Kingdom Hearts II (Xigbar/Xaldin)
Dilan slipped quietly past the command tent, military issue boots making no noise on the hard packed earth of the camp’s main thoroughfare. Cheap electric lighting spilled out from the tent’s open doorway; a long, flickering swath of harsh artificial yellow splashed across the gloomy midnight darkness. The men inside all seemed far too preoccupied with their telegrams and pockmarked maps to notice him, but Dilan was still careful to breathe shallowly until he was a safe distance away. The cloth-wrapped bottles in his rucksack tapped lightly against each other as he traveled the uneven ground, but he figured the noise from the burst-shot rifles and anti-aircraft cannons thundering on the other end of camp ought to be loud enough to cover the sound of his passage. Hopefully.
Pleased for once that it was overcast as usual in this godforsaken country, Dilan moved along at a steady, even pace, trusting in the shadows and his field-grey uniform to hide him in the darkness. His nerves screamed at him to run, to get down, to stay out of sight, but Dilan knew from experience just how futile that would be - he was better off trying to look anonymous, not ducking around behind the tents on his hands and knees like an idiot. The last thing he wanted was to get a bullet in the head because some hotshot sentry thought he was an Allied spy.
The moon peeked briefly through the curtain of clouds, glinting off the barrel of his rifle before sliding away to paint the ground in front of him a molten silver, the mess of deeply ridged boot prints and tire tracks standing out in sharp relief to that luminous glow. This had been a field once, for raising livestock or some such thing, but several months of shuttling young, fresh-faced reinforcements to the border had reduced it to little more than hard clay and slick, clinging mud. It was still a damn sight better than the trenches, although most men were of the opinion that the seventh circle of hell had to be better than the trenches, so it wasn’t much comfort. And Dilan knew that the chances of an NCO staying this far from the fighting for more than three weeks were pretty much nonexistent by this point.
Hence his highly unofficial midnight walk.
Dilan slowed as he came close to the sentry line, wary in case his timing had been off. There were still a few corpse-like trees sticking up in this part of the camp - the farthest away from the main thoroughfare and its soldiers and tanks and munitions tents. Dilan drew to an easy halt alongside one, peering out across the dark terrain to the ridiculous looking hedge-row that marked the edge of the field. This was the weakest point in the perimeter defenses, patrolled by four guards and the two adjacent sentry towers. It was a slim chance, but someone moving quickly at just the right moment could feasibly cut right across the hedges without being seen - provided the guards didn’t turn back before he was properly across.
Or, at least that’s what Dilan had been counting on when he’d developed the sentry lines for the camp’s defensives.
Right or wrong, it looked like he’d get to test his theory soon enough. Dilan watched silently as the paired guards crossed each other and moved onward, all facing away from the point he was watching so intently. It would only be a few minutes before they reached the sentry towers and turned again - if Dilan didn’t time this just right he’d probably be dead before sun up. If he was lucky.
The still quiet thrummed with anticipation as the guards inched further and further apart. Dilan rocked onto the balls of his feet, hands wrapped around the straps on his rucksack as he readied himself to run. Just a few more seconds…right…about…
“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it Feldwebel Dilan?” a voice asked, directly behind him and startlingly loud in the frozen stillness of night.
Dilan froze, mind furiously trying to recall the excuses he’d prepared for this even as his spirits sagged in frustrated defeat. He’d been so close.
The familiar click of a Mauser bolt sliding back shuddered ominously through the empty air. Dilan schooled his thoughts and expression diligently, determined to meet his death with dignity.
“Is it, Oberst?” he asked, hardly more than a whisper but easily heard on the quiet air. “I did not realize.”
“No?” the Oberst said, voice no louder than Dilan’s but heavily laden with sardonic amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re taken to sleepwalking Feldwebel - it’s hardly fitting for a man of your station.”
Breathing shallowly, Dilan let his hands slip from his rucksack as he turned to face his discoverer. One gloved palm slid abortively over the butt of his Mauser and he wondered if it would even be worth the effort to try. Against this man, probably not.
