whore at war

nonverbal boy gets sent out to fight for his country but unsure what hes actually supposed to do before meeting 2 other soldiers from the enemies side.

The trench smelled of wet earth, cordite, and fear that had nowhere to go.
Elu sat with his back against the crumbling wall, knees drawn up, rifle balanced awkwardly across his thighs like it was a borrowed toy he didn’t understand. His uniform hung off his small frame—sleeves rolled three times, trousers cinched with a length of paracord someone had taken pity on him and tied. His helmet sat crooked; he hadn’t bothered to tighten the strap. Fingers, thin and trembling, kept sliding over the charging handle, pulling it back half an inch, letting it snap forward, again and again. Click-clack. Click-clack. The sound was maddening in the relative quiet between shellings.
Mavros noticed him from thirty metres down the line.
He’d been checking sight lines, counting rounds, doing all the things he’d been drilled to do since he was fourteen and still smaller than the rifle they handed him. Six-foot-seven now, shoulders wide enough to block doorways, Mavros moved like the war had personally offended him and he intended to return the favour. He didn’t like unknowns in his sector. Especially not unknowns who looked like they’d been kidnapped from a school dormitory and dressed up for someone’s sick joke.
He approached without breaking stride, boots sucking in mud.
Elu didn’t look up until the shadow fell across him—long, dark, blotting out the weak moonlight. Then his eyes flicked upward: huge, dark, pupils blown wide. Not from the dark. From something else.
Mavros dropped to one knee in front of him, close enough that their faces were level despite the difference in height. He pressed the muzzle of his own rifle gently—but unmistakably—under Elu’s chin, tilting the boy’s head back.
“You’re gonna blow your own fucking face off doing that,” Mavros said, voice low, gravel-rough. “Or mine. Which would be a shame. I like this face.”
Elu blinked slowly. No words. Never words. Just the softest exhale through parted lips, the tiniest tilt of his head into the cold metal like he was nuzzling it. His fingers stilled on his own rifle. Then—one deliberate movement—he spread his thighs another inch, just enough that the too-big trousers pulled tight across his hips.
Mavros’s jaw flexed.
“You’re not even supposed to be here, are you?” he murmured, thumb brushing the safety, flicking it off, then on again. A threat. A tease. “Some rear-echelon fuck-up thought they could slip a pretty little thing like you into the meat grinder and no one would notice.”
Elu’s tongue darted out, wet his bottom lip. His eyes never left Mavros’s face. Slowly—achingly slowly—he lifted one small hand and curled it around the barrel still kissing his throat. Not pushing it away. Guiding it. Pressing it harder against his skin until the metal left a pale crescent imprint.
Mavros’s breath caught.
“Christ,” he hissed. “You want it that bad?”
Elu answered by leaning forward—just enough that his forehead brushed Mavros’s chest plate. Then he tipped his chin up, lips brushing the underside of Mavros’s wrist where the glove ended. A ghost of a kiss. Then teeth—small, careful—closing on the pulse point. Not breaking skin. Just holding.
Mavros’s grip on the rifle tightened until his knuckles bleached.
He should shoot. Orders were clear: any unidentified personnel acting erratically were to be neutralized immediately. Elu was unidentified. Erratic. And currently sucking a slow, needy bruise into the soft skin above Mavros’s glove like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Instead Mavros dropped the rifle to the mud with a wet clatter.
His huge hand wrapped around the back of Elu’s neck—almost engulfing it—and yanked him forward. Their mouths crashed together, all teeth and desperation. Elu made a broken, starving sound into the kiss, the first real noise Mavros had ever heard from him. It vibrated straight down Mavros’s spine.
He hauled Elu up by the hips like he weighed nothing—which he almost didn’t—and shoved him back against the trench wall. Elu’s legs wrapped around Mavros’s waist instantly, ankles locking at the small of his back. His fingers clawed at Mavros’s webbing, trying to find skin, finding only canvas and metal.
Mavros tore at Elu’s fly with one hand while the other braced beside his head, caging him. The trousers were too big; they slid down easily. No underwear. Just smooth, chilled skin and a cock already leaking against his own stomach.
“Fucking hell,” Mavros growled against Elu’s throat. “You’ve been hard this whole time? Sitting there playing with your gun like a slut waiting for someone to notice?”
