eastern promises | vladenme
Eastern Promises | Nikolai/Kirill | 1700 words | beta'd by jamie_dakin.
You probably don't know this fandom. If so, shame on you; go watch the movie right now. These are the rogues in question, and this is for indulging your tattoo fetish-if you don't have one yet, go watch the movie, seriously. Thanks for jamie_dakin for the great beta. Also, GO WATCH THE DAMN MOVIE. ♥
Vladenme
владение -я (ср) vlad·en·me [vluh-den-meh]
-noun
1. estate (заводом) .
2. ownership (обычно мн, британские итп) .
3. possession вступать (вступить perf ) во владение чем-н
4. to assume ownership, или, to possess.
Nikolai has three cupolas on his back, spiraling up in bold blue lines the color of Moscow skies before a storm. He has a cross on his finger like a branded signet ring and words across his ankle which Kirill does not know. On his cheek is a scar from the time when Chechen brothers cut him up, and on his lip is a bruise from yesterday, when he sucked Kirill off in the bathroom.
“Kalai,” Kirill says, and Nikolai looks up like a borzoi when it senses the master. It is beautiful and fitting: a metaphor that is also truth. He thinks if he tugs, Nikolai will step forward, even when there is no leash in sight.
“Kalai,” he says it again, even though Nikolai is already attentive. He says it again because it sounds pleasant on his tongue, because it is a good name and intended for his use only. He likes things that belong exclusively to him: they have the least consequences. “Come and help your brother.”
He says brother but it is a misnomer really, because brothers have a chance to refuse and Nikolai will never say no to him, not for the world. Once, when he was younger, Kirill looked up “axiom” in dictionary:
A self-evident truth that requires no proof.
That is his axiom. Nikolai comes.
“Help?” Nikolai says, because Kirill is sprawled in an armchair the size of Odessa and looks like a lazy fat cat who purrs and gets cream right away. Kirill knows this, just as he knows his trousers have cost the hands of some Ukrainian slave-cow and will probably be ruined now. He grins.
“Brotherly love. Goodwill towards men.” He gestures at his crotch. “Sosat, brother.”
Nikolai has one star over clavicle and another across knee: I will bow before no one. Still, his legs bend when Kirill half-tugs, half-drags him down, and when he undoes the zipper his lips wear half-smile like an old suit.
“Ah,” Kirill says, or just breathes loud, like when they finished doing his first star under the skin. It is not the same pain, but same feeling: anticipation of greater things to come. Nikolai is close to the skin, closer still to pants, and he feels the air that stands between them.
It smells of him. Nikolai inhales.
“Are you smelling roses, or are you sucking?” he asks, because he is already hard and Nikolai did not even open his mouth yet. “Stop fucking around.”
Again, it is like magic: wish, command. Nikolai does not reply, just takes down trousers, careful with the fabric in ways Kirill would not be. He takes down pants as well-all the way to knees; one smooth motion, like drawing a knife. His hands creep to the small of Kirill's back, touching as if he cannot decide if to press down or not. Kirill makes the decision for him: a small noise in the back of his throat, impatient.
“Yes,” Nikolai whispers, like he has then decided on something; leans down and takes Kirill in his mouth.
“Ah,” Kirill says again, but louder; Nikolai has a mouth like someone cut his face with dagger and kissed away the blood. It is hot and wet and he does not know if those are lips around his head or Nikolai's tongue, which belongs to Satana for sure.
The armchair velvet is deep red, like wine or the sauce of Papa's famous Pavlova dessert. It rubs against his skin when he moves-he moves always during sex, setting a speed that is good; Nikolai never holds him down, always moving with him, forward or back. He moves by thrusting into Nikolai's dagger-mouth, watching his cheeks hollow like caves, like two valleys leading up to his cheekbones which are mountain peaks sharp enough to cut. There are no mountains in London, but Kirill remembers something of Russia; he looks at Nikolai and feels tundra-wind and the old Mother echo in his bones.
Nikolai makes a small, delicious sound; he closes his eyes and he opens the throat. Kirill can feel the tightness of it: strong muscles, pulling and clenching, the slide of spit when Nikolai swallows around him. It is hot and constrictive and there is Nikolai's tongue, like an old friend, moving over him in time to thrusts and pressing against the slit, hard like a finger, like a bite of teeth, Nikolai's tongue which he would recognize anywhere-
Nikolai gives the best head. It is not an aspect of his character, merely fact: Nikolai does everything best. If he is to give head, then he is best at it. If he is to water plants, then he is best at that. If he is to kill person-but no, Kirill has never asked that of him; not yet, though perhaps it will be time soon enough.