A shaft of moonlight pierced through the clouds, glinting off the polished muzzle of the rifle aimed point blank at Dilan’s chest and making the heavy cotton bandages swathing the right side of his assailant’s face glow painfully white in the fitful darkness. There’d been an eye there a week ago, before a lucky swipe from an Allied bayonet had gouged a scar as long as Dilan’s hand from the man’s chin to his forehead. The loss didn’t seem to be affecting Oberst Xigbar’s aim any, as the hapless Ally who’d died with a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead only a moment later could no doubt attest to.
Xigbar saw Dilan’s eyes lingering over the bloodstained bandage and grinned. “One of the hazards of the job, isn’t it Feldwebel?” he asked, the probing quality to his voice enough to make weaker men than Dilan cringe. “Isn’t it a good thing that neither you or I are too badly hurt to be kept back from the front?”
The sentries were coming back. Dilan kept the tree between him and the perimeter, no longer expecting to succeed but wanting to hold off the indignity of being gunned down for as long as possible.
Xigbar’s expression sharpened when Dilan did not respond, something of the casual amusement leaking out of his lean frame. “What’s the matter Dilan?” he asked, the use of his name instead of his rank deliberately insulting. “Aren’t you ready to die for the sake of our Fuhrer?”
Dilan knew this question. He’d been asked many such questions during his life, especially since he’d joined the German Wehrmacht. It was the kind of question that only had two answers; the right one and the truth.
The hands holding Xigbar’s rifle were rock steady as the Oberst waited for his answer. Dilan opened his mouth to deliver the rote, flat response he’d been trained to accept and felt his jaw tighten.
“Well Dilan?”
“Nein.”
Xigbar’s one visible eyebrow rose. “Nein?”
“Nein.” Dilan thrust his jaw up sharply, glaring at his Oberst. He’d chosen this path and he wasn’t about to die a coward. “I will die for my own sake, and no other.”
Xigbar had a shark’s smile, Dilan noticed. “That sort of talk will have you executed for treason,” the Oberst informed him pleasantly, stepping closer until the tip of his gun was pressing into the fabric over Dilan’s heart and Dilan was leaning heavily against the tree behind him.
He refused to be cowed. “I know,” he bit back, glaring daggers and wishing he had one on hand. “But it’s better than being ripped apart on the battlefield.”
“Really?” Xigbar, to Dilan’s surprise, looked more thoughtful than anything else. “You’re so eager to escape the trenches that you’d prefer to be executed?”
The shuffle-clink of armed soldiers behind them made Dilan stiffen, the barrel of Xigbar’s Mauser digging painfully against him as he stilled, listening to the sentries meet and carry on without even a glance in their direction.
That single eye shifted from Dilan’s face to look over his shoulder at the dark-coated border guards. “I see,” Xigbar murmured softly, breath gusting hot over Dilan’s night-chilled skin. “A well planned flight. Although one wonders why you’d do this now, when you’ve spent the last three years on the battlefield without a word of complaint.” The next words were whispered, almost directly in Dilan’s ear. “What’s got you so spooked that you’d abandon the great German Empire when we’re winning?”
Fighting down the involuntary shiver rippling through his spine, Dilan wondered whether it was worth his hide to stay silent. Not that he wouldn’t die for this either way, but Xigbar seemed in no hurry to turn him in just yet, which was intriguing enough to loosen his tongue from its characteristic reticence.
“The Allies are planning something,” he said at last, refusing to look away from the keen, predatory glint in Xigbar’s eye. “Their soldiers fight like they’re waiting for something, like they’re just holding their position until someone else shows up to take over the fight. And our reinforcements are slowing down - the war in the East is taking too many of Germany’s resources.” He shook his head in disgust. “Two Panzers and trenches full of worn out soldiers aren’t going to last long if the Allies and the Americans decide to get serious about taking back France.”
