FIC: "Just a Drink." Eastern Promises. NC-17. Nikolai/Kirill.
Title: Just a Drink
Author: Barbara savageseraph
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Summary: He hadn't bought the drink because the man looked like he needed it, hadn't bought it as a round for a mate. He'd bought it because he liked the look of the man, because he'd made Kirill hard.
Comments: Written for LTM for yuletide 2009. Many thanks to caras_galadhon, best of betas.
Kirill liked it when the business was going well, though not for the same reasons as his father. He wasn't drawn to the ledgers, to pages of inventory and profit, to the conversations that happened well after the restaurant closed about how their influence was growing and how they could keep it that way. No, Kirill wanted the business to thrive and run smoothly because when it did, he had more freedom, fewer tethers to limit his comings and goings.
Because of that, he was able to slip out with only two men, one of them his driver. It was still too early for many people to have made their way to the pub, so Kirill managed to convince both of his keepers to wait for him in the car while he had a drink. Since they agreed, Kirill was even willing to overlook the fact that his driver rolled his eyes when he mentioned "drink" in the singular.
Not surprisingly, the drink turned into several, though not as many as he'd have knocked back if he was trapped with his family. Pleasantly buzzed more than flat out drunk, with the sweet warmth of the vodka humming through him, