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Title: Off The Clock
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Uhhh… Kirill comes from the Bourne Supremacy. Damian comes from Damian Lewis. They're both from D-Tech, but they're far from America now.
Pairing: Kirill and his Redhead.
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Raw sex, in due time. Dark, I guess. This has nothing to do with romance and fluffy bunnies and snogging. Or does it?
Disclaimer: I've taken a character from a movie and given him a background, and I've created another character based on the charisma of an actor, whom I don't know and I'm sure has never been a spy, and I've thrown them together because the hotness factor cannot be denied. I intend no copyright infringement of any sort.
Dedication: To the ever-patient and ever-pervy mlyn, who asked for this sooooo long ago, and has only reminded me of my promise of it on special occasions, and who is now joined (from the looks of the feedback) by other pervs who would like to see these men play some more.
Summary: Kirill is a spy who does freelance work. Damian is a spy who watches other spies. This could be what spies do during their time off. Or not. You never know.
Off The Clock
It was uncanny.
Kirill had never seen anyone sit so still while so relaxed. He had held himself that still, but only when tensed, evading capture, about to take a shot, poised to strike. Relaxed? Not like that. He'd never done it, he'd never seen it. Humans simply did not get that relaxed. Not when Kirill was anywhere near. Not without the aid of alcohol, and possibly narcotics.
It was not a thing that particularly troubled Kirill, his ability to make people nervous. It was useful. He considered it a gift. But this man, this Damian, with his shoulders loose and his eyes closed and his arms lying slackly on the rests - Kirill's arm rest, one of them - was relaxed. Peaceful, even.
Kirill had never had to contend with only one arm rest on a commercial flight before. Usually, businessmen and tourists alike squeezed themselves into the far corner of the seat. They did not use the shared armrest even when Kirill offered it to them. And here Damian was with his long body and his long limbs, lounging next to Kirill. Sprawled. Taking up space that was not, technically, his.
And Damian knew who Kirill was! Uncanny.
He must be very brave. Kirill refused to consider that Damian might be very stupid. After all, Damian had offered himself to Kirill at the bathhouse. That showed intelligence.
Firstly, it showed intelligence because it was the perfect way to surveil Kirill. Secondly, it was the perfect way to hide that he was surveilling Kirill at the same time he surveilled him. Who would ever believe an agent, a British agent, would go that deep under cover? Kirill had not suspected him for a moment. That in itself was alarming. Thirdly, Damian had displayed no difficulty in knowing exactly what Kirill wanted. Kirill liked to think that sort of intuitive responsiveness was evidence of intelligence. The only other interpretation would be that Kirill was predictable. Overly predictable. Sadly predictable.
Kirill was not predictable.
Kirill's brows knit together. What had happened next in the bathhouse had certainly not been predictable. The 'having sex with the Americans' aspect had been a foregone conclusion, but the way. The way they'd had sex had been most surprising.
Maybe not to Sanderson.
He was a sly one.
Sanderson made Kirill wary. Not nervous, but wary.
Kirill could handle the big one. Superior physical condition, outstanding training, finely honed instincts, sharp mind - these things were formidable but not impossible to overcome. Kirill would hate to get into a fist fight with Hoot, but Hoot wasn't sly enough to be unbeatable. He had too much honour on the field of battle. In bed… yes, he had honour in bed too. He would not play tricks. He would be, he was, fundamentally honest. Open. Voracious.
How did Sanderson put up with it?
What had Sanderson called him when they were leaving? Kirill had barely heard it.Slut, he'd said quietly. Affectionately.
Slut he might be, but his loyalty to Sanderson was obvious. Sanderson had nothing to worry about.
But Sanderson, while not a cheating lying dog, would be more circumspect about his sexual conquests. He might even have a lover or two hidden from Hoot. Unless the two of them were so firmly committed in their partnership they shared everything. They might, by now. When he'd last encountered them they had not been so close, he thought.