“You know,” Xigbar observed conversationally. “It’s a shame you can’t rise any higher in the ranks - high command could probably use a man like you. But then again,” his smile was dangerously sharp. “I’m more satisfied with the way things have turned out anyway.”
Dilan had only a moment to register the hand around his throat and Xigbar’s mouth was over his, wind-chapped lips rough and demanding as he forced Dilan’s mouth open and pushed inside. Dilan hissed sharply, hands tugging frantically at the constricting pressure on his throat, flares of light scattering across his vision as Xigbar stole the precious few scraps of air that bubbled up from the back of his closed throat. Xigbar was merciless, tongue plundering Dilan’s mouth ruthlessly even as his rifle stayed pressed warningly against Dilan’s chest.
Choking from lack of air, Dilan scrabbled for his gun, determined not to go down without a fight. His fingers closed around the muzzle but, with the tree in the way and his strength waning fast, there was little more that he could do to bring it to bear against his attacker.
And just when his vision started fading ominously black, the pressure on his neck slackened and Xigbar drew back, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“Yes,” he purred. “I’m much happier with how things are turning out now.”
Dilan did his best to glare in between sucking down long gulps of air. “They’ll ship you off to the concentration camps for behaviour like that,” he declared, voice thick with angry disgust.
“Oh really?” Xigbar asked with a smirk. Dilan was really starting to hate that expression. “And who’s going to tell them about it? They’re not going to take the word of a deserter over an Oberst.”
“What do you want?” Dilan asked wearily, abruptly tired of this game. “Just shoot me already.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Xigbar reprimanded, increasing the stress on Dilan’s throat just enough to make him thrash. “And here I thought you were running away in the dead of night because you wanted to live.” The point of his gun dipped, curving towards the ground as Xigbar reached down to pull open the buttons on his uniform trousers. “And really, even if you are suicidal, it doesn’t mean you get what you want. Not when I outrank you.”
Dilan growled, wishing he had the strength to snap this man’s wrist and seize his own gun.
“Shhh,” Xigbar warned him, tilting his head significantly towards the perimeter. “You wouldn’t want to get caught in a position like this before you get executed, would you? Talk about dying doubly cursed.”
The hand on his throat tightened and Dilan gagged as Xigbar shoved him down roughly, the dead earth cold against his legs even through the fabric of his uniform. Xigbar’s hand shifted from his throat to his hair, pulling his head back and making his neck crane uncomfortably.
“So how quietly do you think you can do this?” the Oberst asked, almost solicitous except for the hungry glint in his lone eye. “Sound carries pretty far at night, after all, and I wouldn’t want your dignity wounded by an unfortunate find.”
Dilan was still looking for an appropriate way to tell the man to go to hell and burn there when he was forced onto the purple cockhead rising thick and eager from Xigbar’s pants. The hand in his hair twisted sharply, pulling on the short strands and holding his head still while Xigbar fucked his mouth with long, hard strokes.
He choked, hampered by the hand in his hair and the rucksack over his shoulders, trapped and ineffectual. His hand felt desperately for the butt of his rifle, but a warning nudge from the barrel of Xigbar’s gun had him subsiding with an abortive curse.
“Mmm, not bad,” Xigbar murmured above him, voice a little breathy but still controlled. “I always thought your mouth was made for cocksucking.”
And that thought didn’t even bear considering - if Xigbar had followed him on purpose, Dilan decided, he really didn’t want to know. His hands fisted uselessly in the dirt as his head bobbed reflexively to the rhythm of Xigbar’s pleasure. A particularly hard thrust rubbed the head of Xigbar’s cock against the back of his throat and he made an involuntary noise of protest, screwing his eyes shut as he tried not to choke.
The sound of Xigbar’s chuckle floated lightly through the darkness. “Damn that’s nice,” the Oberst approved. “Wish I had the leisure to make you moan properly. Oops,” he added, leather belts creaking as he leaned down to whisper in Dilan’s ear. “Here they come again. Keep up the good work.”
