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FIC: Winter Chrysalides
Title: Winter Chrysalides
Author: Alex
Fandom: Goldeneye/Eastern Promises
Pairing: Alec Trevelyan/Nikolai Luzhin
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Most welcome.
Word Count: ~1411~
Disclaimers: All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Thanks: To![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for friendship and excellent beta.
Summary: Motive can be a slippery slope.
*
мы никогда не делаем ошибок.
We never make mistakes.
*
Some would call it intuition, some superstition, others nonsense. But for Nikolai it is soul-knowledge, deep in his bones, even in London.
He trusts that knowledge, but nonetheless rises and moves silently to the window. His body is warm from expensive sheets, a down-filled duvet, and the man still asleep in the bed; his bare feet whisper across a carpet of incredible delicacy and incalculable worth. He glides his fingers down the velvet curtain, then draws it aside to reveal a world of dazzling white. The snow falls thickly from a deep plum-gold sky, blanketing the pavements, frosting the trees, limning the rooftops, transforming Kensington Square into a fairyland. Even inside he can breathe its silence, inhale its subtle fragrance.
"Does it remind you of home?"
The voice is British – crisp and assured and ever so slightly amused. Nikolai shrugs and touches a fingertip to the cold glass. "A little. It doesn’t snow so much here."
"Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes."
"I prefer warm weather myself." There is a click, then the sharp aroma of a Sobranie. "Come back to bed."
Nikolai breathes on the glass and traces a spiral, then lets the curtain fall. The warmth of the bed appeals once more; he climbs in and accepts the cigarette Alec proffers with one patrician hand, nodding in thanks. From this angle Alec is perfect: green-eyed, golden-haired, ivory-skinned, slimly muscled. It is only when he turns that the truth is revealed - a twisting relief of scars, its peculiar topography a roadmap to perdition.
Janus.
Four months to reach this moment. First as a courier delivering an icon of St. Hilarion, a gift from Janus’ friends in Petersburg – a gift that concealed a thread-thin transmitter. Once enough data had been collected, the task of ingratiation began. And thanks to the transmitter, Alec Trevelyan’s tastes were well known. It had not been as difficult a challenge as his superiors had first thought. Now his final objective lies within reach.
Neutralize him.
His organization stands to acquire Janus’ wealth as a result of this operation; Nikolai has no illusions about that. He has been promised a considerable reward for this task, but doubts it will ever come to fruition. It doesn’t matter. He knows better than to make demands or ask too many questions. He is kept as hungry and as blind as possible. If he has pricklings of conscience or feelings that could be deemed inappropriate, that is his own affair, as long as he does his job.
He leans back against the pillows and exhales a plume of smoke, then stubs the Sobranie into a crystal ashtray. The sheets are cool from exposure to the air. A shiver courses through his body.
Alec notices and laughs. "London is not as cold as the Urals, Kolyushenka," he says in Russian. "Why are you trembling?"
"Perhaps I need to be warmed."
"Perhaps you can do it yourself." Alec drags on his cigarette. "Show me."
Nikolai smiles, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes. Slowly, he slides his hand between his legs and takes hold of his cock. As he rubs his thumb over the tip, he feels himself responding; his thighs sprawl wider, his free hand tightens around the sheets. The weight of Alec’s gaze is silken and keen. He senses it lingering on the languid movement of his hand, the head of his stiff cock, the tight peak of a nipple. And then he feels the pressure of a warm, taut body, and Alec’s tongue tracing a wet path along the crucifix tattooed on his chest.
Down his chest, over Christ’s legs and nailed feet; over his belly and around the rim of his navel, dipping inside, swirling, and teasing at him. Then between the gaps of Nikolai’s fingers, flicking at supersensitive skin. Finally Alec grasps his wrist and pulls his hand away, then closes his mouth over Nikolai’s cock. Nikolai gasps and arches his back.
With one hand, Alec fumbles in a drawer – for a condom, Nikolai assumes, but then sees that Alec’s fingers are gleaming and slick with oil. Without a word Alec strokes himself hard, then pushes Nikolai’s legs up and apart, forcing his knees toward his chest. He thrusts himself inside, the long fingers of one hand digging into Nikolai’s hip, his other hand wrapped around Nikolai’s cock.
The transmitter revealed a great deal through sound alone, enough for Nikolai to tailor himself to Alec’s tastes. But there was little need of it in the end. It was a matter of nothing to sense Alec’s appraisal and his ultimate desire; he felt it as acutely as he feels the reality of the falling snow. His pliant wantonness is belied by his appearance, but utterly unfeigned. He glories in this rough possession, in his own yielding. When Alec comes, he tightens his grasp on Nikolai’s cock. The pressure is painful, exquisite; Nikolai releases with a hoarse cry quickly muffled by a brutal kiss.
Alec’s body is heavy, his breath hot against Nikolai’s throat. Nikolai turns slightly to suckle on one earlobe. He feels the strange texture of Alec’s scarred flesh and sees that the earlobe is pierced, sign of a more free-spirited youth. Closing his eyes, he bites gently and wraps his arms around Alec’s lean, strong frame.
Now. Do it now.
