FIC: Dire Consequences 26/??
Title: Dire Consequences 26/??
Fandom: Viewfinder
Pairings: Mik/Fei
Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I’m not making any profit from it.
Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Note: Uh... still no pr0n.
Previous chapters: http://thegreymoon.livejournal.com/19477.html#cutid1
Part 26
Feilong slid from the desk and glared under the fall of his long, heavy hair. He twirled the iron rod in his hand and then brought it down to pat his palm, testing the bite of its strike.
“Fun?” he replied. “Just barely. It is bad manners, Arbatov, to leave your guests to their own devices, after confining them to your house.”
Mikhail stood on the threshold; leaning languidly against the splintered door frame, his arms crossed loosely on his chest. He was dressed in a simple shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tight-fitting jeans and knee-high, leather boots. The light behind him hit his back and while his hair glowed brightly around the edges, his face remained shrouded in shadow.
“Bad manners?” he said. “Is that your reasoning, then? Bad hosts deserve bad guests?”
Feilong raised an eyebrow in feigned shock. “Are you implying that I am a bad guest?” he asked. “I am offended.”
“Are you claiming that you are not?” Mikhail said. “Then please enlighten me. What exactly do you think you are doing?”
Feilong shrugged. “Redecorating. I thought that I should express my gratitude for everything you’ve done for me. This...” he glanced around himself with a sense of accomplishment, “seemed appropriate.”
Mikhail’s mouth curved upward in a grin, but the shadows on his face were deep and there was no humour there. “I see that you are very grateful, indeed!”
“Your taste in furniture is abysmal,” Feilong sneered. “The way I see it, any intervention is an improvement.”
Mikhail shifted and stepped into the room, looking around with a healthy appreciation for the extent of the damage. “Well, your efforts certainly do liven up the place! I am curious, though, what particular act of mine prompted this... outpour of good will?”
Feilong’s eyes narrowed with rage. “Do you think that I am stupid, Arbatov?” he said and Mikhail raised an eyebrow at the venom in his voice.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, sounding so genuinely surprised that Feilong would almost have been fooled, if the recent experiences hadn’t taught him better.
“Enough with the pretence!” he seethed. “We both know exactly what you did. Let us not make a list, shall we, because we would be standing here until next year if I was to recount it all! But since you insist, I shall name the crown jewels of your misdeeds. You have spied on me for years. Bribed my staff. My security. You have lied to me and stolen from me. You conspired with my enemies to destroy me. You have gutted my organisation and turned my men against me. Thanks to your ‘intervention’, I am not likely to recover from this. My death sentence was signed by your hand! Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity, or shall I go on?”
“Your death sentence?” Mikhail said in amusement. “Oh, sweetheart, your death is the last thing that I want added to the list of my accomplishments!”
“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Feilong cried. “I am not your fucking sweetheart, you hypocritical, condescending prick! Congratulations! Your goal is complete, but I am afraid that you will find it a hollow victory. It is only a matter of time before the Triad reassembles itself under a new leadership and weeds out both you and the treacherous rats that you have on your payroll! I don’t know what you are hoping to achieve by keeping me alive, but it will not work. They will never submit to a foreign leadership! I just hope that you are stupid enough to pursue this and seal your fate right along with mine!”
Mikhail laughed. “The Triad?” he said. “After all this time, you think that your territory is what I am after? Feilong, how long have you known me?” He walked towards him and Feilong bristled at his approach. He raised the heavy poker and adjusted his grip on it with both hands like he would over a weapon. The intent to do violence was obvious, without him even saying a word.
“I don’t give a fuck what you are after!” he ground out through clenched teeth. “But I am done with your games!”
Mikhail smiled lazily at the hostile gesture and did not slow his pace, totally undeterred by the unspoken threat. “Done?” he said, his voice low and etched with strange heat, as if he was speaking through a haze of deep yearning that he was just barely keeping restrained. “No, sweetheart. You are not done, because we are only beginning to play.”
There was a glint in his eyes that Feilong had not seen before-a look which was stern and intent, but threaded through by a dark, tortured fire that twisted and curled... or maybe he had-but he’d been so preoccupied by other things, that he’d failed to take notice. It made him uncertain, it made him hesitate, and when Mikhail walked around the desk towards him, Feilong instinctively stepped backwards to keep the barrier between them. Mikhail commanded the space he was in with the authority of a man certain in his power and Feilong was infuriated by the submissive gesture that was forced out of him. He hissed malevolently and pointed the sharp tip of the poker to his chest, daring him to come any closer. In his hands, it was not a weapon that could be ignored and the Russian finally stopped, but not until their positions were reversed and he was the one left standing behind the desk- with the access to the safe deposit box- while Feilong remained safely on the other side.
