from 

the soreness caused by tubes, his throat parched despite the water bottle on his 

bedside table. He couldn’t reach for it, but even without restraints, the effort a 

Herculean task. “Real?” Repeated. 

Vadim reached out to touch the face, then leaned in, still fucking crying and 

wrestling for every steady breath. Dan’s eyes. They were the worst thing. Yellow 

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mixed with the brown, more amber than dark, something far less right with this 

body than it looked, and that was bad. Stood, got to his feet, show of strength, 

didn’t want to show Dan how tired he was, how broken. Leaned in, thought fuck it, 

let them kick me out for this, touched his lips to Dan’s, dry, parched, not a real kiss, 

and more real than it had ever been.