Elu arched, head thunking back against the dirt wall. His mouth opened on a silent plea—lips swollen, pupils so wide the irises had disappeared. He rolled his hips, grinding shamelessly against Mavros’s belt buckle.
Mavros freed himself with a rough yank—thick, heavy, already slick at the tip from how long he’d been watching the boy. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, then lined up and pushed.
Elu’s whole body seized—back bowing, thighs clamping, a high, silent whine trapped behind clenched teeth. No words, still no words, but every line of him screamed please, more, now.
Mavros didn’t go slow.
He fucked like he fought—hard, precise, ruthless. Each thrust slammed Elu higher up the wall until his shoulders scraped raw dirt. Elu’s small hands scrabbled at Mavros’s neck, nails digging in, leaving red crescents. His mouth kept opening and closing, soundless gasps, begging without voice.
Mavros dropped his forehead to Elu’s, breathing ragged.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Elu’s eyes fluttered open—wet, dazed, so fucking needy it hurt to see.
Mavros drove deeper, grinding, feeling the boy clench and flutter around him.
“You don’t talk,” Mavros rasped, “but this cunt talks plenty, doesn’t it? Sucking me like it’s starving.”
Elu’s answer was to tighten his legs and pull Mavros in until their hips locked. Then he bit Mavros’s lip—hard enough to draw copper—and came untouched, shaking apart with a silent, wrenching sob, spilling hot between their stomachs.
Mavros followed two thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep, growling low against Elu’s throat like he was marking territory.
For a long moment neither moved.
Just panting. Mud. Sweat. The distant rumble of artillery reminding them the world was still trying to kill them.
Finally Mavros eased out, slow, careful. Elu whimpered at the loss—small, broken—but didn’t let go. His arms stayed looped around Mavros’s neck, face tucked under his jaw.
Mavros pressed a rough kiss to his temple.
“Next time you play with that rifle,” he muttered, “I’m bending you over the parapet and letting the whole platoon watch.”
Elu shivered.
Then—finally—he nodded.
Once.
Small.
Needy.
Yes.

The shelling had eased to a distant grumble by the time Mavros hauled Elu out of the trench.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. Just hooked one massive arm around Elu’s ribs, lifted him clean off the ground like a duffel bag, and started walking. Elu’s legs dangled uselessly for the first few metres before he wrapped them around Mavros’s waist again—habit now, needy little anchor—and buried his face in the crook of Mavros’s neck. Mavros felt the soft, hot puffs of breath against his skin the whole three-kilometre trek back to the forward operating base.
No one stopped them. The sentries knew better than to question Mavros when he looked like that—eyes hard, jaw set, carrying contraband like it was already his property.
Inside the command bunker, Mavros kicked the door shut behind them. Dim red bulbs buzzed overhead. The air smelled of diesel heaters and stale coffee. He set Elu down on his feet, steadied him with one hand when the boy swayed.
“Strip,” Mavros said. Flat. No room for argument.
Elu obeyed instantly. Small hands fumbled buttons, peeled sodden fabric away until he stood naked and shivering on the cold concrete, gooseflesh rising over narrow ribs and sharp hipbones. His cock was already half-hard again, twitching under Mavros’s stare.
Mavros didn’t touch him yet.
He crossed to the quartermaster’s locker, yanked it open, rummaged. Came back with a spare uniform—smallest size they had, still comically big on Elu. Olive drab trousers, shirt, webbing belt. No insignia. No name tape. Just cloth to mark him as theirs now instead of nobody’s.
Mavros dressed him like he was handling fragile ordnance. Rolled sleeves until they stayed put. Cinched the belt so tight it dug faint red lines into Elu’s waist. Tugged the collar straight. When he was done, Elu looked less like a lost kid and more like a soldier playing dress-up—except for the way his eyes stayed glued to Mavros’s mouth, the way his thighs pressed together like he was already aching again.
Mavros guided him—hand firm on the nape—through the narrow corridor to the armoury annex. Empty at this hour. Just racks of rifles, crates of ammunition, a scarred wooden bench bolted to the floor.
“Sit,” Mavros ordered.
Elu dropped onto the bench without hesitation. Legs spread automatically, hands resting palms-up on his thighs like he was waiting to be inspected.