Gathering up his tattered dignity, Dilan forced himself to relax into the invasion, not protesting as Xigbar’s cock slid smoothly between his swollen lips, leaving a salty tang on his tongue. The man seemed content to do all the work so Dilan let him, his attention on the rhythmic tread of the approaching soldiers’ boots, the subtle clink of their rifles in time with the rise and fall of their feet. The air seemed very cold suddenly, the stillness almost suffocating as the fabric of Xigbar’s uniform whispered roughly over Dilan’s face. His pack was starting to feel heavy, the straps pulling tautly over his shoulders and making it hard to keep his balance whenever Xigbar thrust too sharply. Dilan held onto his self-control rigidly, riding out his barrage of thoughts and fears and emotions with the same iron will that had always made him such a good soldier.
Still, it was with a slightly bitter sense of relief that he heard the guards’ footfalls fade into the quiet, trailing off into nothing as they passed him by for the second time that evening.
Unfortunately Xigbar seemed to have been waiting for that to happen. His hand tightened in Dilan’s hair and he snapped his hips forward roughly, grinning when the movement forced a muffled groan from Dilan’s throat. His already demanding pace became absolutely relentless, rocking Dilan’s entire body with the force. Dangerously off balance, Dilan clutched instinctively at Xigbar’s legs to keep from falling, lean, whipcord muscles flexing under his fingers beneath the fabric. Xigbar growled out an appreciative curse, rifle falling uselessly to its strap as he brought up his other hand to Dilan’s head, forcing him still as he pounded in once, twice, then stiffened and shuddered and let go all at once.
Bitter fluid flooded Dilan’s mouth and he wretched, unable to move for the strong hands holding him down. Xigbar’s cock pulsed on his tongue, muffling the sound of his coughs and forcing him to swallow or drown.
Xigbar drew in a shaky breath. “Nice,” he approved, hands sliding lingeringly through Dilan’s hair as he drew back. Dilan shuddered, slumping forward onto his forearms as he tried to remember how to breathe. His rifle slipped off his shoulder onto the ground near his hand, but Dilan didn’t even bother trying for it. Not now.
There was a quiet rustling as Xigbar tucked himself back into his uniform and Dilan steeled himself for a bullet in the heart now that he’d satisfied the man’s abnormal desires.
But it seemed his Oberst wasn’t quite done with him yet.
“Where were you planning to go?” Xigbar asked, bizarrely polite for what he’d just done. “Not to the British, I hope?”
“Switzerland,” Dilan answered, ignoring the husky quality of his own voice. He stared hard at the ground under him as he added, “It’s neutral so they’ll have no reason to turn me away. And since all of Normandy is still Axis territory - for now - it shouldn’t be too difficult to get to the border.”
“I see.” Xigbar sounded thoughtful again, something in his voice that Dilan’s mind wanted to quantify as impressed even though he knew that couldn’t be the case. “Well you’d better get up then, unless you want to miss your chance.”
Dilan jerked his head up in shock and Xigbar grinned at him secretively, hands in his pockets and rifle slung easily over his arm.
“What? It’s getting late, or early, I suppose, and I doubt you want to wait for them to pass by a third time.” There was nothing deceitful in Xigbar’s expression and Dilan found himself getting warily to his feet, hardly able to believe this was happening. “It’ll take them a while to notice you’re gone, but the more distance you can put towards the border, the better.” He paused thoughtfully. “You’d probably do well to change your name too, just in case.”
Xigbar’s attention shifted, sharpshooter gaze fixing on the perimeter. “Better move it,” he urged. “Or you’ll be too late.”
“Why-?” Dilan managed, mind refusing to process this even as his hands re-slung his rifle and adjusted the straps on his pack.
Xigbar had the gall to wink at him. “Thanks for your time, Feldwebel Dilan,” he smirked, avoiding the question entirely. “Best of luck surviving.”
Inexplicably, Dilan found himself returning the fierce grin. “You too, Oberst,” he responded and then, with a quick glance at the guards, he was off, speeding across the camp to clear the low hedge-row in one smooth jump and hit the ground running.