Dismayed, Feilong felt the trap closing around him even though he couldn’t see it clearly yet. It had not even occurred to him until then that Mikhail was after something other than control over the casinos in Macau, which fell under his jurisdiction. It had been a simple equation. The Triads would never allow a foreigner to wield the power this implied and Feilong had assumed that the bottom line of all of Mikhail’s plans had been to use him as a puppet in the forefront of schemes. That he had taken over the Baishe in an attempt to control him and obtained his father’s deed as leverage to force his cooperation in this ridiculous plot. It was a suicidal plan- one which spelled war and would see them both dead sooner or later- but it was the only thing that made sense.
Slowly, too slowly, a realisation was beginning to take form that maybe- just maybe- his enemy’s goals had nothing to do with the Triad at all, but revolved solely around him.
“Give it back,” he whispered hoarsely, too far gone into this contest of wills where he was outmanoeuvred and outmatched for even pretence at control. Shivering all over, it was almost an effort to keep his makeshift weapon steady in his hand.
Mikhail studied him intently, drinking in the change in attitude with almost palpable greed. “Give what back?” he asked, making him say it.
“I know that you have my father’s deed!” Feilong cried, enraged by his calm demeanour. “I know that you dealt with Asami for it! It is there! In that safe! Don’t you dare deny it!”
“I won’t deny it,” Mikhail said. “I got the deed from Asami, which you so foolishly let fall into his hands.”
Feilong forgot to breathe as the Russian manipulated the old-fashioned lock. The ancient steel door creaked open, only to reveal a far more modern security system inside-one which required both a palm print and a password. He watched eagerly as Mikhail typed it in, not making the slightest effort to conceal the numbers from him.
1983 0201
Feilong’s eyes widened in disbelief. Was he fucking serious?
Apparently, he was, because a dull click signalled that it was the correct entry code and the safe opened before his eyes. His head swam in confusion, a whirlwind of emotions rising to choke him, but he did not have the time to sort through them, because, nestled in the shadow among a pile of papers, sat the familiar leather case that housed the old, precious documents. Feilong’s heart lurched in his chest.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked as Mikhail took it out and carefully laid it on the desk. “The deed is worthless to you!”
“Worthless?” Mikhail replied. “I think not. It is worth a great deal to me, simply on the account of it being worth so much to you.”
Ah. Finally, the masks were coming down.
“You bastard,” Feilong cursed. “You unimaginable, fucking bastard! What do you want from me? Is it money? Contacts? Drugs? Weapons? Your business partners cut up into little pieces? What?”
Mikhail laughed. “Wrong on all counts,” he said. “Baby, you disappoint me. I really expected more insight from you.” He sat on the edge of the table and opened the case. Slowly, reverently he took out the neat folder inside and Feilong followed his every move anxiously, growing more and more agitated by the second. Mikhail noted how his entire body bristled as he watched him handle the papers and how his hands tightened on the poker until his knuckles turned white from the strain.
“Don’t!” Feilong breathed out at last, unable to stand it any longer. The tone of his voice lingered deliciously between a plea and a threat. “Stop it! You have no right! It is not yours! Don’t touch it!”
His face was very pale; he seemed feverish and deeply conflicted, and Mikhail gazed upon him through a mist of dark longing. So much time, so much effort. So many years spent on wanting, on waiting, until at last, the sum of his desires finally stood before him; desperate, feral and a step away from breaking.
“It is strange,” he said, deliberately opening the folder and watching Feilong flinch as he did it, “how you insist on me respecting your property, when you showed no such consideration towards mine.”
Feilong breathed in sharply and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“But that is a moot point anyway,” Mikhail went on, “because this...” and here he waved the folder in the air, “is no longer yours. Unless I decide otherwise.”
“What do you want?” Feilong ground out as if every word pained him. “Say it already! Stop playing with me! What the fuck do you want?”
Mikhail smiled. “I had not realised that I’d been so subtle about my intentions towards you,” he said. “But let me spell it out. Not every man that shows an interest in you does it so that he can expand his criminal influence over your territory. I could not care less about your money, your casinos, your power and connections. I do not give a fuck about the goddamned Triad, or the entire fucking Chinese underworld, for that matter.”
Feilong stared at him, his eyes big and wholly uncomprehending, and Mikhail sighed in frustration.
“I want you Feilong,” he said. “I want only you.”
