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Tiitle: D-Tech: The Americans
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post-Black Hawk Down x pre-Bourne Supremacy
Series: D-Tech / The Long Haul
Pairing: Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Public sex. LOTS of it. Unsafe, too. And not work safe.
Disclaimer: Hoot and Sanderson were composites, hence there’s no way they could ever open their own business, so this is obviously fiction, based loosely on some movies I enjoyed. I have plucked The Russian from his environment of origin because he's so darn purdy and deadly. No harm, no foul.
Note: There is no cheap traveller’s hostel across the street from the Arbat Deli. There’s a fake Irish pub across from it, and a pet food store beside it. I made up the hostel. It’s called fiction. (But there really are were outdoor chess tables on the corner of Young Street near Ryerson U. They are gone now, but old Russian men used to play there when the weather was clement, and some were masters, if not grand masters.)
D-Tech: The Americans
One can almost see the air in this part of the bathhouse. Steam hangs heavy and dense, but, more than that, the atmosphere in which it is suspended is a miasma of sex, desire and nearly visible pheromones with a tinge of testosterone. Fetid. Disgusting, really, if one were to be honest about it.
Honesty is not one of Kirill’s strong suits.
He cuts through the crowd, glancing off others, slippery as a fish or a well-lubed cock, making everything around him heat with sexual tension, ripple with excitement, without ever making substantial contact.
The underworld is Kirill’s natural and chosen environment. And this is the underworld, or what passes for one in a pampered, decadent, bourgeois cesspool like Toronto.
Kirill is not at all surprised when clichéd words such as ‘decadent’ and ‘bourgeois’ spring to mind. They come to him as naturally as the predator’s stance he adopted when he walked through the door marked ‘Excess’. Kirill may live in the new Russia, but he grew up in the U.S.S.R. - old habits, particularly those ingrained from birth and enforced without mercy, die hard. He is well-versed in the ways of the free market, every-man-for-himself, capitalist world, but he spent his formative years in a part of Russia where the cold war still isn’t over and perestroika is as foreign as Disneyland.
Kirill comes from true revolutionary stock, banished to the hinterland before Lenin even returned to the Motherland from his joke of an exile. The Tsar himself signed the paperwork, and it probably still hangs in the family homestead, in a place of pride on the wall beside the portraits of martyrs and heroes, newspaper clippings and public notices.
“Look,” he can hear his aged grandfather, dead these past fifteen years, wheeze as he pointed to a faded notice of a public execution, “my Great-Uncle Petru, a true rock of the revolution, he was. Died alongside Lenin’s older brother.” Kirill’s family is of the rich, red blood of the masses. “Uncle Sasha lost those legs in the Battle of Stalingrad; bring him more vodka, he deserves it still.” It was all the bitter old man ever drank. “Aunt Natasha’s face is like that because of her valour; do not be frightened of the old woman.” But that eye, the one young Kirill was repeatedly assured no longer worked, seemed ever fixed on him in a most ominous fashion. “Pay no attention to those fits of violence; Cousin Ilya was involved in important testing for the military. Top secret. Suffers for his patriotism.” Crazy Cousin Ilya, who almost cut off Kirill’s left arm that one time.
These are not things Kirill likes to dwell upon, but the memories flow, unbidden. Prompted by eerie coincidences. This morning he stepped out of his unassuming, inconspicuous travelers’ hostel and found himself opposite a delicatessen called ‘The Arbat’. He lived on the Arbat, not so long ago, when he was a cadet.
Inside, he’d ordered comforting food, expertly faking a Georgian accent so he would be harder to identify, and skimmed a magazine featuring a picture of that model he fucked in the back room of the propaganda poster exhibit at the Moscow Gallery. She’s married now, apparently. Good. She’ll be less of a bother.
When he entered the subway station, he passed a fiddler playing folk songs from home. Here, in Toronto of all places. The song his grandmother used to sing at the grave of her youngest daughter. Imagine.
Then, on the way to the drop point, there were two old men playing chess at tiled concrete tables, one a little drunk from the night before and wincing in the bright sunlight, the other serious and cunning, while no less hungover. Kirill could not help flashing back to the somber ceremony of his grandfather removing a newspaper clipping from the wall, his reluctant crumpling and burning of the same face at which Kirill stared in disbelief as he stood on Young Street waiting for the light to change.