Kirill remembered the airfield, the hot wind blowing from the north, the pale, dry grass by the tarmac. His target had been a general. The Americans had been there on another matter. Busy little airstrip, it had been. Gone now. Large things can get swallowed by the rainforest. The Americans had been angry with Kirill. Somehow his killing of the general reflected poorly on their protection of the diplomat, and they'd reacted with anger, as if Kirill had planned to make them look bad to their superior officers. He'd explained to them it was not personal. Such is the way of commerce in despotic regimes.
Americans always took everything so personally. It was part and parcel of their rugged individualism. That was what the literature instructor had always impressed upon his students. Rugged individualism. Americans believe their own myths, the teacher had said. Learn them. Use them.
Sanderson's myth was more complicated than Hoot's. On the filed of battle, he was more roundabout. He would come through the secret entrance, choose wits over brute force if possible, but when there was no other choice his brawn would more than suffice. In the other kind of war - diplomacy, negotiations, trickery - he would be as fast and silent and deadly as Hoot on the ground. You would never see him coming until it was almost too late.
Damian, though... It was too late. Kirill had not seen him coming at all. Damian was stealth in plain view.
Kirill studied Damian's face in the muted light of the cabin. Freshly shaved, clean, skin looking almost soft to the touch with it's paleness and those faint freckles. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes dark copper, the brows russet. When it grew, his stubble would be a brighter red. Unusual that colour. So rich. Not common in Kirill's home. Not common anywhere, except, perhaps, Damian's home.
Damian's lips were slightly parted. They had felt magical on Kirill's cock.
No. They had not. There was nothing special about his lips or his face or his hair or his body. Nothing at all, Kirill told himself crossly. And Damian wasn't as tall as Kirill had imagined him either. He'd only seemed taller because of the way his limbs had been folded. Submissives always look taller when they kneel.
Kirill scowled and stared tat the dull grey seatback, crossed his legs at the ankle, clenched his fists.
This was no real submissive. Damian had merely been playing a part. He had to have been. There had been no submission. It had all been shadows and trickery. Tradecraft, yes, but not the sort they teach you at the academy. Damian had assumed the role Kirill wanted him to assume. There had been skill in determining the persona, intelligence and knowledge required, but as a submission? How good had Damian really been? It had been dark. There were a lot of distractions. In the heightened atmosphere of the small room amidst all those bodies, it would not have difficult to pass oneself off as…
But Kirill had always been able to tell who was real, who was false. That was another of his gifts. He always knew which ones were doing it for the sex and which were doing it for something deeper. His ability to see through the mist had not been hampered.
Yet he'd not seen who Damian really was. So perhaps… perhaps Damian was that good. He had not really wanted Kirill - it was all part of the job - but he'd made it seem so real. So satisfying. and all along he was only doing it to maintain his cover, and to keep an eye on Kirill.
To keep a mouth on Kirill.
Kirill crossed his legs further up.
Damian might not have enjoyed it at all, but Kirill had.
Damian moved in his sleep, suddenly, for the first time in over thirty-five minutes.
He licked his lips.
God damn him, he had a beautiful mouth. Moist and pouty in the lips. And that jaw line. Fucking masculine. That vertical groove above his upper lip, so stark, dividing him, defining him. Kirill thought about reaching up and touching that smooth furrow. He did not know the name of it in English. Hell, he didn't know the name of it in Russian. He just knew that some men had it more than others, and the way Damian had it was fucking exquisite.
Kirill did not know if Damian was a fist name or a last name.
He had heard the name before. The second English movie he'd ever seen was the Omen. It had scared the shit out of him. He had only been a kid. Young Kirill, back when he'd been called Milan, had not known what to be more frightened of - the devil taking over a child's body, or the authorities bursting in and finding them there with a stolen videoplayer and a television and a decadent western movie. He had enjoyed both fears in equal measure.
Damian.
The lips curled up at the corners in a soft smile. "Your breathing's changed," Damian said softly.
Fuck. Kirill had been so wrapped up in his thoughts he'd neglected the control of his body functions. He took a moment to get his vitals back under control, even if there was little he could do about the blood that had already flowed to his cock.
"There are five hours to go on this flight," Damian said without checking his watch. "You'll have to be more patient than this."
As if Damian had any intention of…
"You tease," Kirill growled.
Damian's smile widened. "I can feel your eyes on my mouth," Damian whispered, and in the act of whispering pursed his lips in such a way that Krill could feel them on his cock. "Believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to ignore the other 273 passengers on this plane, but it's best not to be noticed too much in our line of work, don't you find?"
Ha. As if Kirill was about to fall for that. Fucking tease. He had a six-hour layover at Heathrow, and then he was on a flight for Moscow. He had time for games, sure, but he did not believe Damian had any intention of carrying out the promise of those lips.
Pity, as the British might say.
Damian turned to face him and opened his eyes. They were blue, Kirill noticed, but not a cold blue. Not cold at all.
"Tease," Kirill repeated.
"I never tease," Damian said, pronouncing the words distinctly.
"Then what is your game?" Kirill asked.
"I don't play games."
"You did at bathhouse."
"I wasn't playing."
Kirill looked away. Damian was good. Too good. There was no sign at all that he was lying. Not a glimmer of mirth. Not a hint of indecision. He was still relaxed. Kirill could lie easily, but he had to school his features to betray nothing. Damian did not seem to be tensing a single muscle under that pale skin. With the freckles. More freckles at his brow. And his hair looked soft but thick and strong. The kind of hair you could pull. Hard.
Damian switched on the overhead air. "Don't you ever go off the clock?" he asked.
"Off the clock? You think you are my unpaid overtime? You think my boss will give me bonus points if I fuck you in toilet stall?"
"No, not like that. I mean, don't you ever clock off?"
"You want to clock me now?" Damn this slang. Kirill was getting frustrated.
Damian sighed. "It's all work with you Russians."
Oh. He meant Kirill did not know how to stop working, to punch the clock and forget work and have a good time. "No, it is British who are uptight. Everybody knows this," Kirill said.
"I had a good time at the bathhouse. Didn't you?"
Ah, okay. So Damian might have enjoyed himself after all. That gave Kirill the edge. Kirill liked the edge. The edge was where Kirill lived. He would work his edge. "With you?" he asked. "Or with the Americans?"
Damian sighed again. "You did them both, didn't you? At the same time." He sounded almost disappointed.
It was the first sign of Damian not being in complete control of himself. Kirill liked it. Too much. He calmed himself and grunted his confirmation. There was no way Damian would ever find out what happened in that room. Kirill would see to that.
"A little crass, don't you think?" Damian asked.
"Crass? What is crass?" Kirill asked. Clocks and crass - this was preposterous. They had communicated better at the bathhouse without words.
"It's fine that you worked out your deal with the Americans and all that, really rather admirable, but honestly, Milan, was it necessary to have sex with them? Weren't you satisfied?"
It had nothing to do with satisfaction. "We fucked on the deal," Kirill said. "And you do not call me 'Milan'."
"Fine," Damian said. "Fine, Kirill."
What was this? It was as if Damian was insulted Kirill had gone on to have sex with more men. What was Kirill supposed to do? He was in a bathhouse, for fucksake. That is what you are supposed to do in bathhouses. So Kirill had let Damian suck his cock. So Kirill had come in his mouth. And on his face. Claimed him for the time it took to shoot his load. Told him his name. Was that supposed to mean something?
What business was it of Damian's? He was not supposed to have been a spy. He was supposed to leave the bathhouse, go home, jerk off thinking about Kirill. If anyone had been betrayed it was Kirill. Fucking MI6. Kirill's hand was clenched around Damian's collar before Kirill was aware of what was happening.
Damian tensed then. Damn right he tensed.
"You think you are owed something?" Kirill snarled.
