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While Hidden, I See and Destroy

Now: 1964, Groznyj Grad - Fractures

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Name
Leshovik
Website
The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

Now: 1964, Groznyj Grad - Fractures

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Leshovik followed Aryol from the range, trailing like an obedient dog.

He felt drained somehow, less than before, all the gold leached from his sun-bright hair, features accentuated to wan, razor sharpness by the frown that tightened hollowed cheeks and turned his eyes the hard, flat blue of a choppy sea.

It hadn’t been all that long ago that everything had been different, but Leshovik didn’t know how it had changed, except somewhere along the way, within the past few days, Aryol had grown up.

Leshovik knew it wasn’t that, though. Aryol must have grown up a long time ago, while Leshovik wasn’t looking, like a plant that bloomed in a neglected corner of the garden and was only stumbled upon unexpectedly after it had grown as tall as the fence, somehow overlooked until then.

Aryol was a man, not a kid.

A man, with a man’s needs, not a kid that would do whatever he said because Leshovik was the adult.

He reminded Leshovik both more and less of Kasya now.

Kasya, who had broken him apart the last night they’d been together, rummaged through the fractured pieces until he found the one he wanted, then claimed it for his own, kept it like a war trophy.

Kasya, who was supposedly Aryol’s father.

They walked back to the building where they had been quartered, and Aryol didn’t pause, but instead went right to his room, glancing sloe-eyed at Leshovik over his shoulder as he disappeared inside, though he didn’t close the door all the way.

Leshovik watched that, understanding the implication.

If Leshovik wanted sex, he would have to go to Aryol.

They would fuck in Aryol’s room, not his.

From a practical standpoint, he didn’t mind. They were further away from that scrawny prick Lemsky that way, and they would only have one neighbor, since Leshovik’s room was adjacent to Aryol’s.

But there were reasons that had nothing to do with practicality that made Leshovik hesitate, linger in the hallway fingering the strap of his rifle, brushing a hand over his short, pale crop.

He eyed the door for a while, but finally went through it.

Aryol stood in the middle of the room, waiting for him, watching Leshovik through half-lidded eyes, already naked and unabashedly aroused, prick jutting in front of him like the bayonet on the end of a rifle. His gear and clothes littered the floor around his feet, though he’d put away his Dragunov, at least. It sat neatly on top of the footlocker.

Leshovik could still remember when they’d first met, and Aryol had been a skinny, scrawny kid splayed underneath him, all arms and legs.

Aryol had filled out since then, and now Aryol’s body reminded him of Kasya’s, lean and strong and smooth, dark and olive-toned. Aryol was taller than Kasya, Leshovik thought, though more slender, but the same wiry black hair crowned the eerily familiar face.

At the range, he’d noticed that Kasya had a few silver hairs threading through the black, lines around his mouth and faint crow’s feet at his eyes, all signs of age, though it looked good on him. It made the memory of Kasya seem far younger than the Kasya that lived now; more like Aryol, that silently ruthless past-Kasya was, or maybe it was only the other way around.

“Let’s take a shower,” Aryol said, his voice low and whetted by need.

Even the voice was similar. Not quite as deep, not quite as low and resonant with quiet purpose like Kasya’s, but that came with age and experience. Aryol’s voice was lighter, brighter, but still held a rough edge that made it familiar.

A shower would be good, Leshovik thought, almost reluctantly.

Leshovik needed a shower like he needed a cigarette, like he needed Lynx to fuck him.

But even so, he hesitated, meeting Aryol’s endless ebon gaze.

After a moment, Aryol smiled darkly, and turned to go into the bathroom.

Leshovik’s gaze dropped, lingered on Aryol’s ass, and that reminded him of Kasya, too. Round, shaped firm with muscle, but soft and smooth, too. Leshovik enjoyed fucking that ass, spreading the cleft, burying himself deep.

Aryol had fucked him in turn, though only once, only a day ago, and even then, Leshovik wasn’t sure it counted, since he’d had…company. It had been different, with the three of them. Leshovik found himself wishing Lynx were here now.

Slowly, he unshouldered his rifle, and sat it next to Aryol’s on the footlocker. They were identical, save for the kill tallies carefully painted each stock. He had over three times as much as Aryol’s mere sixteen.

“Fifty-three,” Leshovik whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.

He stripped off his clothes and gear, left them on the floor intermingled with Aryol’s. Later, they might not even be able to tell them apart.

The shower was a large open area, and as soon as he stepped in, Aryol was all over him, wet and hungry, pressing him back against the wall, tongue in his mouth, knee parting his thighs, hand curling possessively around Leshovik’s stiffening cock.