Mavros crouched in front of him, eye-level.
“You don’t move from this spot. You don’t touch anything live. You don’t make a fucking sound unless I tell you to. Understand?”
Elu’s throat worked. No voice, still no voice. Just one slow, deliberate nod—eyes wide and shining, pupils eating the iris.
Mavros reached past him, pulled an unloaded M4 from the nearest rack. Racked the charging handle once to show it was clear, then pressed the rifle into Elu’s lap.
“Play with this one,” he said, voice dropping low. “Keep your hands busy. And keep your eyes on me.”
He stood, towering again, and leaned back against the opposite wall—arms crossed, watching.
Elu’s fingers curled around the polymer grip immediately. Familiar motion. He slid the charging handle back and forth—slow this time, deliberate. Click. Snap. Click. Snap. Each dry cycle made his hips twitch forward, just a little. The too-big trousers tented obscenely where his cock pressed against the fabric, already leaking a dark spot at the tip.
Mavros’s gaze never wavered.
“You like an audience, don’t you?” he murmured. “Like being watched while you tease yourself stupid with a gun you can’t even fire.”
Elu’s cheeks flushed. He bit his lip—hard—and spread his thighs wider. The rifle barrel rested along the inside of one leg now, cold metal kissing the crease where thigh met groin. He rocked forward once, grinding the length of it against himself through the cloth. A silent whimper shaped his mouth.
Mavros pushed off the wall.
Two strides and he was there—looming, one boot planted between Elu’s feet to keep them apart. He reached down, gripped Elu’s chin, forced his head back.
“Look at you,” Mavros rasped. “Dressed up in my army’s uniform, humping an empty rifle like a bitch in heat. If the platoon walked in right now they’d think I brought them a new company mascot.”
Elu’s eyes fluttered. He leaned into the grip, lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste Mavros’s thumb where it pressed against the corner of his mouth.
Mavros’s other hand dropped to the front of Elu’s trousers—cupped him through the fabric, squeezed just hard enough to make Elu’s whole body jerk.
“You’re gonna come like this,” Mavros told him. “No hands on yourself. Just the rifle. Just my eyes on you. And when you’re done shaking, I’m gonna bend you over this bench and fuck you until you forget how to breathe.”
Elu nodded again—frantic this time. His hips rolled in tiny, desperate circles, rubbing himself against the barrel. Faster. Needier. The dry clicks of the action grew erratic, matching the hitch of his breathing.
Mavros leaned in until their foreheads touched.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Show me how bad you want to belong here.”
Elu broke on a silent cry—back arching off the bench, thighs clamping around the rifle, hips bucking as he spilled hot and wet into the borrowed trousers. The fabric darkened in a spreading patch. His small hands clenched white-knuckled on the stock, whole body trembling through the aftershocks.
Mavros waited until the last shudder passed.
Then he plucked the rifle from Elu’s lap, set it aside, and hauled the boy up by the front of his shirt.
“Bench,” he said. “Face down. Ass up.”
Elu scrambled to obey—cheek pressed to scarred wood, knees braced wide, trousers already shoved to his ankles.
Mavros stepped behind him, belt buckle clinking open.
And somewhere down the corridor, the war kept rumbling on.
But in here—for now—Elu was exactly where he was meant to be.

The armoury door creaked open without warning.
Holden stepped through, shoulders filling the frame but not quite the way Mavros’s did—taller than most, still a good four inches shy of Mavros’s towering height. His uniform was cleaner than it had any right to be this deep into rotation; sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms corded from years of suturing and splinting rather than firing. He carried a battered med bag slung across his chest like it was part of him. Dark hair falling into softer eyes than the war usually allowed.
He stopped dead when he saw the scene: Elu bent over the bench, trousers around his ankles, flushed and still trembling from the aftershocks. Mavros behind him, belt undone, one huge hand braced on the small of Elu’s back like he was staking permanent claim.
Holden didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for his sidearm. Just tilted his head, expression somewhere between fond exasperation and quiet hunger.
“Well now,” he said, voice low and warm like he was talking someone down from a ledge in triage. “Looks like someone’s been taking very good care of our little stray.”
Mavros didn’t pull out. Didn’t even pause. Just glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.
