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Title: The Lake District – Adrenaline Withdrawal
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Ummmm… it's kind of pre-Bourne Supremacy, kind of original, with links to D-Tech, hence Black Hawk Down, but with no one from Black Hawk Down in it. Hence, the "original"ish classification.
Pairing: Damian/Kirill
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Made up, and shamelessly so.
Follows: Aftermath and Off the Clock. Damian has brought Kirill to a cottage in the Lake District, because that's the last place anyone would ever think to look for guys like this.
Dedication: For mlyn, the most patientest perv ever. And cute too!
Adrenaline Withdrawal
It was not easy.
But then, nothing was ever easy where Kirill was involved.
Damian was starving, but he could barely eat. His stomach was jumping somewhere up in the middle of this throat. His mouth was dry. No, it was wet. His tongue felt too rough, his lips swollen. The swelling of the lips was not an illusion. They were swollen, a little. From working so hard. He didn't mind working hard, but sometimes his lips did. Sometimes his whole body did. His toes were cramped from curling so violently when he came. He could still feel the floor against his knees, even though he was sitting up at the table like a civilized person, opposite Kirill, who was not civilized.
Kirill was something else entirely.
Kirill had his eyes closed as he slowly chewed. His fingers clutched a napkin, let go, flattened against the table. Damian watched the fingertips rub the smooth wood. The table was very old, a dark wood with a low lustre. Kirill's fingers were white against it, where they pressed against the surface. Tense.
Kirill swallowed.
Damian wondered if he would ever really get to feel those lips. He wanted very much to feel them. They were full, looked lush. He'd felt the barest hint of them when Kirill had sunk his teeth into the skin of Damian's neck.
Once he thought of it, which was something he'd been trying to avoid, Damian could feel the teeth - not really the teeth, but where the teeth had been, where the skin throbbed, hotter than the surrounding skin. More satisfied. But still craving lips.
The slightly blunted tips of Kirill's fingers lifted the linen to those lips.
Damian could only concentrate on these details, on thing at a time. Fingers. Lips. Movement of the throat. Curtain of lashes lifting, hazel and bright.
Were Damian to think of the big picture, he would have to think about what he'd done by bringing Kirill here to his safehouse, to his most personal space, so personal that he did not, in fact, keep anything personal there. He would have to face the fact that Kirill was sitting across the table from him. Eating. Eating food Damian had prepared.
Damian pressed his lips together to keep his teeth from chattering.
He recognised this. Adrenaline withdrawal. He used his biofeedback training to mitigate it. He should get some food into himself, or maybe some caffeine, so he wouldn’t come down too fast and crash. The last thing he needed was to pass out when he had Kirill in his house.
Kirill might kill him while he slept it off.
Damian got up to fetch the teapot. Good strong tea would do the trick. The cup only clattered a little in the saucer. Damian blew air out slowly, counting to ten as he slowed his heartbeat. He held the teapot more or less steadily, but the stream of hot, dark liquid splashed against the side of the cup instead of into the milk.
Kirill's hand stilled his wrist.
"You don't need tea," Kirill said.
He didn't?
"You need to get some air."
He did!
And it was a good time to go out, dead of night, no one about. Damian led the way down through the overgrown garden, the crooked stone steps, and path that wound back on itself ending at the boathouse. There was no boat. There hadn't been one for years. There was the smell of an ancient tarpaulin and weedy undergrowth, wet wood, and possibly mouldy life jackets. Damian found the stub of a candle, stuck in the bottom of a tin, where he had left it, on a decaying shelf by the door. The flare of Kirill's lighter made him jump. Once more, Kirill steadied his wrist.
"A little light is nice," Kirill said. But only inside the boathouse, he did not have to say aloud.
But there was nothing to do inside the boathouse. It wasn't a large boathouse. There was no floor above the dock. There was only the narrow ledge of floorboards and water lapping at the posts below and some old junk hanging from the walls It was damp and dreary and not really better than anywhere else, except that there could be light, and Damian did not really, now that he thought about it, want light. He stood still while Kirill moved the candle up to his face.
"Do you swim?" Kirill asked.
Damian nodded. Of course, he swam. It was mandatory. Everyone could swim. Everyone could swim, hold their breath for four minutes, jump out of a plane, drive defensively, operate the short wave, kill a man seventeen ways with their bare hands, forge simple documents, hack a security system, devise a substitution code on the spot in case of emergency, fire a sidearm...
...strip. Naked. In a boathouse.
Kirill moved the candle again, up and down Damian's body, while Damian stood perfectly still, even though he wanted to run. After a time, after several passes of the candle and one particularly long moment when Kirill held the light beside Damian's mouth and made a sigh that anyone else would have mistaken for a passing bird or the kiss of water against the shore, Kirill held the light up to his own mouth and pursed his full lips and blew out the light.
"I will watch you swim," Kirill said.
And Damian walked out of the boathouse to the little pier and dove into the black water. Shallow dive. Just because there was a sociopathic Russian hit man standing beside the boat house, there was no reason to risk spinal injury.
The smart thing to do would have been to swim across the lake to McGillson's place, feign inebriation, ask to stay the night, act suitably sheepish. No one would have thought it all that unusual. Damian could have done that. He could have.
The water slipped past his skin. He was a streak of pale in the inky lake. Kirill's eyes were on him, watching him in the water, watching his limbs move. It wasn't quite black out, not out in the open like than, not over the lake. Kirill would be watching him glide to the big rock and stop swimming. Kirill had not said to keep swimming until he was told to stop. He had to stop. He couldn't breathe.
