Unhinge the Universe

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “There.” John must have sat up, because Hagen didn’t feel his breath or his voice. “Finished.”

  And how was it that he felt it now as a loss?

  Hagen shuddered, definitely from the cold water. He reached for a towel, but couldn’t quite get to it without standing up. He rose, turned away from John, because that touch from the blade had somehow translated itself to his body as something else entirely. Maybe it was the proximity to the man, or the touch. Or his voice. Or maybe it was everything about the situation. Both of them out of their uniforms. Maybe that changed everything.

  He managed to get a towel and wound it around his hips before he stepped out and got another one to dry himself. Not that he could hide everything, but at least he tried.

  Once dry, he eyed his clothes with distaste. Instead of putting them back on, he kept the towel around his waist and wrapped his clothes in a tight bundle, Iron Cross sticking out from his folded jacket.

  “Let’s see if the room’s ready.” John started for the door, but hesitated. His gaze drifted to the chains still around Hagen’s boots beside the chair. He looked at Hagen, brow knitted apologetically. “Everyone else is likely asleep, but . . .”

  Hagen gritted his teeth and nodded. “I understand. I’m still your . . .” He met John’s eyes. Neither of them finished the thought. Some things just went without saying.

  John unshackled Hagen’s boots. Then he cuffed Hagen, picked up the boots, moved the chair away from the door, and opened it. He peered out and looked up and down the hall, then let Hagen go first, bundle in his bound hands, before following with the shaving bag.

  The room was indeed ready. The bed looked spacious and inviting. It had been turned down for John, and Hagen’s mouth watered at the sight of the soft sheets and blankets. How long had it been since he’d slept in anything like that? Even a spot on the floor was luxury compared to anything he’d had in recent memory, but that bed . . . Gott. His bed was in the small study next door, but he paused and stood here, waiting for instructions.

  John closed the door behind them. There was a wood-backed chair beside the small bureau, and John grabbed it and tilted the chair just right to hook the back beneath the doorknob like he had in the bathroom. Then he set Hagen’s boots and the shaving kit on the bureau, and gestured for Hagen to do the same. Once Hagen had put down the bundle in his hands, John unlocked his cuffs.

  They’d only been on for a moment, perhaps two or three minutes at the very most, but they’d already chafed the raw flesh around his wrists. Driven a cold reminder beneath his skin that their intimate moments in the bathroom were irrelevant once the door had opened. Hagen rubbed the skin with his thumbs. He’d been a fool to fight so hard. A scared, crazy fool.

  He was no better now.

  John checked the door again, switched on the small lamp on the nightstand, and switched the large light off. The room became a little smaller, a little softer. The study next door remained dark. He looked back toward the door leading to the other bed, but John already moved to stand right behind him, so close his towel brushed Hagen’s. His hand landed on Hagen’s hip, then slid up to skin.

  Hagen swallowed as all that arousal came back. Whenever John touched him—at least now that he was less angry, less afraid—he found it hard to breathe, hard to think of anything but what they’d done.

  John loosened the towel around Hagen’s hips and pulled it off, still standing close. With privacy. Standing. Both clean and with only John’s towel between them.

  “You can sleep alone if you want, but I’m not going to make you. That bed is large enough for both of us.”

  “. . . Want me to?”

  John said nothing. And why was that? Was it too much to ask if John wanted him? When his own body had very clearly stated its case?

  Both hands now on him, skimming upward over his heated skin, to his chest. He turned abruptly, and John gripped him by the shoulders instead. “What do you think?”

  “I . . . think you do.”

  John’s hands took his head now, and he moved closer, close enough to kiss, but he didn’t. Instead, he searched him, examining him somehow, like he was still, damn it, trying to read him. “It’s different now because we both know what we’re doing.” Do we? “You’re making a decision; so am I.”

  Hagen shook his head, because he didn’t want to think about what it meant besides the obvious. They’d do again what they’d already done. Not so different.