He clenches his hands on the arms of chair, fingers digging into the velvet, to keep from mussing Nikolai's careful hair. Nikolai hates when hair is mussed, and so Kirill does not touch it. He refrains. He can be considerate, sometimes.
Of course, it means now he bucks his hips against Nikolai's face, thrusting forward, stretching those thin lips wide as possible. Nikolai gags for small bit, then swallows, angling his head and humming in back of throat to make Kirill moan out loud. See, it is like a negotiation: he does not touch Nikolai's hair, but he gives him sore voice for today and tomorrow.
To a brother, he is kind.
In return, Nikolai starts kneading the flesh of his lower back, slowly, as if Kirill is not at the moment fucking his open mouth. He squeezes a bit, then lets go; rubs with the tips of fingers and heels of his palm. It feels good, and Kirill grins in appreciation; even more so when Nikolai moves down, over his ass, fingers digging into the flesh.
It is not soft or gentle, because Kirill is not a suka and he does not have a pussy. When the first finger goes in-and Nikolai has big hands, square and firm; the driver's gloves are proof-it is dry and painful, friction and scraping and skin against skin only. Kirill keeps moving, always moving, and Nikolai goes with him, working it in to the pace of his thrusts.
When the first knuckle slips past opening, Kirill nearly makes Nikolai choke. Then more, more in-he cannot feel the starburst tattoo on Nikolai's finger but imagines it, north point, northwest, half-line then the southern point creeping forward-Nikolai presses in then out and then in again, like he is reaching out for something, and Kirill makes a noise and says word that he would not repeat before the Madonna.
“Fuck,” he says, when he can speak good again. “Fuck,” and “Kalai,” as if they are a single word joined by a hitch of breath, when Nikolai leans back all the way, enough to nip at head and lick with his devil tongue. He is a great cat, sand-rough, looking up with sleepy eyes as Kirill shudders around his finger like a drug addict. With eyes like these staring at him, it is very little time until second finger, and third, and by then Kirill is messing the velvet with his thrashing, caught and held from both sides at once and able just to say “Now, now-”
Nikolai obeys as always: withdraw, rise to his feet and climb on armchair like a tiger. It is big enough for two, more even, but he remains close to Kirill like second skin, pressing him onto velvet with big hands. Kirill lets himself be pushed then grabs the right bicep, exactly over where he knows is a skull tattoo, and pulls like in tug-of-war. Nikolai lands on top of him with a grunt, flushed under his suit. His hair musses a bit.
“Clothes,” Kirill says, breathless, and sets to work on trousers; Nikolai starts unbuttoning his shirt. His skin is hot, and Kirill rubs their bodies together, their cocks-Nikolai is big in his hand now, flesh-heavy. Kirill is much less careful with Nikolai's trousers than Nikolai was with his.
His own dick is straining for contact, because Nikolai is expert cocksucker, and anyone would be sad to see him go. But Nikolai is no durak; he is ready in five seconds and has thrust in already by seven.
“Ah,” Kirill says, loudest now, except he is cut off halfway because Nikolai is touching his star and his hip and straight inside, more even than his fingers. It still hurts like fuck but he is a vor, a thief by rights, so he grits teeth and bears it out. Nikolai is panting against his chest, face pale but eyes bright; perhaps how he would look during a trip if he ever takes drugs.
He is already too close, hot from Nikolai's fingers and mouth and his tongue. They rock together-odin, raz, dva-then right there-oh Jesu-he arches up, hoarse and wild, and comes all over Nikolai's stomach.
When he opens his eyes again, still clenching from waves which are like fire, Nikolai looms over him, hair mussed and eyes shut tight. He is thrusting: staccato breaths, short, sharp; Kirill is sated but still aroused, staring, breathing him in-
“Bite,” he whispers, reaching up, and Nikolai takes fingers in his mouth; his lips are thin and bruised and dry from panting. He is so close to the end, hands gripping Kirill's waist like clamps; the barbed wire tattoos on the wrist stand out like real metal. Kirill feels it in his body, rocking against Nikolai's hips, rough, blinding like sun.
“Not yet,” he says, and Nikolai makes sound high in his throat, head thrown back, thrusting without control. He is so tense, like a cocked gun, but Kirill presses down on Nikolai's tongue with fingers and Nikolai stills, muscles trembling, sweating like Uzbek pig. His grip tightens and he stops breathing, holding everything in, waiting, waiting, waiting-
Odin. Raz. Dva.
