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FIC: Allegory of the Senses [1 of 2]
Title: Allegory of the Senses [1 of 2]
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Alec Trevelyan/Nikolai Luzhin
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1500
Written as a [late] Halloween treat for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mooms
Leningrad, 1985
sight, taste, hearing
*
It is a Kirov reception, his first; Nikolai clasps his hands behind his back and attempts to maintain a stony exterior, but he is dazzled by the splendor of the gilt reception hall, the blazing chandeliers, the gloss of the parquet floors, the perfumed glamour of the well-dressed polyglot crowd that surrounds him. He knows he is conspicuous in his cheap brown suit, his synthetic-leather Soviet shoes, but there is no time for self-consciousness. His job is to listen. So far he has heard nothing but idle and superficial chatter, of no interest to him.
All at once he sees a young man, splendidly handsome even in this glittering crowd, making his way closer. The man inclines his chiseled profile here and there, smiling with the air of a benevolent aristocrat, like one of the nomenklatura, but Nikolai senses this is no Russian. The walk is too confident and at the same time too elegantly languid, the young man’s expression far too amused by his surroundings. He comes face to face with Nikolai and stops, studying Nikolai’s face for a moment. His eyes are green, with a fine circumference of black at the edge.
“You stand out like a sore thumb,” he says in British-accented English. He extends a hand. “Alec Trevelyan.”
Nikolai frowns. His written English is excellent, but the spoken language still eludes him at times. “Please?”
The young man gives a dismissive wave. “Never mind. How did you enjoy the ballet? Tchaikovsky is always marvelous, but particularly here, don’t you agree?” He smiles, and his eyes crinkle engagingly at the corners. “Komitet?” he asks in a soft voice.
Startled, Nikolai manages to respond automatically. “No. Soviet cultural ministry.”
“Oh, indeed,” Alec Trevelyan laughs. He leans close, resting a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder, and speaks into his ear in perfect, idiomatic Russian. “You were pointed out to me, my friend. Listen closely. I am in possession of sensitive documents that I wish to pass to your government. Tell whoever is in charge of such affairs to meet me on Sunday at one o’clock, at the tea house in the Summer Gardens.” He pulls back and takes Nikolai’s measure slowly, looking him up and down. “Perhaps it is too much to hope that you will meet me.”
Nikolai struggles to equivocate, unnerved by the man’s candid examination. With some difficulty, he remembers his duty and stands straight, nodding stiffly. “I will pass on your message.”
“Do that.” The young man nods in return, and melts back into the crowd.
Nikolai stands frozen for a moment, then plunges into the throng to follow, but Trevelyan is gone.
*
The Directorate sends Nikolai himself to the meeting, suggesting his time is easily squandered on wild goose chases. But the information turns out to be good, to everyone’s surprise. Another meeting is scheduled, and another, with instructions to dig deeper, to determine Alec’s motivation. He has not asked for money, nor goods, nor any special favors, and the Komitet has been unable to unearth any viable information on him. He is attached to the British embassy in some unfathomable, banal capacity – a useless diplomat – but it is clear that he is more, much more.
Their third meeting takes place at a supper club reserved for the nomenklatura and those few Westerners lucky enough to possess influence and discretion. They eat okroshka and chicken with plum sauce, and Nikolai does his best not to stare. It is his first exposure to such luxuries, heretofore only whispered of.
Alec pours each of them a vodka and lights a cigarette. “You’ve never seen this before, have you.” It is not a question.
Nikolai shakes his head. “No.”
“Where are you from?”
“Kolchedan. In the Urals.”
“A small-town lad,” Alec says, smiling thinly. “Like myself. All this richness is new to you. I doubt there were many miners who counted themselves among the nomenklatura.”
Nikolai is puzzled. Alec seems the very essence of metropolitan sophistication, with his beautifully tailored English clothes, his obvious education and breeding, and his attitude of amused hauteur. Perhaps it’s simply Western snobbery that is entertained by the social striving around him, laid bare by Leningrad’s elite in their sable coats and well-cut suits. He suppresses a surge of anger mingled with a curious shame. In his heart, he scorns Western decadence, the mockery he sees in the eyes of the English, the Americans, the French; they think that every Russian would be willing to sell his soul for a washing machine and ten pairs of blue jeans. He looks around at his fellow diners and wonders.
“Why are you here, Nikolai?”
“You asked me.”
“I mean here - in the KGB.” Alec speaks softly, so as not to alarm the other diners. Even though Nikolai is a dead giveaway in his poorly made suit and squeaking shoes, there is no point in drawing attention to him. The Komitet in the know resent the privileged.
