The Scarlet Sash
by spinner
"Shoot me then. What are you waiting for?" the prisoner demanded haughtily as he was dragged into Count Zurov's tent quarters. A burly hussar was holding each arm to prevent as little movement as possible.
"We caught this imposter trying to sneak into the camp," one man reported to his superior. The count lifted his eyes briefly from the reports on his desk, and dropped them just as quickly. Dead of night, and what was he stuck with? Spies and imposters, everywhere he turned.
"Why have you brought him here? You know the standing orders, do you not? Imposters are to be shot immediately."
The prisoner expelled a small chortle of merriment, and Zurov raised his eyes again. Fury raced through his features at the mockery, and he glared hard at the young man. He wanted to find an imperfection in his prey, one that he could exploit to return the mockery in kind. His hair was dark as night- too dark to be natural. The uniform was field-worn and mud-spattered. A rent in the left thigh had been repaired with delicate care, though the crease it formed was clearly visible. The scarlet sash was all wrong through. It was the incorrect color for that particular uniform. It was a flagrant mistake. No professional imposter would have worn such an ornamental sash- only a dandy would have chosen it. The chortle sounded again, bitten back in time not to be entirely voiced. Fandorin lowered his head and raised only his blue eyes to Zurov.
If recognition occurred, it did not reveal itself in the count's sour face.
"Tie his arms and leave him to me. I will deal with him in good time. See that I am not disturbed," Zurov commanded, signing the end of the report before him and setting the quill aside. The count watched the prisoner wincing as his wrists were bound behind his back, and he allowed himself to release an iota of the fury he felt. "Leave us!" he bellowed at his men, and they fled, folding down a series of tent flaps and taking up a position outside the several layers of concealment.
Hippolyte spent a long minute signing another report, lifting his head now and again to needle the young man with his dark eyes. When he decided he had spent enough time chastising him with silence, Zurov got to his feet and approached the captive.
"I should kill you where you stand," he hissed sternly, shaking a finger at him. The prisoner nodded, but still his lips trembled with unvoiced humor. Without warning, Zurov yanked open each of the ornamental fastenings that held his jacket tight, loosened the white shirt beneath, and lifted it out of his way. All the while his dark eyes bore down into the innocent blue ones which were raised to him imploringly. The sweet, amused smile had entirely vanished.
"Wh-wh-what are you d-doing?"
Zurov was close enough now that the words he hissed in reply brushed warmth and air against the slightly-stubbly skin of the prisoner's face. His words raised the edges of what had to be said was a comic masquerade of a hussar's moustache.
"Perhaps my eyes deceive me. It might not be you after all, Erasmus."
The blue eyes got wider as a calloused hand slid under the end of his shirt and up the smooth skin concealed beneath. Fandorin tensed as if to back away from the intrusion into his personal space, but Zurov anticipated, and put a bar of iron, his other arm, over the prisoner's back. Unbreakable was the grip of the hand that now held the back of Fandorin's neck. Rough fingers searched upward from his waist, loosening the thin shirt even further. Color flooded the younger man's face as he heard himself gasp. His eyes closed involuntarily, and he began to whisper syllables meant as words.
"Please…I b-beg of you…"
Erast sounded another gasp and tensed even tighter when the tip of Zurov's nose touched his as the hussar's thumb rubbed and pressed his breast with enough pressure to leave a mark. The invading hand slid away from his nipple and towards his side. Was the count searching him for weapons, Fandorin pondered dizzily. Zurov gave a low and rasping chuckle, burying his nose in Erast's closest ear. His nails dug into each and every one of the hollows between his ribs until finding what he was looking for, it would seem.
"P-please...I'm d-disarmed…already…" Fandorin gasped as Zurov traced his raised 'Azazel' scar. "P-please."
The evil, intruding hand went back to bruising its previous mark, circling it and teasing it, as Zurov's mouth traced words against Erast's neck.
"But such a wound is so easily duplicated. It's clear that a closer inspection is going to be required."
How he came to be face down on the double-wide, army-issue, sleeping cot in the count's private sleeping area was a mystery Fandorin would never solve, but he was certain it had involved more than a fair amount of kicking and biting, most of it on his part. Still, he was no match for Zurov, who was clearly well-accustomed to dodging sharp teeth and equally-sharp knees to get what he wanted. His boots were yanked off, and his trousers followed—most embarrassing. The introduction of a full-size hussar sitting on the middle of his back did rather a lot to quell Fandorin. He was tall, yes, but thin as a rail, and unsuited for this kind of physical confrontation. His lack of corporal strength did not, however, prevent an indignant scream of fury when Zurov gave him a swat across his naked flank, and turned around to straddle his thin hips instead of his back.
"That lying cow!" the count exclaimed. Fandorin's only response was angry panting. "She said you had a birthmark on your derrière! Amalia said you had…"
"As you can very well see, I have nothing of the kind!" Erast roared. At least, small favors, the words had come out without a stammer. Zurov simply would not get off of him though. Erast was going to be nothing more than a sea of bruises in the morning, that much was certain.
"Then you and she never…."
"NO!"
"She told me she had had you, that she had made you her very own," Hippolyte protested, shaking Erast by his shoulders. "I wanted to kill her. Wait. Wait. I shall prove for myself."
Flipping Fandorin over with an ease that made the younger man very uncomfortable, Zurov unceremoniously parted his knees and examined Erast's manhood as if it were a museum piece and not part of his living anatomy. The hussar's inquisitive stare was quite disconcerting.
"Well, no then. No. She was clearly lying," the count decided, pursing his mouth to one side. "You are much more endowed than she claimed. "
Blue eyes colder than any Russian winter studied Zurov. The panting had stopped because Fandorin was holding his breath to maintain the fountain of sheer wrath welling up inside him. He was contemplating a kick in the face versus both feet to the chest, one to each shoulder—which was more likely to dislodge the insane hussar from his person without damaging said person? Hippolyte gave Erast's not-entirely-uninterested member another perusal, lifting it carefully by the swollen tip and leaning it up against his bare abdomen. Erast gulped when those callused fingers traced his tender skin.
"S-s-stop touching me," Erast hissed. These army camp manners were completely uncivilized and practically unlawful! Zurov slowly smiled. Happy rapture wreathed his face as another thought went through his brain.
"So you remain a virgin then."
It was not a question, so there was no point in giving an answer. Fandorin settled for looking away from that growing smile. He wanted to shout, 'I HAVE BEEN MARRIED!'. But alas his marriage had lasted far too short a time. Except for a few stolen moments in a dark anteroom, nothing remotely carnal or untoward had actually occurred between he and Lizanka, and unimportant details such as his enduring chastity, these had slipped through the devastating cracks produced by the horrific events that had made him a widower on the same day he had been named a husband.
"I p-plan to kill you when you un-t-tie me," Erast announced, and then he winced when he realized that was perhaps not the smartest retort he could have voiced.
"We must remedy this at once," Zurov decided. He was either lost in his own thoughts or he was pretending he had not heard what Fandorin had stated. He ripped the fake moustache off Erast's face. That preponderance of facial hair had been annoying him since the prisoner had been dragged into his quarters.
"Unhand me. Let go of me. Stop t-t-touching me," Fandorin was growling the words as the mad hussar (had he met any that weren't?) got up on his hands and knees, fairly loomed over him, and then planted his mouth firmly over Fandorin's. The kicking and flailing briefly reappeared, and after a small amount of tongue-worship and well-placed finger or two, the kicking was replaced by the softest, most-enticing whimpering. Zurov's mouth moved down Fandorin's neck, across his chest, over his abdomen, and it attached itself to his hip. Hippolyte sank his teeth into tender flesh, and Erast stopped moaning long enough to scream out loudly.
Distracted momentarily by his own pain, Fandorin nearly missed the sound of glass clinking together. Gasping, he opened his eyes to see Zurov had reached for a vial of some sort that he had kept under the cot. The count was smoothing a substance onto his hands. Did he have time to escape this madness? Erast moved as if to rise up from the cot, but Hippolyte grasped him skillfully around the waist, and latched their mouths together again. His tongue battled and persuaded and caressed against Fandorin's until reason itself was banished.
The whimpering resumed as the count's hands vanished somewhere under the younger man's loosened shirt. Fandorin could hardly breathe as Zurov began to stroke him with one hand and penetrate him with the other. Why couldn't he stop making those strange sounds? Why did his body seem to be reacting with a will of its own? The sensations shooting through him weren't entirely pleasant. They were even a bit frightening. The hand stroking him to near-delirium disappeared. He heard the distinct sound of a buckle being undone. Panic washed over Erast as the count slid both arms up the young man's back and pulled him to the edge of the cot.
The panic was replaced by blinding pain. If their mouths hadn't been linked, Erast's scream would have torn through the sleeping camp. Maybe that was the plan after all. The count had done this enough times that he had been planning ahead? Erast felt queasy at the idea. He found himself seated in Zurov's lap, and there was nowhere for his legs to go but around the powerful body pinned against him. This was definitely NOT how he had imagined his first sexual experience would unfold itself. His fantasies had not included love-crazed hussars with thick moustaches and brawny shoulders and powerful thighs and….well, not all of them had, anyway. Kisses and gentle words touched his cheeks and his ear as slow, steady, even thrusts bounced him, filled him to the brim and back again, touching off nerves and sparks and tremors throughout his body.
The count undid the bonds on Fandorin's wrists, and pulled Erast's arms free. Fandorin was shuddering, stammering, and squirming. His hands were glued to the count's broad shoulders, cutting in, digging for a secure hold. Zurov had hardly broken a sweat, and Erast couldn't put two thoughts together in sequence. He felt what must have been the ground rise up to grab him, and the thrusting continued. He couldn't even imagine how they must have looked—what a tangle of hairy limbs. Something was pooling down inside him—anger or perhaps fury or perhaps pleasure itself. Zurov's smiling face washed over his field of vision, filled with warmth and concern and strong feelings of another sort that made Fandorin tremble even more. Erast's panting turned to screams, not exactly of pain but something very near. He couldn't seem to stop his own voice. He could not banish the pleading timbre therein. How dreadful! He was utterly mortified. He'd never be able to look the hussar in the eyes again, not after this. Hippolyte's voice was in his ear, all warm and raspy and commanding.
"Let go. That's it. My beautiful 'rasmus. Beautiful 'rasmus. 'rasmus. 'rasmus. Let go. I have you, 'Rasmus. 'Rasmus. 'Rasmus."
There was something supernatural in the reverberation of his own name whispered into his ear which loosened the steel knots that held Erast together. When coupled with the masterful thrusts sending his brain spinning, and the searing warmth that was filling his insides in jetting splashes, the wounded, needy young man really wasn't any match. Pleasure radiated throughout his body and back again to his core. Fandorin felt as if his entire soul was expelled from his body through his member. He screamed out at the top of his lungs a long, wavering cry. This time it was in pain, a pain so strong and all-consuming that it might kill him. Unbearable sadness cut through him before darkness swallowed him alive.
He awoke to the sound of timid sobs. Could he pretend they were not his own? Someone was nuzzling his face, rocking him, kissing his neck, holding him close. Too numb to think, Erast closed his eyes and leaned wearily against the shoulder under his cheek.
" 'rasmus? I haven't hurt you, have I?"
Fandorin's sadness was replaced by annoyance and anger, because there was no doubt in his mind that Zurov had wanted a tearful, positive response.
A cup of strong liquor was passed under Fandorin's nose, lifted to his lips. He drank, stifling the sobs away, wanting to make the pain in his heart disappear as well. Zurov kissed the wetness from his mouth, and then lavished his neck with apologies and kind words.
"Was I too rough? Have I hurt you? Erasmus, say something."
"You are a b-brute, and horse's b-behind. That's what you are," Erast pronounced the words with a stammer and a sniff, running the back of his hand up over his wet face. He yanked his cheek away from the warm skin that had been melting his every last defense. Hippolyte's handsome features rounded with shocked laughter. He was dabbing a cloth over his broad chest, but he threw it aside in mock anger.
"I'm a what?"
"A horse's behind!" came the indignant howl.
"How would you know what part of a horse I am?! It's not like you've ridden a lot of horses, is it?"
Fandorin opened his mouth to yell another insult, but Zurov continued on unabated.
"I shall have to make time in my schedule to see that you have more riding lessons. Each morning before breakfast. Each night before dinner. I shall take you, saddle you, and ride you until you know what you're doing when you're mounted," the hussar laughed mirthfully, giving him a harsh slap on one naked thigh. Before Fandorin could wriggle out of reach, Zurov grabbed him, held him motionless, and unsheathed a dagger. (Where could he possibly have been concealing a dagger?) An entire swarm of bees all stung Erast on his right hip. He bellowed and clawed away, kicking and biting, taking a mouthful of hair with him to the distance of arms' length. He might yet make his escape!
"Bastard!" Fandorin snapped.
"That's better," Zurov chuckled. He glanced downward, apparently admiring his handiwork. "I will know for certain it is you next time."
Fandorin's hand found his wounded hip—it was wet with fresh blood. When he glanced down, he saw that a tiny, scarlet, crescent moon now adorned his pale flesh. He glared at Zurov with those glacial blue eyes once more.
"Perhaps you'd like to add your name while you're at it?" Fandorin taunted. Zurov cleaned his dagger and put it away, grinning all the while. "Where are my trousers?"
"Under the cot," Zurov pointed, but he did not let Erast move too far away. "What did you use to color your hair?" he asked, mussing up Fandorin's temples and drawing away darkness and a slick waxy feeling.
"I should report-t-t you for immorality!"
"I should report you for having enjoyed yourself."
"Your t-treatment of prisoners leaves m-much to be desired," Fandorin growled, wriggling out of his grasp, finally!
"Much to be desired? Wanting more already, are you?"
Fandorin scowled vehemently at Zurov and tried to get into his trousers while sitting down. There was clearly no way to do this and retain even a fraction of his dignity. Perhaps it was already too late to be worrying about his fractured pride. He climbed to his feet and Zurov followed. They dressed in unison, except that Zurov could get into these clothes blindfolded with one hand impaired, and Erast was having trouble recalling which way these maddeningly-intricate ornamental golden braids folded together. When the count had redone his jacket, Zurov grabbed Fandorin by his yet-open uniform and pulled the young man close again. It took nothing more than a full minute's worth of kissing to make Erast so dizzy that he swayed when released. Panting, Erast fluttered open those fantastic lashes, so ready to forgive, only to find Zurov was wearing the most unbearable expression of smug pleasure.
"Maniac hussar," Fandorin swore.
"Don't sneak out of the camp again tonight. Next time, my men might actually follow orders and shoot first," Hippolyte warned, blocking the exit with his powerful frame. The only way out of the tent was through him, and this was no coincidence.
Fandorin stomped his feet back into his boots and put on a ferocious, bellicose expression that would have moved the Alps sideways. Zurov grinned at him once more.
"Maybe next time you'd like to purloin an appropriate sash to go with your stolen uniform? Hmm, Mr. Clever?" Zurov chortled.
Le Fin
© 2008 to spinner, with profound apologies to mr. akunin