Fandom: Viewfinder
Pairings: Mik/Fei
Disclaimer: I do not own Viewfinder or any of its characters. This is a fanfic and I’m not making any profit from it.
Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Note: Uh... still no pr0n.
Previous chapters: http://thegreymoon.livejournal.com/19477.html#cutid1
Part 26
Feilong slid from the desk and glared under the fall of his long, heavy hair. He twirled the iron rod in his hand and then brought it down to pat his palm, testing the bite of its strike.
“Fun?” he replied. “Just barely. It is bad manners, Arbatov, to leave your guests to their own devices, after confining them to your house.”
Mikhail stood on the threshold; leaning languidly against the splintered door frame, his arms crossed loosely on his chest. He was dressed in a simple shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tight-fitting jeans and knee-high, leather boots. The light behind him hit his back and while his hair glowed brightly around the edges, his face remained shrouded in shadow.
“Bad manners?” he said. “Is that your reasoning, then? Bad hosts deserve bad guests?”
Feilong raised an eyebrow in feigned shock. “Are you implying that I am a bad guest?” he asked. “I am offended.”
“Are you claiming that you are not?” Mikhail said. “Then please enlighten me. What exactly do you think you are doing?”
Feilong shrugged. “Redecorating. I thought that I should express my gratitude for everything you’ve done for me. This...” he glanced around himself with a sense of accomplishment, “seemed appropriate.”
Mikhail’s mouth curved upward in a grin, but the shadows on his face were deep and there was no humour there. “I see that you are very grateful, indeed!”
“Your taste in furniture is abysmal,” Feilong sneered. “The way I see it, any intervention is an improvement.”
Mikhail shifted and stepped into the room, looking around with a healthy appreciation for the extent of the damage. “Well, your efforts certainly do liven up the place! I am curious, though, what particular act of mine prompted this... outpour of good will?”
Feilong’s eyes narrowed with rage. “Do you think that I am stupid, Arbatov?” he said and Mikhail raised an eyebrow at the venom in his voice.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, sounding so genuinely surprised that Feilong would almost have been fooled, if the recent experiences hadn’t taught him better.
“Enough with the pretence!” he seethed. “We both know exactly what you did. Let us not make a list, shall we, because we would be standing here until next year if I was to recount it all! But since you insist, I shall name the crown jewels of your misdeeds. You have spied on me for years. Bribed my staff. My security. You have lied to me and stolen from me. You conspired with my enemies to destroy me. You have gutted my organisation and turned my men against me. Thanks to your ‘intervention’, I am not likely to recover from this. My death sentence was signed by your hand! Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity, or shall I go on?”
“Your death sentence?” Mikhail said in amusement. “Oh, sweetheart, your death is the last thing that I want added to the list of my accomplishments!”
“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Feilong cried. “I am not your fucking sweetheart, you hypocritical, condescending prick! Congratulations! Your goal is complete, but I am afraid that you will find it a hollow victory. It is only a matter of time before the Triad reassembles itself under a new leadership and weeds out both you and the treacherous rats that you have on your payroll! I don’t know what you are hoping to achieve by keeping me alive, but it will not work. They will never submit to a foreign leadership! I just hope that you are stupid enough to pursue this and seal your fate right along with mine!”
Mikhail laughed. “The Triad?” he said. “After all this time, you think that your territory is what I am after? Feilong, how long have you known me?” He walked towards him and Feilong bristled at his approach. He raised the heavy poker and adjusted his grip on it with both hands like he would over a weapon. The intent to do violence was obvious, without him even saying a word.
“I don’t give a fuck what you are after!” he ground out through clenched teeth. “But I am done with your games!”
Mikhail smiled lazily at the hostile gesture and did not slow his pace, totally undeterred by the unspoken threat. “Done?” he said, his voice low and etched with strange heat, as if he was speaking through a haze of deep yearning that he was just barely keeping restrained. “No, sweetheart. You are not done, because we are only beginning to play.”
There was a glint in his eyes that Feilong had not seen before-a look which was stern and intent, but threaded through by a dark, tortured fire that twisted and curled... or maybe he had-but he’d been so preoccupied by other things, that he’d failed to take notice. It made him uncertain, it made him hesitate, and when Mikhail walked around the desk towards him, Feilong instinctively stepped backwards to keep the barrier between them. Mikhail commanded the space he was in with the authority of a man certain in his power and Feilong was infuriated by the submissive gesture that was forced out of him. He hissed malevolently and pointed the sharp tip of the poker to his chest, daring him to come any closer. In his hands, it was not a weapon that could be ignored and the Russian finally stopped, but not until their positions were reversed and he was the one left standing behind the desk- with the access to the safe deposit box- while Feilong remained safely on the other side.