He’d often gazed at that wise face in the grainy news photo, wondering if the severe man in the picture was related to him. Why else would the man’s face be on the wall? Kirill had always figured he was another famous but distant relative. He was not a relative, as it turned out; the man was grand master, revered by all.
Kirill’s father used to tell of the time he and his uncle traveled to nearest city to see the great man play. He won the match, of course. Brilliantly. That’s why he was a hero, and why his defection to the West, when Kirill was only six or seven at most, had been such a crushing blow.
Sitting at an outdoor chess table hustling all comers to pay the rent on his room, no doubt the master must regret that momentous decision to flee to the alleged safety of the first world. Had he stayed in Russia, he would at least have a pension now, even if it were a pittance, and delivered irregularly.
But then, defection might have been the better idea after all. Here, at least, there is cheap coffee to be had.
No. Seeing that master here, that would be too much of a coincidence. A twist of fate that would bring out the superstitious peasant in Kirill, make him lose his edge. Far better – far safer - to believe it was some other brilliant chess player with a heavy Russian accent and a distinctive mole on his left cheek, who had just used his queen and rook to construct a defence even Kirill could see no way around.
Kirill does not play chess anymore. He has more important things to think about.
He’d pushed on, still assuming this was a simple drop. He would receive a list of descriptions, possibly with names attached. The targets were to be eliminated on a schedule, tight but do-able. There was a lot of money at stake.
There still is a lot of money at stake.
Money means a lot to Kirill. It does to everyone, where he is from. Where reputation and name and party contacts used to be sufficient, money is now also required. And money is not so easily had, unless you have the strength to earn it.
It was sheer, bloody-minded rebellion on his part, when he joined the army, then became a part of the police state that had mutated from the ideals of the workers’ paradise his people had striven so long to create. When the whole bloated, corrupt system came crashing down around his still-wet ears, it was replaced by something of a different breed, but of the same genus. More fluid than the soviet system, it offered opportunities at every turn for those with initiative, ambition and a measure of ruthlessness. Kirill rose fast in the heady stew of old ways, new ideas and newer money.
Money that is now threatened by the presence of the Americans.
The Americans. They have an uncanny knack for appearing at the worst possible moment. This is his third encounter with them, and he hopes his last. They are dangerous. Almost as dangerous as Kirill himself.
Seeing Hoot cross the street toward him had been unnerving. Unexpected. A little bit exciting. Very unnerving.
Kirill had rallied and agreed to meet the two of them here, in this den of sin and debauchery. He did not yet know why Hoot had suggested this location, but he suspected it had something to do with throwing Kirill off his guard.
No such thing.
Kirill glides into a curtained cubicle. The man inside, waiting for someone to enter and use his pale weak body for cheap pleasure, is easily scared away with four or five snarled words.
Kirill is not sure how many words he uses. His grasp of the English language is not firm enough to pick apart the slang phrases, separate the sounds into discrete, meaningful lexical units. But he gets the idea across, and after the little man scurries away, Kirill watches the room and watches for the Americans to enter.
He is not worried about his language skills where the Americans are concerned. He knows the taller one speaks some Croatian, and the lighter, older one knows German. The rest they will understand without words.
There they are. They are so close, Kirill could take a few easy strides and snatch the towels from their waists.
And now Kirill knows for certain why this place was chosen for the meet.
They want to distract him <I>and</I> intimidate him. And they are close to doing it, but not close enough.
This place, teeming with wantonness, is enough to distract ordinary men, and the Americans are just the thing to distract a man of Kirill’s tastes. So no one will notice them and, the Americans hope, Kirill will be in less than perfect control.
Undercover work is best done in plain sight.
Kirill has not been much distracted by what is going on around him. He’s aware. He’s always aware. He knows what everyone is doing, how close they are to the exits, who is a possible threat, but he’s not attracted to the majority of the bodies. They don’t hold his interest for longer than it takes to assess the level of risk they pose.
The Americans likely know this. They know he won’t be easily distracted by weak, petty men. That is why they brought him to this place, where they can show themselves. They think <I>that</I> will distract Kirill.