No warning call rang out behind him and Dilan had to fight the urge to laugh in sudden delight. That had certainly not been how he expected his escape attempt to turn out but he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he couldn’t really complain. Not when it had worked.
And if he ever saw that bastard Oberst again he was going to shoot him.
~owari
Pleased for once that it was overcast as usual in this godforsaken country, Dilan moved along at a steady, even pace, trusting in the shadows and his field-grey uniform to hide him in the darkness. His nerves screamed at him to run, to get down, to stay out of sight, but Dilan knew from experience just how futile that would be - he was better off trying to look anonymous, not ducking around behind the tents on his hands and knees like an idiot. The last thing he wanted was to get a bullet in the head because some hotshot sentry thought he was an Allied spy.
The moon peeked briefly through the curtain of clouds, glinting off the barrel of his rifle before sliding away to paint the ground in front of him a molten silver, the mess of deeply ridged boot prints and tire tracks standing out in sharp relief to that luminous glow. This had been a field once, for raising livestock or some such thing, but several months of shuttling young, fresh-faced reinforcements to the border had reduced it to little more than hard clay and slick, clinging mud. It was still a damn sight better than the trenches, although most men were of the opinion that the seventh circle of hell had to be better than the trenches, so it wasn’t much comfort. And Dilan knew that the chances of an NCO staying this far from the fighting for more than three weeks were pretty much nonexistent by this point.
Hence his highly unofficial midnight walk.
Dilan slowed as he came close to the sentry line, wary in case his timing had been off. There were still a few corpse-like trees sticking up in this part of the camp - the farthest away from the main thoroughfare and its soldiers and tanks and munitions tents. Dilan drew to an easy halt alongside one, peering out across the dark terrain to the ridiculous looking hedge-row that marked the edge of the field. This was the weakest point in the perimeter defenses, patrolled by four guards and the two adjacent sentry towers. It was a slim chance, but someone moving quickly at just the right moment could feasibly cut right across the hedges without being seen - provided the guards didn’t turn back before he was properly across.
Or, at least that’s what Dilan had been counting on when he’d developed the sentry lines for the camp’s defensives.
Right or wrong, it looked like he’d get to test his theory soon enough. Dilan watched silently as the paired guards crossed each other and moved onward, all facing away from the point he was watching so intently. It would only be a few minutes before they reached the sentry towers and turned again - if Dilan didn’t time this just right he’d probably be dead before sun up. If he was lucky.
The still quiet thrummed with anticipation as the guards inched further and further apart. Dilan rocked onto the balls of his feet, hands wrapped around the straps on his rucksack as he readied himself to run. Just a few more seconds…right…about…
“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it Feldwebel Dilan?” a voice asked, directly behind him and startlingly loud in the frozen stillness of night.
Dilan froze, mind furiously trying to recall the excuses he’d prepared for this even as his spirits sagged in frustrated defeat. He’d been so close.
The familiar click of a Mauser bolt sliding back shuddered ominously through the empty air. Dilan schooled his thoughts and expression diligently, determined to meet his death with dignity.
“Is it, Oberst?” he asked, hardly more than a whisper but easily heard on the quiet air. “I did not realize.”
“No?” the Oberst said, voice no louder than Dilan’s but heavily laden with sardonic amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re taken to sleepwalking Feldwebel - it’s hardly fitting for a man of your station.”
Breathing shallowly, Dilan let his hands slip from his rucksack as he turned to face his discoverer. One gloved palm slid abortively over the butt of his Mauser and he wondered if it would even be worth the effort to try. Against this man, probably not.
A shaft of moonlight pierced through the clouds, glinting off the polished muzzle of the rifle aimed point blank at Dilan’s chest and making the heavy cotton bandages swathing the right side of his assailant’s face glow painfully white in the fitful darkness. There’d been an eye there a week ago, before a lucky swipe from an Allied bayonet had gouged a scar as long as Dilan’s hand from the man’s chin to his forehead. The loss didn’t seem to be affecting Oberst Xigbar’s aim any, as the hapless Ally who’d died with a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead only a moment later could no doubt attest to.