Water ran in hot rivulets between them, streaming down their bodies, turning their skin slick.

Aryol’s prick stabbed into Leshovik’s thigh, so sharp and sudden that Leshovik had no choice but to yield, breathless, shivering. He wasn’t used to Aryol being like this, so fiercely aggressive. It reminded him too much of Kasya to be able to enjoy it, but Leshovik didn’t know if he wanted Aryol to stop, either.

Aryol’s hand brushed between his legs, fingertips seeking, reaching up to touch the soft furrowed ring of muscle that opened to the deepest part of him.

Leshovik went still.

“Let me fuck you,” Aryol whispered, in his ear.

Leshovik’s chest clenched.

It was everything he didn’t want, yet it felt inexorable as death.

“I’m still sore from yesterday,” Leshovik said.

Aryol laughed.

“Did you ever not fuck me when I was sore?”

He pressed the tip of his finger inside, no lube.

Leshovik tightened reflexively, clenching, grunting.

“Did you ever even ask?”

Aryol’s words vibrated against Leshovik’s ear, damning and hot, and Leshovik shuddered.

He knew Aryol was right, and there was nothing he could say.

He’d fucked Aryol multiple times in a day before, two or three, used him well and thoroughly, and not particularly gently, either.

Leshovik couldn’t say why he’d done it. Maybe it was still something about Kasya, that he wanted Aryol to be Kasya, wanted to fuck him like he wanted to fuck Kasya, rough and relentless, to pay him back for that last night.

But he knew, keenly, that Aryol wasn’t Kasya.

He might be Kasya’s son, but he wasn’t Kasya.

It wasn’t right, for Leshovik to have done that.

It wouldn’t be right, to refuse Aryol now.

Leshovik thought about what Lynx had said to him.

I think you should give yourself to your spotter.

“All right,” Leshovik whispered, and Aryol laughed.

Aryol pulled his finger out and hauled Leshovik around, pushing him into the shower wall. Leshovik absorbed the impact against his chest, resting his face against the tile, closing his eyes.

He didn’t protest when Aryol slicked himself with soap, didn’t resist when Aryol spread his cleft, didn’t flinch when Aryol pushed in.

The sharpness of it made him lose his erection, and he was too tense, and the soap burned, but he only hissed raggedly as Aryol fucked him.

Leshovik gritted his teeth, clinging to the wall, trying to control the trembling of his shoulders.

He didn’t attempt to bear down and give as good as he got, but instead he just rode it out, let the pitch of Aryol’s thrusts drive his hips into the wall, again, and again and again.

Leshovik didn’t know if he could bear it, take it until Aryol was done, even though it never took very long for him, but then Aryol stopped suddenly, holding still for several moments, prick resting heavy, swollen and rock-hard inside him.

He wanted to ask what was wrong, though he didn’t, but before he could do anything else, Aryol slid his arms around him, wrapping over his chest, holding him close, hands pressed over his heart.

Leshovik trembled.

With slow, trailing lips, Aryol kissed the back of his neck, whispering, murmuring the same low soft words Leshovik said to him when Aryol needed comforting, and that almost made it worse.

Aryol started to move once more, more slowly now.

Leshovik felt himself start to get hard again, and his breath hitched into a sob.

After a few leisurely thrusts, Leshovik let himself respond, and they moved in unison, naturally falling into their shared rhythm by instinct, just because they knew each other that well, and the near-unbearable clench of his ass eased.

Aryol finished quickly enough, coming into Leshovik with a low cry and an urgent buck, spilling hot inside him. His arms tightened around Leshovik’s chest, and he pressed his face against his back. They stood that way, letting the water stream around them while Aryol’s breathing slowed, while his prick softened.

Finally, he pulled out of Leshovik with a lithe twist of his hips, and the trickle of semen that ran down Leshovik’s thighs was washed away by water, cleansed as if it had never happened.

Leshovik had to fight to keep from shaking as Aryol turned him again, pressed his back against the tile and dropped to his knees, wordlessly. Leshovik’s hands clenched at his sides as Aryol took him into his mouth, brought him deep, lips and tongue hot and hungry.

Leshovik’s dick wanted it, bloomed instantly and viciously, betraying him like it always did.

He fought it until he couldn’t anymore, and had to give in, gasping and shuddering.

He buried his hands in Aryol’s hair and leaned his head back, letting the water stream down his face.

When he came, it was hard, like the recoil of a Dragunov, and he shuddered as the report echoed through him.

Aryol swallowed Leshovik’s essence, taking it inside him, and it felt just like he claimed one of those fractured parts of Leshovik as his own.
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