(no subject)
Flame and Citron. Probably R for sexytimes? 1300 words.
EXTREME APOLOGIES TO THE ENTIRE COUNTRY OF DENMARK... FOR MAKING TWO OF THEIR NATIONAL HEROES TOTALLY BONE.
Summary: Bent teaches Jørgen how to properly assassinate some collaborators. And then they do some not-so-proper things.
It first happened when Jørgen volunteered to liquidate Mrs. Lorentzen. Bent looked at him differently, not even because he really thought that Jørgen would be able to do it, but because he had always somehow doubted that Jørgen had it in him to participate so viscerally in what they were doing. He accepted Jørgen’s contentment with his secondary role only because it served Bent’s purpose and allowed him to continue with his mission. But when Jørgen was willing to go where Bent could not… Bent was (finally) duly impressed. Jørgen seemed stronger somehow, his jaw more firmly set, his eyes darker behind his glasses. Or maybe it was just that Bent was really looking at Jørgen for the first time in years: he always took him for granted, this conservative and steadfast constant in Bent’s life, but maybe Jørgen had changed too throughout the hours he had spent in the car, idling or parked with one hand on the ignition, one eye on whichever doorway Bent was supposed to come out of. And Jørgen would not be doing this if he did not have some hardness in his heart, Bent had to remind himself. Not everyone could be Flame.
And so they were standing before Bent’s little homemade shooting range, and Jørgen was holding a PPSh-41, and after an initial moment of awkwardness where he didn’t know exactly how to balance the gun’s weight, even though it was lighter than most other submachine weaponry, he tucked it below his chin and wrapped his fingers around it as though it were a delicate piece of art. He angled his body and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet a little bit, finding the proper stance. He sighed, or breathed in and out, Bent couldn’t really tell.
The fire Jørgen let loose was chaotic and inexpert, peppering the cinderblock wall and the sandbags and the target alike. Bent said, No, and told him that just because you can shoot 900 rounds a minute, you shouldn’t, especially in the kind of work they were doing. Ready? He asked. Aim, he said. Jørgen aimed and loosened and tightened his hands on the gun. And when Jørgen fired, he hit the target. And again. And again.
Bent didn’t watch his face; he was standing behind Jørgen, anyway, but he watched his hands and his wrists and the easy set of his knees. His knuckles weren’t white. Jørgen felt comfortable doing this. After a few more shots, Jørgen lowered the gun and turned a little to look at Bent. It took Bent a moment to readjust to this, not only to Jørgen’s newly found skill but to the fact that it was Jørgen who had this skill, it was Jørgen who held this weapon with such ease, it was Jørgen who had destroyed the target suspended on the other wall of the basement. Bent felt a thin layer of sweat on his upper lip but couldn’t quite move himself to brush it away, and now that he noticed Jørgen’s face it too seemed bright with sweat.
They looked at each other for a moment, the air in the room was hot and still and Jørgen’s jaw was locked tight but Bent’s lips were parted slightly; he wanted to lick them but he was slightly aware that that could have some kind of implication-
Bent pressed in toward Jørgen and kissed him, and Jørgen’s stubble scratched the sweat away from Bent’s skin. With one hand Jørgen still held the submachine gun and Bent gripped this arm the way Jørgen did not grip the stock of the gun: tightly, knuckles white, fingertips pressed into Jørgen’s skin, and Bent thought he could feel the pulse in Jørgen’s wrist but maybe that was just his own pulse. Jørgen grasped somewhat ineffectually at Bent’s thin undershirt as Bent tentatively licked at Jørgen’s lips. It was radically different from kissing a woman and Bent felt out of his depth and out of control but it was fine, somehow, for Jørgen to suddenly and violently back Bent against a pillar in the basement and press his body against Bent’s. He pressed his body against Bent’s so that Bent could not move, not that he wanted to, and Bent scratched at Jørgen’s waist until he felt layers of shirt give way to hot skin. Jørgen rested the gun against the pillar so that the muzzle nosed the floor and the stock almost touched Bent’s left leg.
Jørgen held Bent’s neck with one hand, almost cradling it if such a word could be applied to such a hard, hungry grip. Bent allowed him to control the way he moved: head to one side so that Jørgen was comfortable kissing him, hips rocking together slightly, one arm held flat against the pillar by Jørgen’s grip. Bent gave himself up to it.