The seaman’s knife is underneath the mattress, easily accessible. It is the work of but a moment. Carefully, he slides one hand along the bed, and then stops as Alec kisses him again. It is a warm, affectionate kiss, and for a moment Nikolai’s permanent state of isolation – it would be excessive, perhaps, to call it loneliness – dissolves like melting snow. A vista of nebulous possibility opens before him, and a strange ache invades his soul as he feels Alec’s arms tightening around him in an embrace. He returns the kiss, yielding once more, and then stiffens at the sudden silvery sting of a needle.
By the time he realizes what has happened, it is too late; precious seconds have slipped by. He struggles, but his reactions slow to a maddening underwater crawl. He can scarcely blink as Alec raises himself up, keeping Nikolai’s wrists pinned to the bed.
"Pancuronium bromide," Alec says softly in Russian, then smiles at the apprehension in Nikolai’s eyes. He strokes Nikolai’s cheek. "Don’t worry. It’s only to keep you still and quiet for a little while. You see, Janus does his homework too." He touches the tattooed crucifix. "The ink is a little too new. Be more careful next time."
Nikolai feels sweat forming on his body. He struggles to move, but the drug has taken effect already.
"I must go now. And I confess I regret it. We could have got along very well, you and I. Perhaps in a few years. I sense you’re a man of flexible scruple. And you understand the importance of warmth on a cold night." Alec bends and searches beneath the mattress for the seaman’s knife, which he places on the night table.
Nikolai watches Alec dress and pack a small bag. His limbs are frozen, locked rigidly in place; not a roar, nor a protest, not even the slightest whimper emerges from his throat. Bewilderment and humiliation thrust twin daggers into his heart. At last Alec comes back to the bed, a striking figure elegantly wrapped in black wool. He sits down beside Nikolai and rests a gloved hand on his belly.
"I miss home too, Kolyushenka. And I meant what I said. Come back to Saint Petersburg. I’ll be waiting." He brushes Nikolai’s hair from his face, plants a kiss on his lips, and before moving to the door, draws the sheets and duvet up, covering Nikolai with a tender gesture. He turns one last time to address Nikolai. Both halves of his face are clearly visible – the perfection of a god, the twisted mask of a demon. "Goodbye, my dear friend."
As the door clicks shut, Nikolai stares helplessly at the domed ceiling adorned with cavorting cherubs. In time, after the drug wears off and he can move again, he will work out a way to explain all this to the Service. He is too clever not to. He will pick up another case, and then another. And he will consider Saint Petersburg. Perhaps.
Meanwhile, he listens, and his soul detects a shifting; the snow outside has turned to rain.
End.
Author: Alex
Fandom: Goldeneye/Eastern Promises
Pairing: Alec Trevelyan/Nikolai Luzhin
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Most welcome.
Word Count: ~1411~
Disclaimers: All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Thanks: To
kimberlite for friendship and excellent beta.Summary: Motive can be a slippery slope.
*
мы никогда не делаем ошибок.
We never make mistakes.
*
Some would call it intuition, some superstition, others nonsense. But for Nikolai it is soul-knowledge, deep in his bones, even in London.
He trusts that knowledge, but nonetheless rises and moves silently to the window. His body is warm from expensive sheets, a down-filled duvet, and the man still asleep in the bed; his bare feet whisper across a carpet of incredible delicacy and incalculable worth. He glides his fingers down the velvet curtain, then draws it aside to reveal a world of dazzling white. The snow falls thickly from a deep plum-gold sky, blanketing the pavements, frosting the trees, limning the rooftops, transforming Kensington Square into a fairyland. Even inside he can breathe its silence, inhale its subtle fragrance.
"Does it remind you of home?"
The voice is British – crisp and assured and ever so slightly amused. Nikolai shrugs and touches a fingertip to the cold glass. "A little. It doesn’t snow so much here."
"Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes."
"I prefer warm weather myself." There is a click, then the sharp aroma of a Sobranie. "Come back to bed."
Nikolai breathes on the glass and traces a spiral, then lets the curtain fall. The warmth of the bed appeals once more; he climbs in and accepts the cigarette Alec proffers with one patrician hand, nodding in thanks. From this angle Alec is perfect: green-eyed, golden-haired, ivory-skinned, slimly muscled. It is only when he turns that the truth is revealed - a twisting relief of scars, its peculiar topography a roadmap to perdition.
Janus.
Four months to reach this moment. First as a courier delivering an icon of St. Hilarion, a gift from Janus’ friends in Petersburg – a gift that concealed a thread-thin transmitter. Once enough data had been collected, the task of ingratiation began. And thanks to the transmitter, Alec Trevelyan’s tastes were well known. It had not been as difficult a challenge as his superiors had first thought. Now his final objective lies within reach.
Neutralize him.
His organization stands to acquire Janus’ wealth as a result of this operation; Nikolai has no illusions about that. He has been promised a considerable reward for this task, but doubts it will ever come to fruition. It doesn’t matter. He knows better than to make demands or ask too many questions. He is kept as hungry and as blind as possible. If he has pricklings of conscience or feelings that could be deemed inappropriate, that is his own affair, as long as he does his job.