Nikolai shrugs. “I was recruited.” He takes a final bite of chicken, the best he’s ever had, and washes it down with vodka, cold and smooth and syrupy from its bed of ice. “I was in the Red Air Force.”
“A good way to escape a small town.”
“The vory v zakone held sway there. My –“ Nikolai stares down at his hands. “My family did not fare well beneath them.”
“So you joined the KGB – why? To help crush them?”
Again, Nikolai shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps I would prefer a Russia free of that type of filth.”
Alec smiles sadly. “My friend, no country is free of that type of filth. Still, I admire your patriotism.”
The vodka makes Nikolai bold. “You’re not patriotic.”
“Would I be with you if I were?” Alec stubs out his cigarette. “No, Kolya, the last thing I am is patriotic.” He leans back and studies Nikolai intently.
This is the moment for Nikolai to seize. There is no point in subtlety. “Why, then? What do you want?”
“It will all become clear in time. For the moment, I’ll say I long for purest anarchy. Will that do?” Alec picks up his lighter, a slim column of chased silver, and presses it against his lower lip. “Does it matter?”
“Nobody does something for nothing.”
“That’s true.” Alec pockets his lighter and leans forward. “Do you know what I want right now?”
Mesmerized, Nikolai shakes his head, but deep in his heart, he hopes; he has been with this man a mere four times, less than six hours total, but that is long enough to spark desire. He wants Alec Trevelyan’s hands on his body, Alec’s mouth on his cock. And for the first time, he allows Alec to see his yearning.
A new light flares in the bright green eyes. Alec wets his lips slowly and rises to his feet. “Come, and I’ll show you.”
*
Alec’s flat is enchanting: plum-colored walls surrounding gilt chairs and deep velvet sofas, wall sconces reflecting off polished wood and glittering mirrors, paintings on every wall, a profusion of delicate bisque porcelain and enamel casually littering tables inlaid with brass and ivory, but Nikolai has no more than a moment to admire it all. Alec stands behind him, rests his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders, and slides them down, slipping off Nikolai’s coat. He runs his fingertips over the straps of Nikolai’s shoulder holster. “Look at that,” Alec whispers. His voice is deep and soft, thrumming in Nikolai’s ear, traveling down to Nikolai’s cock. “Armed and dangerous.” Gently, he turns Nikolai round, takes his face between long, elegant hands, and kisses him.
Nikolai yields to the kiss, then returns it, suckling Alec’s tongue, his hands moving down to Alec’s backside, fondling experimentally, then grasping hard, digging his fingers into the taut flesh, frustrated as layers of wool and cotton defeat his sense of touch, the gifts Alec’s body has to offer. He tugs at Alec’s belt and slides his hands beneath the material, encountering smooth skin. He pushes his tongue deeper into Alec’s mouth, groaning with need.
“Allow me.” Alec pulls back and drops gracefully to his knees. He unfastens Nikolai’s belt and unzips his fly, and then pushes both trousers and shorts past Nikolai’s hips. He moves closer, his breath warm against Nikolai’s hard prick, and delicately traces his tongue upward. He coaxes Nikolai’s legs further apart with his hands, and works his tongue downward, over the cock, the balls, the tender skin of the perineum, and then pushing up, inside, so that Nikolai gasps, grabs his own cock, and strokes fiercely.
Kneeling beneath Nikolai, Alec steadies him, arms wrapped round Nikolai’s thighs, his tongue questing, pushing deeper and deeper, until Nikolai lets out a hoarse cry and comes, spilling over his hand. He stands still, trembling, as Alec licks his hand, suckling each finger. At last Alec rests his head against Nikolai’s belly, his gold hair disheveled, dark with sweat. As he whispers, his lips tickle Nikolai’s sensitive flesh.
“For Mother Russia.”
TBC....
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Alec Trevelyan/Nikolai Luzhin
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1500
Written as a [late] Halloween treat for
moomsLeningrad, 1985
sight, taste, hearing
*
It is a Kirov reception, his first; Nikolai clasps his hands behind his back and attempts to maintain a stony exterior, but he is dazzled by the splendor of the gilt reception hall, the blazing chandeliers, the gloss of the parquet floors, the perfumed glamour of the well-dressed polyglot crowd that surrounds him. He knows he is conspicuous in his cheap brown suit, his synthetic-leather Soviet shoes, but there is no time for self-consciousness. His job is to listen. So far he has heard nothing but idle and superficial chatter, of no interest to him.
All at once he sees a young man, splendidly handsome even in this glittering crowd, making his way closer. The man inclines his chiseled profile here and there, smiling with the air of a benevolent aristocrat, like one of the nomenklatura, but Nikolai senses this is no Russian. The walk is too confident and at the same time too elegantly languid, the young man’s expression far too amused by his surroundings. He comes face to face with Nikolai and stops, studying Nikolai’s face for a moment. His eyes are green, with a fine circumference of black at the edge.
“You stand out like a sore thumb,” he says in British-accented English. He extends a hand. “Alec Trevelyan.”
Nikolai frowns. His written English is excellent, but the spoken language still eludes him at times. “Please?”
The young man gives a dismissive wave. “Never mind. How did you enjoy the ballet? Tchaikovsky is always marvelous, but particularly here, don’t you agree?” He smiles, and his eyes crinkle engagingly at the corners. “Komitet?” he asks in a soft voice.
Startled, Nikolai manages to respond automatically. “No. Soviet cultural ministry.”
“Oh, indeed,” Alec Trevelyan laughs. He leans close, resting a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder, and speaks into his ear in perfect, idiomatic Russian. “You were pointed out to me, my friend. Listen closely. I am in possession of sensitive documents that I wish to pass to your government. Tell whoever is in charge of such affairs to meet me on Sunday at one o’clock, at the tea house in the Summer Gardens.” He pulls back and takes Nikolai’s measure slowly, looking him up and down. “Perhaps it is too much to hope that you will meet me.”
Nikolai struggles to equivocate, unnerved by the man’s candid examination. With some difficulty, he remembers his duty and stands straight, nodding stiffly. “I will pass on your message.”
“Do that.” The young man nods in return, and melts back into the crowd.
Nikolai stands frozen for a moment, then plunges into the throng to follow, but Trevelyan is gone.
*
The Directorate sends Nikolai himself to the meeting, suggesting his time is easily squandered on wild goose chases. But the information turns out to be good, to everyone’s surprise. Another meeting is scheduled, and another, with instructions to dig deeper, to determine Alec’s motivation. He has not asked for money, nor goods, nor any special favors, and the Komitet has been unable to unearth any viable information on him. He is attached to the British embassy in some unfathomable, banal capacity – a useless diplomat – but it is clear that he is more, much more.
Their third meeting takes place at a supper club reserved for the nomenklatura and those few Westerners lucky enough to possess influence and discretion. They eat okroshka and chicken with plum sauce, and Nikolai does his best not to stare. It is his first exposure to such luxuries, heretofore only whispered of.
Alec pours each of them a vodka and lights a cigarette. “You’ve never seen this before, have you.” It is not a question.
Nikolai shakes his head. “No.”
“Where are you from?”
“Kolchedan. In the Urals.”
“A small-town lad,” Alec says, smiling thinly. “Like myself. All this richness is new to you. I doubt there were many miners who counted themselves among the nomenklatura.”
Nikolai is puzzled. Alec seems the very essence of metropolitan sophistication, with his beautifully tailored English clothes, his obvious education and breeding, and his attitude of amused hauteur. Perhaps it’s simply Western snobbery that is entertained by the social striving around him, laid bare by Leningrad’s elite in their sable coats and well-cut suits. He suppresses a surge of anger mingled with a curious shame. In his heart, he scorns Western decadence, the mockery he sees in the eyes of the English, the Americans, the French; they think that every Russian would be willing to sell his soul for a washing machine and ten pairs of blue jeans. He looks around at his fellow diners and wonders.
“Why are you here, Nikolai?”
“You asked me.”
“I mean here - in the KGB.” Alec speaks softly, so as not to alarm the other diners. Even though Nikolai is a dead giveaway in his poorly made suit and squeaking shoes, there is no point in drawing attention to him. The Komitet in the know resent the privileged.
Nikolai shrugs. “I was recruited.” He takes a final bite of chicken, the best he’s ever had, and washes it down with vodka, cold and smooth and syrupy from its bed of ice. “I was in the Red Air Force.”
“A good way to escape a small town.”
“The vory v zakone held sway there. My –“ Nikolai stares down at his hands. “My family did not fare well beneath them.”
“So you joined the KGB – why? To help crush them?”
Again, Nikolai shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps I would prefer a Russia free of that type of filth.”
Alec smiles sadly. “My friend, no country is free of that type of filth. Still, I admire your patriotism.”
The vodka makes Nikolai bold. “You’re not patriotic.”
“Would I be with you if I were?” Alec stubs out his cigarette. “No, Kolya, the last thing I am is patriotic.” He leans back and studies Nikolai intently.
This is the moment for Nikolai to seize. There is no point in subtlety. “Why, then? What do you want?”
“It will all become clear in time. For the moment, I’ll say I long for purest anarchy. Will that do?” Alec picks up his lighter, a slim column of chased silver, and presses it against his lower lip. “Does it matter?”
“Nobody does something for nothing.”
“That’s true.” Alec pockets his lighter and leans forward. “Do you know what I want right now?”
Mesmerized, Nikolai shakes his head, but deep in his heart, he hopes; he has been with this man a mere four times, less than six hours total, but that is long enough to spark desire. He wants Alec Trevelyan’s hands on his body, Alec’s mouth on his cock. And for the first time, he allows Alec to see his yearning.
A new light flares in the bright green eyes. Alec wets his lips slowly and rises to his feet. “Come, and I’ll show you.”
*
Alec’s flat is enchanting: plum-colored walls surrounding gilt chairs and deep velvet sofas, wall sconces reflecting off polished wood and glittering mirrors, paintings on every wall, a profusion of delicate bisque porcelain and enamel casually littering tables inlaid with brass and ivory, but Nikolai has no more than a moment to admire it all. Alec stands behind him, rests his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders, and slides them down, slipping off Nikolai’s coat. He runs his fingertips over the straps of Nikolai’s shoulder holster. “Look at that,” Alec whispers. His voice is deep and soft, thrumming in Nikolai’s ear, traveling down to Nikolai’s cock. “Armed and dangerous.” Gently, he turns Nikolai round, takes his face between long, elegant hands, and kisses him.
Nikolai yields to the kiss, then returns it, suckling Alec’s tongue, his hands moving down to Alec’s backside, fondling experimentally, then grasping hard, digging his fingers into the taut flesh, frustrated as layers of wool and cotton defeat his sense of touch, the gifts Alec’s body has to offer. He tugs at Alec’s belt and slides his hands beneath the material, encountering smooth skin. He pushes his tongue deeper into Alec’s mouth, groaning with need.
“Allow me.” Alec pulls back and drops gracefully to his knees. He unfastens Nikolai’s belt and unzips his fly, and then pushes both trousers and shorts past Nikolai’s hips. He moves closer, his breath warm against Nikolai’s hard prick, and delicately traces his tongue upward. He coaxes Nikolai’s legs further apart with his hands, and works his tongue downward, over the cock, the balls, the tender skin of the perineum, and then pushing up, inside, so that Nikolai gasps, grabs his own cock, and strokes fiercely.
Kneeling beneath Nikolai, Alec steadies him, arms wrapped round Nikolai’s thighs, his tongue questing, pushing deeper and deeper, until Nikolai lets out a hoarse cry and comes, spilling over his hand. He stands still, trembling, as Alec licks his hand, suckling each finger. At last Alec rests his head against Nikolai’s belly, his gold hair disheveled, dark with sweat. As he whispers, his lips tickle Nikolai’s sensitive flesh.
“For Mother Russia.”
TBC....
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They eat okroshka and chicken with plum sauce, and Nikolai does his best not to stare. There's something sweet about this Nikolai, he's so new to this world.
“Look at that,” Alec whispers. His voice is deep and soft, thrumming in Nikolai’s ear, traveling down to Nikolai’s cock. “Armed and dangerous.” Hell, yes.
Kneeling beneath Nikolai, Alec steadies him, arms wrapped round Nikolai’s thighs, his tongue questing, pushing deeper and deeper, until Nikolai lets out a hoarse cry and comes, spilling over his hand. omg... that really pushes all my buttons.
I am so happy to read the TBC!
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The detail is so good, from Nikolai's discomfort at the glittering reception in his cheap clothes and his first sight of Alec, who stands out even in that glittering crowd, through their meal at the supper club, where Nikolai is exposed to unimaginable luxuries to their first erotic encounter. Nikolai's yearning for Alec is almost palpable.
Very much looking forward to rading Part 2. Thank you so much. *Hugs*
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My day will now proceed in a haze of squeee.
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This gave me a vacation from my germs and aching body.
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I love how you have expanded the worlds of Brosnan's (and Sean's) James Bond and Eastern Promises to create this beautiful tapestry of a world, full of Russian politics and British politics and the underbelly that both films show but don't really elaborate on. Their coexistence together is something you weave together so tightly that it doesn't just seem plausible, but it's entirely natural that this is part of their story. I can flail more but it's late and I'm running out of words.
This is gorgeous. ♥ Thank you so much for sharing it.
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