“Door’s supposed to be locked, Holden.”
“It was,” Holden replied mildly. “Until I heard noises that didn’t sound like routine maintenance.” His gaze slid down to Elu—lingering on the way the boy’s thighs shook, the dark wet patch still spreading on the front of his borrowed trousers, the way his small hands gripped the edge of the bench like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. “Poor sweetheart. You’ve got him shaking like a leaf.”
Elu’s head lifted at the new voice. Eyes glassy, lips parted on shallow breaths. He didn’t try to cover himself. Didn’t try to speak. Just stared at Holden with that same wide, needy look he’d given Mavros in the trench—like another set of hands, another voice, was exactly what he’d been missing.
Holden set the med bag down carefully. Crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. When he reached them he crouched beside the bench so he was level with Elu’s face.
“Hey, honey,” he murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair off Elu’s forehead with the backs of his knuckles. Gentle. Always gentle. “You hurt anywhere? Mav’s not exactly known for finesse.”
Elu shook his head once—small, frantic—then leaned into the touch like a cat seeking more. His hips rocked back instinctively, pushing himself deeper onto Mavros, earning a rough grunt from the bigger man.
Mavros’s hand tightened on Elu’s hip. “He’s fine,” he growled. “Better than fine.”
Holden smiled—small, knowing. “I can see that, big guy.” His fingers trailed down Elu’s cheek, thumb brushing over swollen lips. “But look at those eyes. Sweetheart’s still begging, isn’t he?”
Elu whimpered—soft, soundless—and opened his mouth. Holden didn’t hesitate; he slid two fingers past Elu’s lips, letting the boy suck them slow and greedy. Elu’s tongue curled around them like they were the only thing keeping him sane.
Mavros watched the exchange with darkening eyes. “You gonna stand there playing nursemaid, or you gonna help?”
Holden’s free hand moved to Elu’s back—stroking down the length of his spine in long, soothing passes. “Thought you’d never ask, darling.”
He rose, stepped behind them. One palm settled on Mavros’s shoulder—steadying, not challenging—while the other slipped lower, cupping Elu’s ass where Mavros was still buried deep. Holden’s fingers brushed the stretched rim, feeling the way Elu fluttered around the thick intrusion.
“God, baby,” Holden breathed. “You’re taking him so well. Look at you—open and dripping for us.”
Elu keened around Holden’s fingers, hips jerking forward then back, caught between them. Holden leaned over him, chest to back, and pressed a kiss to the nape of Elu’s neck—soft, reverent—while his hand slid around to the front. He wrapped long fingers around Elu’s neglected cock, stroking slow and firm.
“There we go, sweetheart,” he murmured against Elu’s ear. “Let it out. Let us take care of you.”
Mavros started moving again—slow, punishing rolls of his hips that made Elu’s whole body jolt. Holden matched the rhythm with his hand, thumb circling the slick head on every upstroke.
Elu was lost between them. Head thrown back against Holden’s shoulder, mouth working around those fingers like they were salvation. Tears slipped down his cheeks—not from pain, from too much feeling all at once.
Holden kissed them away. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Such a good, sweet boy for us.”
Mavros’s pace picked up—harder, deeper—until the bench creaked under the force. Holden’s hand sped up too, slick with precome, twisting just right.
Elu came first—silent, shattering—spilling over Holden’s fist in hot pulses, thighs clamping, back bowing so hard Holden had to brace him to keep him from sliding off the bench.
Mavros followed seconds later, burying himself with a low, guttural sound and flooding deep. Holden kept stroking through it, milking every last tremor from Elu until the boy was limp and boneless between them.
Only then did Holden ease his fingers free, replacing them with a soft kiss to Elu’s slack mouth.
Mavros pulled out slowly, careful now, and Holden was there to catch Elu when his legs gave out—scooping the smaller man up against his chest like he weighed nothing.
“Easy, honey,” Holden soothed, rocking him gently. “We’ve got you.”
Mavros wiped himself off with the hem of his shirt, then reached out—almost tender—and brushed a thumb over Elu’s cheek.
“He stays,” Mavros said. Not a question.
Holden pressed his lips to Elu’s temple. “Of course he stays, darling. Look at him. He’s ours now.”