Dismayed, Feilong felt the trap closing around him even though he couldn’t see it clearly yet. It had not even occurred to him until then that Mikhail was after something other than control over the casinos in Macau, which fell under his jurisdiction. It had been a simple equation. The Triads would never allow a foreigner to wield the power this implied and Feilong had assumed that the bottom line of all of Mikhail’s plans had been to use him as a puppet in the forefront of schemes. That he had taken over the Baishe in an attempt to control him and obtained his father’s deed as leverage to force his cooperation in this ridiculous plot. It was a suicidal plan- one which spelled war and would see them both dead sooner or later- but it was the only thing that made sense.
Slowly, too slowly, a realisation was beginning to take form that maybe- just maybe- his enemy’s goals had nothing to do with the Triad at all, but revolved solely around him.
“Give it back,” he whispered hoarsely, too far gone into this contest of wills where he was outmanoeuvred and outmatched for even pretence at control. Shivering all over, it was almost an effort to keep his makeshift weapon steady in his hand.
Mikhail studied him intently, drinking in the change in attitude with almost palpable greed. “Give what back?” he asked, making him say it.
“I know that you have my father’s deed!” Feilong cried, enraged by his calm demeanour. “I know that you dealt with Asami for it! It is there! In that safe! Don’t you dare deny it!”
“I won’t deny it,” Mikhail said. “I got the deed from Asami, which you so foolishly let fall into his hands.”
Feilong forgot to breathe as the Russian manipulated the old-fashioned lock. The ancient steel door creaked open, only to reveal a far more modern security system inside-one which required both a palm print and a password. He watched eagerly as Mikhail typed it in, not making the slightest effort to conceal the numbers from him.
1983 0201
Feilong’s eyes widened in disbelief. Was he fucking serious?
Apparently, he was, because a dull click signalled that it was the correct entry code and the safe opened before his eyes. His head swam in confusion, a whirlwind of emotions rising to choke him, but he did not have the time to sort through them, because, nestled in the shadow among a pile of papers, sat the familiar leather case that housed the old, precious documents. Feilong’s heart lurched in his chest.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked as Mikhail took it out and carefully laid it on the desk. “The deed is worthless to you!”
“Worthless?” Mikhail replied. “I think not. It is worth a great deal to me, simply on the account of it being worth so much to you.”
Ah. Finally, the masks were coming down.
“You bastard,” Feilong cursed. “You unimaginable, fucking bastard! What do you want from me? Is it money? Contacts? Drugs? Weapons? Your business partners cut up into little pieces? What?”
Mikhail laughed. “Wrong on all counts,” he said. “Baby, you disappoint me. I really expected more insight from you.” He sat on the edge of the table and opened the case. Slowly, reverently he took out the neat folder inside and Feilong followed his every move anxiously, growing more and more agitated by the second. Mikhail noted how his entire body bristled as he watched him handle the papers and how his hands tightened on the poker until his knuckles turned white from the strain.
“Don’t!” Feilong breathed out at last, unable to stand it any longer. The tone of his voice lingered deliciously between a plea and a threat. “Stop it! You have no right! It is not yours! Don’t touch it!”
His face was very pale; he seemed feverish and deeply conflicted, and Mikhail gazed upon him through a mist of dark longing. So much time, so much effort. So many years spent on wanting, on waiting, until at last, the sum of his desires finally stood before him; desperate, feral and a step away from breaking.
“It is strange,” he said, deliberately opening the folder and watching Feilong flinch as he did it, “how you insist on me respecting your property, when you showed no such consideration towards mine.”
Feilong breathed in sharply and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“But that is a moot point anyway,” Mikhail went on, “because this...” and here he waved the folder in the air, “is no longer yours. Unless I decide otherwise.”
“What do you want?” Feilong ground out as if every word pained him. “Say it already! Stop playing with me! What the fuck do you want?”
Mikhail smiled. “I had not realised that I’d been so subtle about my intentions towards you,” he said. “But let me spell it out. Not every man that shows an interest in you does it so that he can expand his criminal influence over your territory. I could not care less about your money, your casinos, your power and connections. I do not give a fuck about the goddamned Triad, or the entire fucking Chinese underworld, for that matter.”
Feilong stared at him, his eyes big and wholly uncomprehending, and Mikhail sighed in frustration.
“I want you Feilong,” he said. “I want only you.”