  John closed the narrow distance a little more, making it nearly impossible for Hagen to breathe. Their foreheads were almost touching. John’s hand curved around the side of Hagen’s neck, grazing flesh he’d shaved down smooth and bare. His thumb traced the edge of Hagen’s jaw.

  Hagen pulled in as much air as he could find. “What was . . . what was it you said about forgetting you?”

  “Nothing important.” And John’s lips were against his. So was his chest, the towel covering his hips and a thick, rigid erection. The soft, damp cloth brushed Hagen’s own dick, and he moaned as he parted his lips for John’s insistent tongue.

  Hagen put his hands on John’s waist. At first for balance. Then for contact. He dug his fingers in, shivering as flesh and muscle yielded beneath his touch. One hand moved downward as if on its own, and found the cool edge of the towel. Hagen inhaled deeply through his nose and kissed John harder as his fingers hooked over the towel’s edge. He tugged gently. Almost melted when John groaned and gripped his neck tighter.

  The towel surrendered and released its hold on John. It pooled at their feet, cool and damp, and for the first time, John’s warm, naked body was against his with nothing dividing them. If he’d thought that pressing up against him in a dark, cold barn was mind-bending, it was nothing compared to having John like this.

  He smelled of clean skin and shaving soap, his cheeks and jaw smooth, which felt strange at first. Kissing a man like this was the most perfect thing he’d done in his whole life. Like he couldn’t possibly make a mistake, like it was meant to be like this. And half his life he’d wondered why nothing made sense and where the missing answers were. And the other half of his life, he’d been too scared to seek them out.

  But no fear now. Whatever it meant, this here, this was like finding himself in a crowd. Sudden, perfect recognition. He pulled John tighter, clashed their teeth together, but even that didn’t blunt the sense of rightness slicing through him.

  John was pushing, not shoving, and Hagen agreed. More skin. More contact. He pushed John toward the bed and down onto it, clambering toward him, needing to be closer, as close as possible. John grinned up at him, white teeth flashing, and Hagen was on top now, like this was a kid’s game until one surrendered. He stretched out, their bodies rubbing together, but even that didn’t distract him from the more important need to revel in all the possible ways they could touch and kiss, all the places he hadn’t been able to reach under that godforsaken dirty uniform.

  John’s hand slid up into Hagen’s hair, and Hagen had only a second to savor that delicious sensation before the fingers seized his hair and jerked his head back, breaking the kiss and making Hagen gasp. John lifted his head, and his lips were against Hagen’s throat, exploring and tasting all the places the razor had carefully wiped clean. The stinging in his scalp made him even more aware of the soft, warm kisses, the hot breath, the low vibration of “God, I’ve never wanted . . .” and “You make me crazy” and “Hagen . . .”

  Hagen ground his hips against John’s, pressing their erect cocks together in a desperate, unhindered pantomime of what they’d done last night. John groaned. He swore. Again. Lips pressed against the place where Hagen’s neck met his shoulder, and John murmured something Hagen couldn’t understand, and before he could even begin to comprehend it, teeth dug into his skin.

  “Oh Gott . . .” Hagen’s world went white for a split second. He pressed into John, both where their hips met and where teeth gripped flesh. He was a quivering contradiction now, all coiled power and desire ready
to be unleashed, but at the same time liquid, completely at the mercy of John. John’s body, John’s teeth, John’s dick, John’s breath. And those hands. Damn, those hands. Sliding down his spine to his hips, pulling him closer until the friction and the pressure were painful, and the groan Hagen released was made of pure ecstasy.

  He shifted his weight, tried to get a hand between them, but the moment he broke most of the skin contact, John’s eyes opened and looked at him, dark eyes glazed and probably not seeing very much. “Wait. Stay there.”

  Hagen was too surprised to protest, especially since John moved with too much speed and grace for the state they were both in. John rolled over the bed and got up on the other side, skin flushed, his arousal evident, but he moved as if it didn’t matter much. He dug into his bag, and Hagen couldn’t fathom what he was looking for now—handcuffs, keys, why keys, but then he returned with a tub of petroleum jelly that he put on the bed before he lay down again, this time head toward the headboard, not all across it.