Xigbar saw Dilan’s eyes lingering over the bloodstained bandage and grinned. “One of the hazards of the job, isn’t it Feldwebel?” he asked, the probing quality to his voice enough to make weaker men than Dilan cringe. “Isn’t it a good thing that neither you or I are too badly hurt to be kept back from the front?”
The sentries were coming back. Dilan kept the tree between him and the perimeter, no longer expecting to succeed but wanting to hold off the indignity of being gunned down for as long as possible.
Xigbar’s expression sharpened when Dilan did not respond, something of the casual amusement leaking out of his lean frame. “What’s the matter Dilan?” he asked, the use of his name instead of his rank deliberately insulting. “Aren’t you ready to die for the sake of our Fuhrer?”
Dilan knew this question. He’d been asked many such questions during his life, especially since he’d joined the German Wehrmacht. It was the kind of question that only had two answers; the right one and the truth.
The hands holding Xigbar’s rifle were rock steady as the Oberst waited for his answer. Dilan opened his mouth to deliver the rote, flat response he’d been trained to accept and felt his jaw tighten.
“Well Dilan?”
“Nein.”
Xigbar’s one visible eyebrow rose. “Nein?”
“Nein.” Dilan thrust his jaw up sharply, glaring at his Oberst. He’d chosen this path and he wasn’t about to die a coward. “I will die for my own sake, and no other.”
Xigbar had a shark’s smile, Dilan noticed. “That sort of talk will have you executed for treason,” the Oberst informed him pleasantly, stepping closer until the tip of his gun was pressing into the fabric over Dilan’s heart and Dilan was leaning heavily against the tree behind him.
He refused to be cowed. “I know,” he bit back, glaring daggers and wishing he had one on hand. “But it’s better than being ripped apart on the battlefield.”
“Really?” Xigbar, to Dilan’s surprise, looked more thoughtful than anything else. “You’re so eager to escape the trenches that you’d prefer to be executed?”
The shuffle-clink of armed soldiers behind them made Dilan stiffen, the barrel of Xigbar’s Mauser digging painfully against him as he stilled, listening to the sentries meet and carry on without even a glance in their direction.
That single eye shifted from Dilan’s face to look over his shoulder at the dark-coated border guards. “I see,” Xigbar murmured softly, breath gusting hot over Dilan’s night-chilled skin. “A well planned flight. Although one wonders why you’d do this now, when you’ve spent the last three years on the battlefield without a word of complaint.” The next words were whispered, almost directly in Dilan’s ear. “What’s got you so spooked that you’d abandon the great German Empire when we’re winning?”
Fighting down the involuntary shiver rippling through his spine, Dilan wondered whether it was worth his hide to stay silent. Not that he wouldn’t die for this either way, but Xigbar seemed in no hurry to turn him in just yet, which was intriguing enough to loosen his tongue from its characteristic reticence.
“The Allies are planning something,” he said at last, refusing to look away from the keen, predatory glint in Xigbar’s eye. “Their soldiers fight like they’re waiting for something, like they’re just holding their position until someone else shows up to take over the fight. And our reinforcements are slowing down - the war in the East is taking too many of Germany’s resources.” He shook his head in disgust. “Two Panzers and trenches full of worn out soldiers aren’t going to last long if the Allies and the Americans decide to get serious about taking back France.”
“You know,” Xigbar observed conversationally. “It’s a shame you can’t rise any higher in the ranks - high command could probably use a man like you. But then again,” his smile was dangerously sharp. “I’m more satisfied with the way things have turned out anyway.”