“Come,” Kirill says, and Nikolai bites down on his fingers and thrusts in and obeys.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
You probably don't know this fandom. If so, shame on you; go watch the movie right now. These are the rogues in question, and this is for indulging your tattoo fetish-if you don't have one yet, go watch the movie, seriously. Thanks for jamie_dakin for the great beta. Also, GO WATCH THE DAMN MOVIE. ♥
Vladenme
владение -я (ср) vlad·en·me [vluh-den-meh]
-noun
1. estate (заводом) .
2. ownership (обычно мн, британские итп) .
3. possession вступать (вступить perf ) во владение чем-н
4. to assume ownership, или, to possess.
Nikolai has three cupolas on his back, spiraling up in bold blue lines the color of Moscow skies before a storm. He has a cross on his finger like a branded signet ring and words across his ankle which Kirill does not know. On his cheek is a scar from the time when Chechen brothers cut him up, and on his lip is a bruise from yesterday, when he sucked Kirill off in the bathroom.
“Kalai,” Kirill says, and Nikolai looks up like a borzoi when it senses the master. It is beautiful and fitting: a metaphor that is also truth. He thinks if he tugs, Nikolai will step forward, even when there is no leash in sight.
“Kalai,” he says it again, even though Nikolai is already attentive. He says it again because it sounds pleasant on his tongue, because it is a good name and intended for his use only. He likes things that belong exclusively to him: they have the least consequences. “Come and help your brother.”
He says brother but it is a misnomer really, because brothers have a chance to refuse and Nikolai will never say no to him, not for the world. Once, when he was younger, Kirill looked up “axiom” in dictionary:
A self-evident truth that requires no proof.
That is his axiom. Nikolai comes.
“Help?” Nikolai says, because Kirill is sprawled in an armchair the size of Odessa and looks like a lazy fat cat who purrs and gets cream right away. Kirill knows this, just as he knows his trousers have cost the hands of some Ukrainian slave-cow and will probably be ruined now. He grins.
“Brotherly love. Goodwill towards men.” He gestures at his crotch. “Sosat, brother.”
Nikolai has one star over clavicle and another across knee: I will bow before no one. Still, his legs bend when Kirill half-tugs, half-drags him down, and when he undoes the zipper his lips wear half-smile like an old suit.
“Ah,” Kirill says, or just breathes loud, like when they finished doing his first star under the skin. It is not the same pain, but same feeling: anticipation of greater things to come. Nikolai is close to the skin, closer still to pants, and he feels the air that stands between them.
It smells of him. Nikolai inhales.
“Are you smelling roses, or are you sucking?” he asks, because he is already hard and Nikolai did not even open his mouth yet. “Stop fucking around.”
Again, it is like magic: wish, command. Nikolai does not reply, just takes down trousers, careful with the fabric in ways Kirill would not be. He takes down pants as well-all the way to knees; one smooth motion, like drawing a knife. His hands creep to the small of Kirill's back, touching as if he cannot decide if to press down or not. Kirill makes the decision for him: a small noise in the back of his throat, impatient.
“Yes,” Nikolai whispers, like he has then decided on something; leans down and takes Kirill in his mouth.
“Ah,” Kirill says again, but louder; Nikolai has a mouth like someone cut his face with dagger and kissed away the blood. It is hot and wet and he does not know if those are lips around his head or Nikolai's tongue, which belongs to Satana for sure.
The armchair velvet is deep red, like wine or the sauce of Papa's famous Pavlova dessert. It rubs against his skin when he moves-he moves always during sex, setting a speed that is good; Nikolai never holds him down, always moving with him, forward or back. He moves by thrusting into Nikolai's dagger-mouth, watching his cheeks hollow like caves, like two valleys leading up to his cheekbones which are mountain peaks sharp enough to cut. There are no mountains in London, but Kirill remembers something of Russia; he looks at Nikolai and feels tundra-wind and the old Mother echo in his bones.
Nikolai makes a small, delicious sound; he closes his eyes and he opens the throat. Kirill can feel the tightness of it: strong muscles, pulling and clenching, the slide of spit when Nikolai swallows around him. It is hot and constrictive and there is Nikolai's tongue, like an old friend, moving over him in time to thrusts and pressing against the slit, hard like a finger, like a bite of teeth, Nikolai's tongue which he would recognize anywhere-
Nikolai gives the best head. It is not an aspect of his character, merely fact: Nikolai does everything best. If he is to give head, then he is best at it. If he is to water plants, then he is best at that. If he is to kill person-but no, Kirill has never asked that of him; not yet, though perhaps it will be time soon enough.