Look, Jørgen said, breathless, We should really go over- to the bed, Bent thought he was about to say, but instead they sank down onto the concrete floor and Jørgen pulled Bent’s suspenders off his shoulders. There was a little ripping noise when he pulled Bent’s shirt off, and he dropped it on the floor beside them and then knelt over Bent, his knees on either side of Bent’s slim hips. The floor was rough and some dirt from the floor stuck to the sweat on Bent’s back, his shoulderblades and the backs of his arms and he could feel it on the palms of his hands. He brought these hands up to Jørgen’s throat and tried to unbutton Jørgen’s shirt but his hands seemed useless for a moment before Jørgen unbuttoned the shirt himself and removed it, removed his suspenders, but left his undershirt on for some reason Bent could not quite grasp. Bent slid gritty palms over Jørgen’s damp shirt, his shoulders, his neck which was always rough with stubble. Bent thought it had already burned his face. Jørgen unbuttoned Bent’s trousers, then his own.
Jørgen said his name, then, and Bent’s breath caught in his throat. Jørgen’s glasses were smudged and Bent wanted to take them off but before he could, Jørgen told him to roll over. The grit from the floor covered Bent’s stomach as he did, and his forearms as he braced himself, looking back as much as he could toward Jørgen.
And Jørgen asked if it was okay. There was a hesitation in his voice, and Bent wasn’t sure why but he said yes. Bent said Yes, please, Jørgen.
After a moment of preparation Jørgen slid into Bent and Bent pressed his forehead against the gritty floor and ground his teeth together. His fingers scrabbled at the floor; Jørgen went slowly but Bent was unused to this and he was unsure as to whether it was terribly uncomfortable or just perfect. Jørgen’s hands were on his skin and they pressed sweat and floor-dirt into his waist and thighs and hips, and if Jørgen had any fingernails to speak of Bent was sure they would be marking scratches there too. Bent involuntarily pressed backwards, toward Jørgen.
Bent brushed one hand off with the shirt that lay on the floor next to him and brought himself to climax, which took far less effort than he had perhaps expected, and his breath quickened and he felt the muscles tense in his stomach and he pressed his eyes closed as he came. Jørgen also came, soon after Bent did, and he pulled out of Bent and almost collapsed on the floor next to Bent. Bent was shaking slightly and he noticed that Jørgen, too, seemed unsteady, bracing a palm on the floor to lean his weight on it, as though his spine alone wouldn’t hold him. He carefully looked everywhere but at Bent for a moment.
Well, Bent said, after he had recovered his breath. As a crime, this seems negligible compared to all the people we’ve killed.
Jørgen laughed; his glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them up with a comfortable, familiar motion. He asked, Is this what happens during every assassination?
You should be so lucky, Bent replied.
EXTREME APOLOGIES TO THE ENTIRE COUNTRY OF DENMARK... FOR MAKING TWO OF THEIR NATIONAL HEROES TOTALLY BONE.
Summary: Bent teaches Jørgen how to properly assassinate some collaborators. And then they do some not-so-proper things.
It first happened when Jørgen volunteered to liquidate Mrs. Lorentzen. Bent looked at him differently, not even because he really thought that Jørgen would be able to do it, but because he had always somehow doubted that Jørgen had it in him to participate so viscerally in what they were doing. He accepted Jørgen’s contentment with his secondary role only because it served Bent’s purpose and allowed him to continue with his mission. But when Jørgen was willing to go where Bent could not… Bent was (finally) duly impressed. Jørgen seemed stronger somehow, his jaw more firmly set, his eyes darker behind his glasses. Or maybe it was just that Bent was really looking at Jørgen for the first time in years: he always took him for granted, this conservative and steadfast constant in Bent’s life, but maybe Jørgen had changed too throughout the hours he had spent in the car, idling or parked with one hand on the ignition, one eye on whichever doorway Bent was supposed to come out of. And Jørgen would not be doing this if he did not have some hardness in his heart, Bent had to remind himself. Not everyone could be Flame.
And so they were standing before Bent’s little homemade shooting range, and Jørgen was holding a PPSh-41, and after an initial moment of awkwardness where he didn’t know exactly how to balance the gun’s weight, even though it was lighter than most other submachine weaponry, he tucked it below his chin and wrapped his fingers around it as though it were a delicate piece of art. He angled his body and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet a little bit, finding the proper stance. He sighed, or breathed in and out, Bent couldn’t really tell.
The fire Jørgen let loose was chaotic and inexpert, peppering the cinderblock wall and the sandbags and the target alike. Bent said, No, and told him that just because you can shoot 900 rounds a minute, you shouldn’t, especially in the kind of work they were doing. Ready? He asked. Aim, he said. Jørgen aimed and loosened and tightened his hands on the gun. And when Jørgen fired, he hit the target. And again. And again.