Damian stared the six or seven inches across the distance between their eyes. Defiantly, Kirill thought. Unblinkingly. Shockingly blue.
And so Kirill stares out the window of a cottage - a fucking cottage - in the fucking Lake District. No connecting flight. No Moscow. Just him and Damian in this fucking cottage on a hill looking over a lake, but Damian calls it a 'mere', in a fucking tourist area. None of Damian's assurances of privacy have allayed Kirill's concerns about being seen. There is a village not far away and it is full of people. There are other cottages, although this one is remarkably well-hidden. There are locals. There are tourists. This is not Kirill's idea of a safe place.
To Kirill, safe means in the midst of a huge crowd or utterly alone.
It smells like no one has been here for years, and they haven't. Damian inherited it from his grandparents, who are dead, as are his parents, and Damian has no time to come here, but he keeps it because he spent his summers here when he was a boy. And because no one else knows it's here. But now he's brought Kirill here, so Kirill concludes that Damian is either very smart, very stupid, a hopeless romantic, or planning to kill Kirill and sink his corpse in the mere.
Damian has opened some windows and taken sheets off some furniture and is making a meal from food he bought in the village, which smells like good food but that's not enough to make Kirill relax.
Damian is relaxed. Kirill is starting to think that Damian is always relaxed unless he is being immediately and directly threatened. What is he supposed to do with a man like this? What does Damian want of him?
"It'll be half an hour," Damian says. "Hope you'll like it."
Kirill shrugs. "I am not particular about food," he says.
"But you are particular about security."
Kirill nods.
"No one knows you're here. They cannot trace you."
"Is that supposed to comfort me?"
Damian gives him another one of those little smiles, a little sad, a little rueful. "I didn't force you to come here," he says.
"No, but I think you lured me."
Damian gives a full grin at that. He ducks his head a little. Perhaps he is shy after all. Then he looks at with the shocking blue eyes again. "So, why did you come?" he asks.
"Curiosity," Kirill says. Honestly.
"Let me satisfy your curiosity," Damian says. He slides around the sofa, which is still covered in a powdery grey sheet. He steps onto the rug Kirill stands on. He's barefoot. Kirill doesn't know when Damian took his shoes off. He had been too busy glowering at the mere.
Damian falls to his knees in front of Kirill.
Fuck. God damn him. His mouth is special. Kirill had imagined nothing in the bathhouse. It was all real. There is something very special about his lips and his face and his hair and his body. But mostly his tongue. Ah, Damian's tongue, circling Kirill and twisting around him. Fuck, he is good. And he loves what he's doing. His whole body is responding to it, muscles tightened like the strings of some tall, luscious red-headed instrument of pleasure. And he is only touching Kirill with his mouth. What would happen if Kirill ever got Damian into that feather bed he'd seen in the upstairs room? What kind of pleasure would there be in that?
Damian moans a little when Kirill presses his hips forward. Kirill grabs that red hair and it is as soft and strong as Damian looks. This is everything Kirill enjoyed that first time but more, because he has time. He has no meet in five minutes, no threats to stifle his pleasure, and nothing to prove. He cannot decide if he wants to come in Damian's mouth or on his face again. He even wonders, in the tiny part of his mind where the neurons are still firing in a logical sequence, which Damian would prefer.
Then it is too late to make the decision, because he is coming down Damian's throat.
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It had taken so much effort to get Kirill here, isolated, away from the job, away from danger, and away from the things that distracted him. Here he could be himself. He could even be Milan, even though Milan may have been lost years ago.
Not entirely lost. There was proof of that. He had asked Damian to call him by his real name at the bathhouse. Perhaps that had been mere strategy. Kirill would not want to give the name he always used, what he thought of now as his name, to a stranger. But maybe it had been a moment of weakness, a brief flash of genuine need. Everyone needs to be recognized some time. Kirill is shrouded in so many layers of secrecy and fear and paranoia and façade, it's tough to see that there is anything left at the core, but the core had been exposed at that one moment when all men can no longer hide.