Damian pulled himself onto the big rock with one smooth motion. He lay back and looked at the cloud-shrouded moon. His lungs were tight. His balls were tighter. His cock had somehow stayed hard, in spite of the cold water. The water was always cold. Cold and lacking oxygen. That did not stop his cock. From the moment in the garden, when he'd felt Kirill's hand on the small of his back, it had been like that. Damian spread his legs and cupped his balls with one hand. He stroked his cock with the other hand to warm it.
Kirill moved on the shore.
Damian closed his eyes so he could hear the splash better. It was a smooth entry. Sharklike, if a shark were to somehow dive into the water from land. Almost no splash. Sleek. It only seemed a moment, then Kirill emerged and covered him.
Kirill had stayed warm in spite of the chill water. He spread himself over Damian, and Damian's arms and legs tingled as the blood returned to them. Kirill shifted suddenly to one side and gripped Damian's hard cock.
"You need endorphins to replace adrenaline," Kirill suggested. "This will bring you down more gentle."
No, it wouldn't. How would that help? That was bad science.
He pulled on Damian's cock deliberately, not at all gently, in unqualified control.
"Poor Damian," Kirill purred in his ear. "Too much excitement for you. Always so careful. You take big risks every day, but none with so high a stake. You think I might reject you. I might leave you here, all alone. Big risk, big danger. So now, you second-guess yourself. Never a good strategy."
Damian gasped. The hand on his cock was mercilessly sliding his foreskin up and down, squeezing, pulling, pulling him inside out, knuckles dragging over his painfully hard abdominals, nail of the last finger scratching a groove into him, indelibly.
And then the lips.
Warm, full and lush, as Damian had expected. There was no hint of teeth, now it was only lips, and they were on his jaw, just beneath his jaw, moving just enough to cause suction, to convince Damian they were really there. Damian tensed, all control gone.
It had been a terrible mistake, undoubtedly fatal, to bring Kirill to this place. Kirill was going to kill him. If he did not snap his neck or slit his throat, he would kill him with sex, and then he was going to sink his body in the mere and return to Moscow, mission accomplished a hundred times over.
It would be an incredible coup for Kirill to claim a British agent. England did not do business that way, not anymore, but for all Damian knew there could be a monetary bonus in it for Kirill. Damian knew, he simply knew, that the moment he came would be his last. And he could hold it off no longer.
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"Why so surprised?" Kirill asked.
Damian's eyes were wide and, even with the clouds filtering the moonlight, bright blue. His mouth was open, not wide but a little lax. He was so pale, even compared to Kirill, whose skin hardly ever saw the sun; the freckles on his shoulders looked liked dots of ink.
Kirill trailed his fingers through the pool of semen on Damian's stomach. It was still thick, slippery, but it would turn to liquid soon enough, and then it would get tacky and unpleasant. There was a reason Kirill did not like anyone to come on his skin. But on Damian's skin…
Damian took a deep breath. So surprised.
"What," Kirill asked, "did you think I was going to slaughter you while you came?"
Damian blinked, lying before Kirill like some sacrifice of old. What did he expect Kirill to do? Eviscerate him?
Adrenaline is a crafty substance. Too much or too little can to things to a man's thinking.
Kirill leaned down. His nose brushed the wet hair that curled about Damian's ear. Even after swimming through the water, which had its own smell of weeds and minerals, Damian smelled like Damian. A scent Kirill would come to associate with comfort, eventually. Not yet.
"You are as alive as me," Kirill said slowly. He reached across Damian and scooped some water over his stomach. The muscles clenched, curved down, made Damian look almost thin. Shocking. Damian was not thin. He was long and lean, but not thin. Kirill scooped more water, and Damian curled up.
"Milan," he gasped.
Kirill smiled. He was glad for the darkness, because his smiles, he knew, were not always pleasant. They tended to scare the crap out of people. Scaring the crap out of people was one of Kirill's favourite pastimes, but not now, not here. He had no need or desire to scare Damian at this moment.
"What is it you English say?" he asked. "'Better late than never'?"
Damian nodded. He sank back on the rock, not so tense, not quite so sacrificial.
Pity.
Kirill looked down at himself. He wasn't even hard. It had not been sex for him at all. It had been a matter of biology. Damian needed to come down from the adrenaline in a safe and controlled fashion. Kirill had accomplished that admirably. Damian would not crash.
It had not been disagreeable. He liked the shape of Damian's cock, a pleasing shape, well-proportioned and not too bumpy. Kirill did not enjoy a gnarled cock. He did not like veins sticking out too far or uneven texture, or a misshapen head. He liked everything neat and clean and streamlined. Damian was streamlined from head to toe, long in the limbs and torso alike. He did not have as many muscles as Kirill, or rather, his muscles were not so bulky – everyone has the same muscles, but some are hidden by too much fat and others show every detail because they have no fat at all.
Damian, as far as Kirill was concerned, had the exact amount of everything.
Damian raised a hand and touched his jaw. Ah, he had enjoyed the feel of lips. He had a healthy appetite for variety.
Kirill bent so his lips were very close to Damian's ear, close to where he'd bitten earlier.
"Oh, Damian," Kirill whispered. "The things I could do to you."
END
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There will be more of these two at some point. To be honest, it exhausts me to write them. But I can’t imagine leaving them there, on a big rock in the middle of a mere in the middle of the night. Not when there is a feather bed in the cottage...
Back to The Long Haul or Soldier Porn
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