Bent didn’t watch his face; he was standing behind Jørgen, anyway, but he watched his hands and his wrists and the easy set of his knees. His knuckles weren’t white. Jørgen felt comfortable doing this. After a few more shots, Jørgen lowered the gun and turned a little to look at Bent. It took Bent a moment to readjust to this, not only to Jørgen’s newly found skill but to the fact that it was Jørgen who had this skill, it was Jørgen who held this weapon with such ease, it was Jørgen who had destroyed the target suspended on the other wall of the basement. Bent felt a thin layer of sweat on his upper lip but couldn’t quite move himself to brush it away, and now that he noticed Jørgen’s face it too seemed bright with sweat.
They looked at each other for a moment, the air in the room was hot and still and Jørgen’s jaw was locked tight but Bent’s lips were parted slightly; he wanted to lick them but he was slightly aware that that could have some kind of implication-
Bent pressed in toward Jørgen and kissed him, and Jørgen’s stubble scratched the sweat away from Bent’s skin. With one hand Jørgen still held the submachine gun and Bent gripped this arm the way Jørgen did not grip the stock of the gun: tightly, knuckles white, fingertips pressed into Jørgen’s skin, and Bent thought he could feel the pulse in Jørgen’s wrist but maybe that was just his own pulse. Jørgen grasped somewhat ineffectually at Bent’s thin undershirt as Bent tentatively licked at Jørgen’s lips. It was radically different from kissing a woman and Bent felt out of his depth and out of control but it was fine, somehow, for Jørgen to suddenly and violently back Bent against a pillar in the basement and press his body against Bent’s. He pressed his body against Bent’s so that Bent could not move, not that he wanted to, and Bent scratched at Jørgen’s waist until he felt layers of shirt give way to hot skin. Jørgen rested the gun against the pillar so that the muzzle nosed the floor and the stock almost touched Bent’s left leg.
Jørgen held Bent’s neck with one hand, almost cradling it if such a word could be applied to such a hard, hungry grip. Bent allowed him to control the way he moved: head to one side so that Jørgen was comfortable kissing him, hips rocking together slightly, one arm held flat against the pillar by Jørgen’s grip. Bent gave himself up to it.
Look, Jørgen said, breathless, We should really go over- to the bed, Bent thought he was about to say, but instead they sank down onto the concrete floor and Jørgen pulled Bent’s suspenders off his shoulders. There was a little ripping noise when he pulled Bent’s shirt off, and he dropped it on the floor beside them and then knelt over Bent, his knees on either side of Bent’s slim hips. The floor was rough and some dirt from the floor stuck to the sweat on Bent’s back, his shoulderblades and the backs of his arms and he could feel it on the palms of his hands. He brought these hands up to Jørgen’s throat and tried to unbutton Jørgen’s shirt but his hands seemed useless for a moment before Jørgen unbuttoned the shirt himself and removed it, removed his suspenders, but left his undershirt on for some reason Bent could not quite grasp. Bent slid gritty palms over Jørgen’s damp shirt, his shoulders, his neck which was always rough with stubble. Bent thought it had already burned his face. Jørgen unbuttoned Bent’s trousers, then his own.
Jørgen said his name, then, and Bent’s breath caught in his throat. Jørgen’s glasses were smudged and Bent wanted to take them off but before he could, Jørgen told him to roll over. The grit from the floor covered Bent’s stomach as he did, and his forearms as he braced himself, looking back as much as he could toward Jørgen.
And Jørgen asked if it was okay. There was a hesitation in his voice, and Bent wasn’t sure why but he said yes. Bent said Yes, please, Jørgen.
After a moment of preparation Jørgen slid into Bent and Bent pressed his forehead against the gritty floor and ground his teeth together. His fingers scrabbled at the floor; Jørgen went slowly but Bent was unused to this and he was unsure as to whether it was terribly uncomfortable or just perfect. Jørgen’s hands were on his skin and they pressed sweat and floor-dirt into his waist and thighs and hips, and if Jørgen had any fingernails to speak of Bent was sure they would be marking scratches there too. Bent involuntarily pressed backwards, toward Jørgen.
Bent brushed one hand off with the shirt that lay on the floor next to him and brought himself to climax, which took far less effort than he had perhaps expected, and his breath quickened and he felt the muscles tense in his stomach and he pressed his eyes closed as he came. Jørgen also came, soon after Bent did, and he pulled out of Bent and almost collapsed on the floor next to Bent. Bent was shaking slightly and he noticed that Jørgen, too, seemed unsteady, bracing a palm on the floor to lean his weight on it, as though his spine alone wouldn’t hold him. He carefully looked everywhere but at Bent for a moment.
Well, Bent said, after he had recovered his breath. As a crime, this seems negligible compared to all the people we’ve killed.
Jørgen laughed; his glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them up with a comfortable, familiar motion. He asked, Is this what happens during every assassination?
You should be so lucky, Bent replied.