The question was, would Kirill undress again?
Damian is fully aware that few people are capable of his own remarkable degree of compartmentalization. He knows he keeps the parts of himself more separate than most. Damian can turn lightning fast from play to work, from himself to a persona, from light to dark. He never gets the spins.
Kirill is another matter. Even the basic facts of his past had been difficult to obtain. He's buried it so deep, or has buried himself so deep, he's a cipher. It seemed as if he'd appeared from nowhere, a sergeant in the Soviet Army. Where were the records of his induction? He must have been a private at some point. He had to have gone to school. No one is without parents, family of some kind.
Damian had dug deeper and discovered that Kirill had not, in fact, materialized in the mists of Chechnya, fully trained and armed with a sniper rifle. According to Damian's investigations, Kirill had sprung fully-formed, or as fully-formed as one can be at the alleged age of 17, from the steppes north of the Altay mountains. But there was no evidence of where he originally came from. Maybe Milan was not, in fact, the name he'd been born with, as Damian assumed it was. Maybe it was only the first name that had popped into Kirill's mind.
Damian had his suspicions of a "bad" family, but who didn't have something in their past in Russia? Stalin had labelled someone in just about everyone's family counter-revolutionary. Half of those condemned as kulaks were not, and those who were had been unjustly punished, or so current thinking went. But that had not been the current thinking before the fall, so at the time of Kirill's appearance in the army, whatever Kirill was hiding was worth keeping hidden. To Kirill.
Since that time, it's been up the ladder. Sniper duty, special forces, on to the KGB, the FSB, private contracting along with his more official duties. All over the world the story is the same. It wasn't so different for the Americans, except they seem to have gone into atypically legitimate business for themselves. They've refused several foreign jobs on the basis of, of all things, morals.
Kirill does not appear to be hampered by morals, or hadn't until he'd agreed with the Americans to switch hit lists and kill off only men who deserved it instead of the real targets. Damian had considered him one of the enemy until then. A very attractive one of the enemy, but one of dozens of international ops who had one or both feet in the private realm. Men Damian keeps tabs on as a part of his job. He knows Kirill, he knows Gibson and Sanderson, he knows that guy in upstate New York who just got out of rehab, and that guy in Cuba and all the Brits, the Germans, the Russians, and the French. He knows guys still in the service, and the ones newly emerged. Kirill is just one of many.
Some day, Damian will retire and he will be one of them. He has no idea what he will do with his freedom, but he's had the opportunity to observe almost every possible future, from private consultation and legal advice to all-out mercenary activity, from upright and legal to blacker than black ops. There is demand for the skills of the elite soldier in almost every realm of the modern global economy. Kirill has a definite lean toward the illegal, but he has some protection since he's still employed by the state. He has more resources than most, when things go badly. When he's operating outside government auspices, he tends toward the lucrative. The jobs others refuse due to risk or immorality. Nasty piece of work, well worth watching.
Damian had done extra research on Kirill from the start, true. He's taken a keen interest in Kirill's progress since his first extra-governmental assignment. But Damian had never considered approaching him, not until that night at the bathhouse.
A bathhouse. Trust an American to come up with an idea like that. A bathhouse full of naked men and muscle. A bathhouse smelling of men and sweat and semen and more men. A bathhouse packed with sex of every variety and kinks of even more variety.
There had been no real reason for Damian to go inside. What would the point have been? The Americans would go in. The Russian would go in. They would take off their clothes, like everyone else, and they would meet and discuss something, the job, and the result of the convo would become obvious in their actions after they left, not while they were still inside. Damian would have been better off watching the exits, because there was no way he could get close enough to overhear anything of import, not with that dreadful music playing. But…
But.
But he had. He had gone in. He had waited. He had dared.