The rest of the patrons are, for the most part, soft. Soft and pampered. Even the ones with impressive muscles bulging above the silly little towels achieved their shape in the gym.
A gym is a fine place to make muscles larger, or change their shape, but without a solid foundation they are like make-up or a wig – pretty from a distance but up close one can see the cracks, discern the synthetic quality. And they do not stand up to rough handling.
Kirill built his foundation working in rock-strewn, heartless fields, the steppes.
It looks as if the Americans may have grown under similar conditions. Hoot, for certain, has farming in his blood. He is firm all over, and probably all the way through. His chest has the sort of striations that would make Kirill’s mouth water if he were not engaged in business. And his back is powerful. Broad and able to withstand great stress, no doubt.
The other one… Kirill can’t quite tell about Sanderson, and that irritates him to no end. It is possible, if Sanderson were young enough when he enlisted, that the army created that build. Even the softest city dweller grows powerful with the right training, but only if he’s isolated and pushed to his limits. Sanderson has pushed, been pushed, is still pushing. He’s got the kind of long lean muscles you don’t get just from lifting heavy things. You have to get them in the course of doing other things, all day, all night.
Long, long legs. The two of them. Absurdly long thighs rising to, on one of them, a round ass of the sort Kirill loves to grab onto when he’s being fucked; on the other is the kind of tight, sculpted ass Kirill loves to fuck.
But Kirill doubts Hoot would ever let him fuck Sanderson, even if Hoot were allowed to fuck Kirill.
Hoot growls at anyone who comes near his mate. If he is really that possessive, why would he bring Sanderson to this place? Does Hoot get off on the power of possession?
Sanderson is appreciative of Hoot’s protection. How quaint. Kirill will have to find a way to exploit that.
Hoot. These Americans have such ludicrous names. How can they expect to be taken seriously?
Jefferson Sanderson – his mother was unsure of her child’s father? Of whom is he the son?
Kirill long ago gave up his patronymic. And his family name. Even his real first name. ‘Kirill’ suits him just fine.
Sanderson looks stunned. Hoot had been hoping to put Kirill off his game, but he’s ended up fucking himself. His partner is almost out of commission, which puts Hoot almost on his own. Not that anything untoward will happen here. Sex will happen all around them, and maybe they will take part, but there will be no violence. This is a safe place to talk, to bargain, to gauge the situation. Anything beyond that would draw too much attention.
What an excellent place to hide in plain sight. Kirill has a grudging respect for Hoot. He knows the American likes to play dumb sometimes, but Hoot knows what he’s doing.
Sanderson is a smart one as well, but he’s not at his best. He’s overwhelmed. And wide-eyed. And hard. Oh, so hard.
Kirill can smell the sexual energy rise as Hoot and Sanderson move through the room. Tall, muscular, handsome and strong is what most of these men are looking for. But big as well – the towels do nothing to hide either of their gifts – is more than many dream of. It is Christmas morning on a hot summer night. The bathhouse guests openly gape and drool and surge closer, are deflected by Hoot’s unwavering hostility, retreat to stare from a distance, contemplate their next approach.
The Americans will be swarmed if Hoot does not get Sanderson out of here soon.
They move as if to leave, but not without a lingering ogle of the boy in the sling, with his legs spread and his asshole squeezing a gloved wrist.
They are here. This is a real meeting. They have abided by the rules. No weapons. No surveillance. This is good. Perhaps the job is not a wash out after all. It is something Kirill can manage. There are just the three of them.
The three of them and a room full of more hedonists than Kirill can count.
That is a lie. Kirill can count them. There are thirty-eight in the room.
The Americans leave and Kirill releases a long breath.
Kirill was wrong about the count. There are now thirty-six bodies in this room, but only thirty of them are hedonists. There are two genuine masochists tied to the wall in one corner, a submissive kneeling at the feet of his master, a switch-hitting sadist lashed to the horse, and the boy in the sling… he is something far more than a mere hedonist.
And then there is Kirill.
Kirill is a predator.
And the predator has not lost his edge.