Dilan had only a moment to register the hand around his throat and Xigbar’s mouth was over his, wind-chapped lips rough and demanding as he forced Dilan’s mouth open and pushed inside. Dilan hissed sharply, hands tugging frantically at the constricting pressure on his throat, flares of light scattering across his vision as Xigbar stole the precious few scraps of air that bubbled up from the back of his closed throat. Xigbar was merciless, tongue plundering Dilan’s mouth ruthlessly even as his rifle stayed pressed warningly against Dilan’s chest.
Choking from lack of air, Dilan scrabbled for his gun, determined not to go down without a fight. His fingers closed around the muzzle but, with the tree in the way and his strength waning fast, there was little more that he could do to bring it to bear against his attacker.
And just when his vision started fading ominously black, the pressure on his neck slackened and Xigbar drew back, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“Yes,” he purred. “I’m much happier with how things are turning out now.”
Dilan did his best to glare in between sucking down long gulps of air. “They’ll ship you off to the concentration camps for behaviour like that,” he declared, voice thick with angry disgust.
“Oh really?” Xigbar asked with a smirk. Dilan was really starting to hate that expression. “And who’s going to tell them about it? They’re not going to take the word of a deserter over an Oberst.”
“What do you want?” Dilan asked wearily, abruptly tired of this game. “Just shoot me already.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Xigbar reprimanded, increasing the stress on Dilan’s throat just enough to make him thrash. “And here I thought you were running away in the dead of night because you wanted to live.” The point of his gun dipped, curving towards the ground as Xigbar reached down to pull open the buttons on his uniform trousers. “And really, even if you are suicidal, it doesn’t mean you get what you want. Not when I outrank you.”
Dilan growled, wishing he had the strength to snap this man’s wrist and seize his own gun.
“Shhh,” Xigbar warned him, tilting his head significantly towards the perimeter. “You wouldn’t want to get caught in a position like this before you get executed, would you? Talk about dying doubly cursed.”
The hand on his throat tightened and Dilan gagged as Xigbar shoved him down roughly, the dead earth cold against his legs even through the fabric of his uniform. Xigbar’s hand shifted from his throat to his hair, pulling his head back and making his neck crane uncomfortably.
“So how quietly do you think you can do this?” the Oberst asked, almost solicitous except for the hungry glint in his lone eye. “Sound carries pretty far at night, after all, and I wouldn’t want your dignity wounded by an unfortunate find.”
Dilan was still looking for an appropriate way to tell the man to go to hell and burn there when he was forced onto the purple cockhead rising thick and eager from Xigbar’s pants. The hand in his hair twisted sharply, pulling on the short strands and holding his head still while Xigbar fucked his mouth with long, hard strokes.
He choked, hampered by the hand in his hair and the rucksack over his shoulders, trapped and ineffectual. His hand felt desperately for the butt of his rifle, but a warning nudge from the barrel of Xigbar’s gun had him subsiding with an abortive curse.
“Mmm, not bad,” Xigbar murmured above him, voice a little breathy but still controlled. “I always thought your mouth was made for cocksucking.”
And that thought didn’t even bear considering - if Xigbar had followed him on purpose, Dilan decided, he really didn’t want to know. His hands fisted uselessly in the dirt as his head bobbed reflexively to the rhythm of Xigbar’s pleasure. A particularly hard thrust rubbed the head of Xigbar’s cock against the back of his throat and he made an involuntary noise of protest, screwing his eyes shut as he tried not to choke.
The sound of Xigbar’s chuckle floated lightly through the darkness. “Damn that’s nice,” the Oberst approved. “Wish I had the leisure to make you moan properly. Oops,” he added, leather belts creaking as he leaned down to whisper in Dilan’s ear. “Here they come again. Keep up the good work.”
Gathering up his tattered dignity, Dilan forced himself to relax into the invasion, not protesting as Xigbar’s cock slid smoothly between his swollen lips, leaving a salty tang on his tongue. The man seemed content to do all the work so Dilan let him, his attention on the rhythmic tread of the approaching soldiers’ boots, the subtle clink of their rifles in time with the rise and fall of their feet. The air seemed very cold suddenly, the stillness almost suffocating as the fabric of Xigbar’s uniform whispered roughly over Dilan’s face. His pack was starting to feel heavy, the straps pulling tautly over his shoulders and making it hard to keep his balance whenever Xigbar thrust too sharply. Dilan held onto his self-control rigidly, riding out his barrage of thoughts and fears and emotions with the same iron will that had always made him such a good soldier.