He clenches his hands on the arms of chair, fingers digging into the velvet, to keep from mussing Nikolai's careful hair. Nikolai hates when hair is mussed, and so Kirill does not touch it. He refrains. He can be considerate, sometimes.
Of course, it means now he bucks his hips against Nikolai's face, thrusting forward, stretching those thin lips wide as possible. Nikolai gags for small bit, then swallows, angling his head and humming in back of throat to make Kirill moan out loud. See, it is like a negotiation: he does not touch Nikolai's hair, but he gives him sore voice for today and tomorrow.
To a brother, he is kind.
In return, Nikolai starts kneading the flesh of his lower back, slowly, as if Kirill is not at the moment fucking his open mouth. He squeezes a bit, then lets go; rubs with the tips of fingers and heels of his palm. It feels good, and Kirill grins in appreciation; even more so when Nikolai moves down, over his ass, fingers digging into the flesh.
It is not soft or gentle, because Kirill is not a suka and he does not have a pussy. When the first finger goes in-and Nikolai has big hands, square and firm; the driver's gloves are proof-it is dry and painful, friction and scraping and skin against skin only. Kirill keeps moving, always moving, and Nikolai goes with him, working it in to the pace of his thrusts.
When the first knuckle slips past opening, Kirill nearly makes Nikolai choke. Then more, more in-he cannot feel the starburst tattoo on Nikolai's finger but imagines it, north point, northwest, half-line then the southern point creeping forward-Nikolai presses in then out and then in again, like he is reaching out for something, and Kirill makes a noise and says word that he would not repeat before the Madonna.
“Fuck,” he says, when he can speak good again. “Fuck,” and “Kalai,” as if they are a single word joined by a hitch of breath, when Nikolai leans back all the way, enough to nip at head and lick with his devil tongue. He is a great cat, sand-rough, looking up with sleepy eyes as Kirill shudders around his finger like a drug addict. With eyes like these staring at him, it is very little time until second finger, and third, and by then Kirill is messing the velvet with his thrashing, caught and held from both sides at once and able just to say “Now, now-”
Nikolai obeys as always: withdraw, rise to his feet and climb on armchair like a tiger. It is big enough for two, more even, but he remains close to Kirill like second skin, pressing him onto velvet with big hands. Kirill lets himself be pushed then grabs the right bicep, exactly over where he knows is a skull tattoo, and pulls like in tug-of-war. Nikolai lands on top of him with a grunt, flushed under his suit. His hair musses a bit.
“Clothes,” Kirill says, breathless, and sets to work on trousers; Nikolai starts unbuttoning his shirt. His skin is hot, and Kirill rubs their bodies together, their cocks-Nikolai is big in his hand now, flesh-heavy. Kirill is much less careful with Nikolai's trousers than Nikolai was with his.
His own dick is straining for contact, because Nikolai is expert cocksucker, and anyone would be sad to see him go. But Nikolai is no durak; he is ready in five seconds and has thrust in already by seven.
“Ah,” Kirill says, loudest now, except he is cut off halfway because Nikolai is touching his star and his hip and straight inside, more even than his fingers. It still hurts like fuck but he is a vor, a thief by rights, so he grits teeth and bears it out. Nikolai is panting against his chest, face pale but eyes bright; perhaps how he would look during a trip if he ever takes drugs.
He is already too close, hot from Nikolai's fingers and mouth and his tongue. They rock together-odin, raz, dva-then right there-oh Jesu-he arches up, hoarse and wild, and comes all over Nikolai's stomach.
When he opens his eyes again, still clenching from waves which are like fire, Nikolai looms over him, hair mussed and eyes shut tight. He is thrusting: staccato breaths, short, sharp; Kirill is sated but still aroused, staring, breathing him in-
“Bite,” he whispers, reaching up, and Nikolai takes fingers in his mouth; his lips are thin and bruised and dry from panting. He is so close to the end, hands gripping Kirill's waist like clamps; the barbed wire tattoos on the wrist stand out like real metal. Kirill feels it in his body, rocking against Nikolai's hips, rough, blinding like sun.
“Not yet,” he says, and Nikolai makes sound high in his throat, head thrown back, thrusting without control. He is so tense, like a cocked gun, but Kirill presses down on Nikolai's tongue with fingers and Nikolai stills, muscles trembling, sweating like Uzbek pig. His grip tightens and he stops breathing, holding everything in, waiting, waiting, waiting-
Odin. Raz. Dva.
“Come,” Kirill says, and Nikolai bites down on his fingers and thrusts in and obeys.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.