But he needs to dull his edge before he can do business. Hoot and Sanderson have left him enough time to do so. He imagines they are doing something along the same lines. Even the most dedicated and focused professional cannot help but be influenced by all the skin and sounds and smells.
The boy in the sling is full of fist and writhing as if in slow motion. The submissive is licking the asshole of a man on his hands and knees, while his master gives explicit directions. The sadist on the horse has had enough. They can never take as much as the masochists, Kirill smirks.
Kirill leaves the cubicle, pushes through the line of eight or so men who saw him enter and were hoping to be invited to join him, and stalks away from the well-lit play room, past the rest of the curtained cubicles, beyond the orgy room, into the most secret places, to the darkest, scariest corner he can find. He rests his back comfortably in the corner, so his peripheral vision encompasses all that can be perceived in this gloom.
No words are required in a place like this. He wrenches the towel from his sleek hips.
Four men line up immediately. The first does not even have the wit to kneel before Kirill. Tourist. He is dismissed brusquely.
Kirill surveys his choices. The first, the youngest, prettiest, with a wicked smirk on his lips. Too experienced. It would be like being serviced by a professional. Too much technique, not enough heart. Kirill can tell from the look in his eye. Kirill does not pay for sex. He does not want to feel as if he should have. The pretty boy is shoved roughly away.
The second reminds Kirill of the young men of the mountain tribes. They would come down in the autumn to trade pelts for food and vodka. Smooth brown skin, almond eyes, flat nose, heavy curtain of black, black hair. They smelled of woodfires and the strange spices they would mix with oils and rub on their skin to keep it supple in the biting winds of winter.
Kirill does not want to be reminded any more of home, of simpler times. He’s had enough of that today. Under different circumstances, when Kirill has the time to do things properly, he could see giving this boy things he’s never given anyone. Not tonight. He shakes his head kindly. The young man gives him a sad but grateful look; this was not really what he wanted either.
The last man kneeling is tall, with limbs folded gracefully. Red hair and freckles sprinkled across his broad shoulders make him look younger than he is probably is. Kirill imagines a crisp British accent, if he allowed the man to speak.
The man does not look up. He has a fine cock, and it stands at attention, seeking approval.
This is what Kirill wants.
Kirill grunts, and the man leans forward and latches his lips on the head of Kirill’s cock. No preliminaries, he starts to suck immediately, hard and fast, as if he knows Kirill is in a hurry and is eager to help in any way possible.
No words, no seduction necessary. Kirill likes places like this, where a man of his kind is appreciated.
Kirill spreads his legs, not to entice further action but to steady himself. The redhead sucks like there is no tomorrow. And there isn’t. Not for him, not for Kirill. He’ll never get the chance to suck Kirill’s cock again, so he wants to make it a lasting memory.
It won’t be. Kirill will never think back on this moment. He’ll never lie back, alone in his bed, grasp his cock firmly, close his eyes and think about that talented mouth, that hot tongue, those soft lips gripping the base of his cock.
What he will think about is the beautiful man with his thick red hair and pretty, cut cock lying back on his bed, remembering the silken feel of the skin stretched taut around the iron of Kirill’s cock, the nudging of Kirill’s cock head at the back of his throat, Kirill’s long fingers in his hair, urging him to move his mouth faster.
Kirill’s hips buck and he forces his way into tight, searing throat. He’s got his hands over the man’s ears now, covering them. No sound, no air, no freedom of movement, only the smell and taste of Kirill, the invasion of Kirill’s cock inside his mouth.
The crisp auburn hairs around this man’s cock will be drenched with come as he remembers the way Kirill fucked his mouth and scratched his shoulders and came deep and hard.
That is what Kirill will get off on some time in the future.
Right now, Kirill thinks about the Americans, downstairs, probably making their way to the steam room at the very moment Kirill pulls back so the second and third sprays of come hit the redhead in the face.
“Thank you,” the redhead pants.
Kirill looks down and notices the dark purple erection on the redhead, clashing with the bright pubic hair. He bends down and licks a single drop of his own come off a high cheekbone. “Do not come until you get home. And say my name when you come. It is… Milan.”
“Thank you,” the red head repeats.
Kirill leaves to meet the Americans in the steam room.
Back to Soldier Porn
On to Negotiations
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