And now Damian is waiting to see what will happen next. He feels the bitter tingle of Kirill's come in the back of his throat. He's been allowed to swallow it all this time, not that he'd objected to the portion that landed on his face back in Toronto. He holds that lovely cock between his lips as it softens, always Damian's favourite part of the act because it shows the vulnerability of the top in such a graphic manner. He keeps his eyes closed, wanting to concentrate on every detail. The last time had been so frantic.
First he'd had to get inside, recce the place, figure out which room Kirill would most likely be drawn to. Once Kirill arrived, he'd had to beat out the other applicants for the task - he'd been terrified Kirill would choose the young man with the dark hair. It wouldn't have blown his cover to be rejected, but it would have been a terrible disappointment. And then the act itself had been rushed. Kirill had demanded speed, although not in words, never in words, and Damian had obeyed, as was his nature, but it left him hoping for more. Wanting more. Wanting everything. Absolutely everything.
In a lifetime of risk-taking behaviour, this is the biggest risk Damian has ever taken. But it is not a risk without merit. It was not taken without some hope of success. Damian has done his research well. And it is not a needless risk.
In fact, it is a risk full of need, so much need that Damian aches.
The fingers loosen in his hair and the silken skin of Kirill's cock slips wetly from between his lips.
Damian bows his head. This is the moment.
Kirill's fingers linger on his hair.
That's a good sign.
Kirill reaches down and hooks a finger under Damian's chin, forcing it up.
Damian opens his eyes.
"This is a great risk you take," Kirill says slowly. "Do you know how great?"
Damian nods as much as Kirill's steely fingers will allow.
Kirill strokes his chin with his thumb, and then he runs his thumb over Damian's upper lip. Damian holds his breath as Kirill's thumb rubs up and down, between his nose and his lips, following the groove in his skin. Damian looks into Kirill's eyes. They are dark, hazel, and sharp. Damian looks up and waits. On his knees like this, it is almost like praying.
"Is dinner ready yet?" Kirill asks softly. "I think I need more energy."
"Almost," Damian replies, movement still hampered by unrelenting fingers.
The fingers nudge upward, and Damian rises to his feet with as much fluidity of movement as can be expected. His cock, trapped between his legs where he forced it before entering the room, strains at his pants. It is bent at a most distressing angle, the better to keep it from responding too eagerly to the nearness of the Russian. Kirill's hand is hot against it. The squeeze is painful. Kirill leans close.
"You may call me Milan," Kirill says. "But only at the moment when you come."
Damian nods and tries not to come just from the pressure on his cock and the heat of Kirill's breath in his ear. Kirill's fingers shift and curve around his shaft. After all this anticipation, the long flight, the train to Damian's car, the drive, the going-through-the-motions oddness of opening the cottage and making a meal while this man haunts the next room… this has all taken its toll on Damian, and Kirill knows it. His eyes grow cold for a moment, when Damian's breath catches. His mouth closes in a cruel line. He might not let Damian come for a long time. Or he might slide a stiletto between his fourth and third ribs at the moment of reckoning.
Or he might widen his fingers and begin to stroke steadily. He might catch Damian's ear lobe with his teeth and tug at it. He might place his other hand on the small of Damian's back, so that Damian feels protected. He won't fall over when he finally comes.
Damian's head falls back and his come begs its way through his bent cock. It hurts, but all the best things hurt. The hand at Damian's back moves to give him better support, and the teeth on his ear move down to sink into his neck.
Damian moans.
Kirill might be killing him. Damian can't tell.
"Milan," Damian says hoarsely.
He's let down slowly until he's back on his knees on the floor, with his throbbing cock wallowing in his wet pants and Kirill's teeth still in his flesh. That's going to leave a mark. Kirill's hands slide up, one on the back of his neck, the other cupping his cheek.
"That is a standing order," Kirill whispers. "You call me Milan every time I make you come, not just this once."
Every time, Damian thinks hazily. Every single time.
Back to Soldier Porn or on to dinner, in Adrenaline Withdrawal
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