  When nothing indicated Hagen couldn’t, he grabbed John again, continued the fierce kissing. Then, having learned a trick (and he only remembered it because the spot ached when he moved his neck), he bit down into the same part of the muscle as John had. The man groaned underneath him, opened his legs, and encircled him, which seemed to even the score somewhat, though it wasn’t a ringer’s hold, since they were still rubbing together, slowly driving Hagen insane.

  John stretched a hand out and fumbled for something. Oh, right, the tub, managed to open it, and the next thing Hagen knew, John’s palm was tracing the thick grease over his dick, smoothing it onto flesh that wasn’t used to this kind of hot, slippery, hungry contact.

  “What are—” Hagen’s breath was gone. Just gone. “What . . .”

  John twisted his hand a little, turning the stroke from alien to dizzying. “I want . . .” He swallowed, then pulled in a breath like he too had run out of air. “Fuck me.”

  The words echoed down the length of Hagen’s spine, and through no conscious effort, he forced his hard, slick cock through John’s fist. John responded by squeezing tighter, and Hagen thrust again.

  “Oh God,” John groaned. He closed his eyes and arched beneath them, his own dick brushing Hagen’s hip. “Please, Hagen. Please, please . . .”

  Cold panic broke through the haze of arousal. Hagen moistened his lips. “I’ve . . . I’ve never . . .”

  John’s eyes slid open. “You’ve never fucked a man, have you?”

  The shame and embarrassment might have weakened his erection, but John stroked him faster, harder, and drew another low groan from Hagen’s lips before he lifted his head and kissed him. John either didn’t care about Hagen’s lack of experience, or he was too far gone to comprehend it one way or another.

  He broke the kiss and whispered against Hagen’s lips, “Let me turn around.”

  Hagen withdrew just enough to allow John to turn, a swift, smooth movement that completely changed everything. No embarrassment, or less of it, but also very little guidance. John was now low on hands and knees, legs wide open, and . . . Hagen, halfway between spooked and unbelievably willing, wanting to do anything John asked, touched the broad expanse of John’s back, fascinated by the shifting muscles, the sheen of sweat, the position that seemed vulnerable, trusting, yet still strong. John reached behind himself, yet another electrifying touch from his slicked palm, guiding Hagen toward his ass.

  Hagen followed. This was less clawing madness and more like mounting animals, but then came the pressure, and all thoughts were wiped out, like they’d never existed, as John’s leg somehow entangled with his and the whole man urged him forward. He almost slipped in an attempt to breach the man, and winced, but John insisted, and pushed back. Too intense, too much, near painful, then suddenly that pressure turned slick and hot, and the only thing he could do was grab John’s hand and move, find a rhythm that seemed natural. If the kissing had felt like a revelation, it was nothing compared to being inside somebody. Somebody who whispered his name, whose hard movements demanded pleasure and insisted on more, and further, and harder.

  Some voice in the back of Hagen’s mind worried that he might hurt John, but every motion and sound John made said otherwise. His shoulders trembled, and his head fell forward, the muscles in his back rippling as his body encouraged Hagen’s into a faster, more frantic pace. Hagen’s head spun—because he’d forgotten to breathe? Or just because he was watching John take him again and again?—and he grabbed onto John’s hips. For balance, for leverage, for dear fucking life.

  “Oh . . . God . . .” John’s back arched. Then he threw his head back, turned just so, and Hagen caught sight of his heavy-lidded eyes and open lips in the split second before John lowered his head again.

  Not enough. Still gripping John’s hip in one hand, he slid the other up the middle of John’s back, biting his lip as a shudder followed his palm along the length of the man’s spine. When he reached John’s neck, another shudder, and John pressed back against him, driving him deep and hard inside him.

  Hagen grabbed John’s short hair, as much as he could, and pulled his head back. John gasped. His whole body tensed, and he tightened around Hagen so suddenly Hagen almost came then and there. It was hard enough to not lose himself in all that power and abandon, but it felt so good he held on to as much of it as he could, sheer willpower allowing him to go on every time his own body was ready to shatter into a million pieces. He grabbed John’s shoulder, desperate for more touch, for anything of John he could reach, so far beyond words he’d have sounded like an animal if he’d tried to speak. Instead, he held onto John’s powerful shoulders, responding to every movement with a thrust, with more power, until they were both dripping with sweat.