Still, it was with a slightly bitter sense of relief that he heard the guards’ footfalls fade into the quiet, trailing off into nothing as they passed him by for the second time that evening.
Unfortunately Xigbar seemed to have been waiting for that to happen. His hand tightened in Dilan’s hair and he snapped his hips forward roughly, grinning when the movement forced a muffled groan from Dilan’s throat. His already demanding pace became absolutely relentless, rocking Dilan’s entire body with the force. Dangerously off balance, Dilan clutched instinctively at Xigbar’s legs to keep from falling, lean, whipcord muscles flexing under his fingers beneath the fabric. Xigbar growled out an appreciative curse, rifle falling uselessly to its strap as he brought up his other hand to Dilan’s head, forcing him still as he pounded in once, twice, then stiffened and shuddered and let go all at once.
Bitter fluid flooded Dilan’s mouth and he wretched, unable to move for the strong hands holding him down. Xigbar’s cock pulsed on his tongue, muffling the sound of his coughs and forcing him to swallow or drown.
Xigbar drew in a shaky breath. “Nice,” he approved, hands sliding lingeringly through Dilan’s hair as he drew back. Dilan shuddered, slumping forward onto his forearms as he tried to remember how to breathe. His rifle slipped off his shoulder onto the ground near his hand, but Dilan didn’t even bother trying for it. Not now.
There was a quiet rustling as Xigbar tucked himself back into his uniform and Dilan steeled himself for a bullet in the heart now that he’d satisfied the man’s abnormal desires.
But it seemed his Oberst wasn’t quite done with him yet.
“Where were you planning to go?” Xigbar asked, bizarrely polite for what he’d just done. “Not to the British, I hope?”
“Switzerland,” Dilan answered, ignoring the husky quality of his own voice. He stared hard at the ground under him as he added, “It’s neutral so they’ll have no reason to turn me away. And since all of Normandy is still Axis territory - for now - it shouldn’t be too difficult to get to the border.”
“I see.” Xigbar sounded thoughtful again, something in his voice that Dilan’s mind wanted to quantify as impressed even though he knew that couldn’t be the case. “Well you’d better get up then, unless you want to miss your chance.”
Dilan jerked his head up in shock and Xigbar grinned at him secretively, hands in his pockets and rifle slung easily over his arm.
“What? It’s getting late, or early, I suppose, and I doubt you want to wait for them to pass by a third time.” There was nothing deceitful in Xigbar’s expression and Dilan found himself getting warily to his feet, hardly able to believe this was happening. “It’ll take them a while to notice you’re gone, but the more distance you can put towards the border, the better.” He paused thoughtfully. “You’d probably do well to change your name too, just in case.”
Xigbar’s attention shifted, sharpshooter gaze fixing on the perimeter. “Better move it,” he urged. “Or you’ll be too late.”
“Why-?” Dilan managed, mind refusing to process this even as his hands re-slung his rifle and adjusted the straps on his pack.
Xigbar had the gall to wink at him. “Thanks for your time, Feldwebel Dilan,” he smirked, avoiding the question entirely. “Best of luck surviving.”
Inexplicably, Dilan found himself returning the fierce grin. “You too, Oberst,” he responded and then, with a quick glance at the guards, he was off, speeding across the camp to clear the low hedge-row in one smooth jump and hit the ground running.
No warning call rang out behind him and Dilan had to fight the urge to laugh in sudden delight. That had certainly not been how he expected his escape attempt to turn out but he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he couldn’t really complain. Not when it had worked.
And if he ever saw that bastard Oberst again he was going to shoot him.
~owari