He leans back against the pillows and exhales a plume of smoke, then stubs the Sobranie into a crystal ashtray. The sheets are cool from exposure to the air. A shiver courses through his body.
Alec notices and laughs. "London is not as cold as the Urals, Kolyushenka," he says in Russian. "Why are you trembling?"
"Perhaps I need to be warmed."
"Perhaps you can do it yourself." Alec drags on his cigarette. "Show me."
Nikolai smiles, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes. Slowly, he slides his hand between his legs and takes hold of his cock. As he rubs his thumb over the tip, he feels himself responding; his thighs sprawl wider, his free hand tightens around the sheets. The weight of Alec’s gaze is silken and keen. He senses it lingering on the languid movement of his hand, the head of his stiff cock, the tight peak of a nipple. And then he feels the pressure of a warm, taut body, and Alec’s tongue tracing a wet path along the crucifix tattooed on his chest.
Down his chest, over Christ’s legs and nailed feet; over his belly and around the rim of his navel, dipping inside, swirling, and teasing at him. Then between the gaps of Nikolai’s fingers, flicking at supersensitive skin. Finally Alec grasps his wrist and pulls his hand away, then closes his mouth over Nikolai’s cock. Nikolai gasps and arches his back.
With one hand, Alec fumbles in a drawer – for a condom, Nikolai assumes, but then sees that Alec’s fingers are gleaming and slick with oil. Without a word Alec strokes himself hard, then pushes Nikolai’s legs up and apart, forcing his knees toward his chest. He thrusts himself inside, the long fingers of one hand digging into Nikolai’s hip, his other hand wrapped around Nikolai’s cock.
The transmitter revealed a great deal through sound alone, enough for Nikolai to tailor himself to Alec’s tastes. But there was little need of it in the end. It was a matter of nothing to sense Alec’s appraisal and his ultimate desire; he felt it as acutely as he feels the reality of the falling snow. His pliant wantonness is belied by his appearance, but utterly unfeigned. He glories in this rough possession, in his own yielding. When Alec comes, he tightens his grasp on Nikolai’s cock. The pressure is painful, exquisite; Nikolai releases with a hoarse cry quickly muffled by a brutal kiss.
Alec’s body is heavy, his breath hot against Nikolai’s throat. Nikolai turns slightly to suckle on one earlobe. He feels the strange texture of Alec’s scarred flesh and sees that the earlobe is pierced, sign of a more free-spirited youth. Closing his eyes, he bites gently and wraps his arms around Alec’s lean, strong frame.
Now. Do it now.
The seaman’s knife is underneath the mattress, easily accessible. It is the work of but a moment. Carefully, he slides one hand along the bed, and then stops as Alec kisses him again. It is a warm, affectionate kiss, and for a moment Nikolai’s permanent state of isolation – it would be excessive, perhaps, to call it loneliness – dissolves like melting snow. A vista of nebulous possibility opens before him, and a strange ache invades his soul as he feels Alec’s arms tightening around him in an embrace. He returns the kiss, yielding once more, and then stiffens at the sudden silvery sting of a needle.
By the time he realizes what has happened, it is too late; precious seconds have slipped by. He struggles, but his reactions slow to a maddening underwater crawl. He can scarcely blink as Alec raises himself up, keeping Nikolai’s wrists pinned to the bed.
"Pancuronium bromide," Alec says softly in Russian, then smiles at the apprehension in Nikolai’s eyes. He strokes Nikolai’s cheek. "Don’t worry. It’s only to keep you still and quiet for a little while. You see, Janus does his homework too." He touches the tattooed crucifix. "The ink is a little too new. Be more careful next time."
Nikolai feels sweat forming on his body. He struggles to move, but the drug has taken effect already.
"I must go now. And I confess I regret it. We could have got along very well, you and I. Perhaps in a few years. I sense you’re a man of flexible scruple. And you understand the importance of warmth on a cold night." Alec bends and searches beneath the mattress for the seaman’s knife, which he places on the night table.
Nikolai watches Alec dress and pack a small bag. His limbs are frozen, locked rigidly in place; not a roar, nor a protest, not even the slightest whimper emerges from his throat. Bewilderment and humiliation thrust twin daggers into his heart. At last Alec comes back to the bed, a striking figure elegantly wrapped in black wool. He sits down beside Nikolai and rests a gloved hand on his belly.
"I miss home too, Kolyushenka. And I meant what I said. Come back to Saint Petersburg. I’ll be waiting." He brushes Nikolai’s hair from his face, plants a kiss on his lips, and before moving to the door, draws the sheets and duvet up, covering Nikolai with a tender gesture. He turns one last time to address Nikolai. Both halves of his face are clearly visible – the perfection of a god, the twisted mask of a demon. "Goodbye, my dear friend."
As the door clicks shut, Nikolai stares helplessly at the domed ceiling adorned with cavorting cherubs. In time, after the drug wears off and he can move again, he will work out a way to explain all this to the Service. He is too clever not to. He will pick up another case, and then another. And he will consider Saint Petersburg. Perhaps.
Meanwhile, he listens, and his soul detects a shifting; the snow outside has turned to rain.
End.