  John lowered his upper body, supporting himself on an elbow as he reached down, and Hagen understood on some visceral level what he was doing. Every harsh jerk tightened John’s body around him, and that was what broke him, all that inconceivable pleasure, feeling John so close to losing it and being so close himself.

  He came, vision darkening until he just closed his eyes, thrusting a few more times, now with more desperation than anything and about ready to let go of everything: all strength, all control, everything that John could possibly want from him. It was all his.

  John went boneless, and Hagen collapsed, still inside him.

  Their sweat pooled together, and there was nothing but John’s smell and the shudders beginning in one body and continuing on in the other. Hagen couldn’t even tell up from down. He had no clue who was groaning or what else was happening around him. Didn’t care.

  As his vision—and to some degree, his mind—cleared, he kissed the back of John’s neck, lips curving into a grin against sweat-dampened skin as John shuddered again.

  “Are you sure—” John pressed his back against Hagen’s chest. “Are you sure you’ve never done this?”

  “I think I would have remembered, no?”

  John groaned softly. “You wouldn’t have been forgotten, that much is for sure.”

  Hagen laughed, then pushed himself upright, pausing as the world spun around his head again. Steadying himself with a hand on John’s hip, he withdrew slowly, gasping as sensitive flesh slipped through the still tight ring of muscle. Hagen sat back, letting the room right itself, and John rolled onto his back.

  Hagen couldn’t help grinning as he brushed perspiration from his forehead. John looked good like that, lying there, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling with sweat still beaded on his temples, skin flushed from his neck down on to his chest. He looked incredible. So much different now than when they’d first met, or even just an hour or two ago when they’d been smoking and walking behind that damned Jeep.

  If I could have you like this always—

  Hagen didn’t let the thought continue, and instead sank down to the bed beside John. The room was warm, but even ambient air was cool against sweaty skin, especially when his muscles were still feverish from exertion. St
range that the embarrassment didn’t even figure anymore. A quip, a joke, and it was gone like it had never existed.

  He grabbed the pillow and pulled it under his neck, watched John as he breathed, sweat drying between his pecs, and he reached out and touched the space. John glanced up, questioning, then his calm expression turned into a smile. “You’ll have to let me rest a bit.”

  Hagen nodded. “I just like touching you.” He relaxed his muscles, stretched out his legs. “I shouldn’t fall asleep here, maybe?” And though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it into the small side room, if John told him to leave, he would.

  But then John lifted an eyebrow. “So what was it that you wanted to know?”

  John had really expected these questions much sooner. Had felt them like a once-broken bone felt the weather change. Getting to know Hagen better was an exercise in futility, though. The man would soon be on a ship, across the ocean, and out of his life forever, and that was the best place for him. The alternatives meant Hagen was in immediate danger—and a danger to John’s own side. And as much as he tried, he couldn’t shake the memory of how capable and ruthless this man was when he was focused on a mission.

  He’d been made into a hammer by men whose world consisted of nails. And John didn’t even need to remember how Hagen looked in his uniform to remind himself of that. He’d softened him, broken him, caught him at a bad—no, dreadful—moment in his life, but all that stood between the Hagen in his bed and the Nazi attack dog was a week of R&R and a superior with a steely stare and a set of orders to go out and kill somebody.

  It was just as well Hagen would be gone from John’s world tomorrow. But still, right or wrong, John wanted a piece of him to keep.

  Hagen shifted beside him, watching his fingers trace irregular curving shapes through the thin, dark hair on John’s chest. “I asked about your parents. If I recall.”

  Something inside him, just a little bit of flesh and bone away from Hagen’s gentle, lazy hand, tightened uncomfortably. John tried not to squirm to dislodge it, afraid he might spook Hagen and the hand would be withdrawn.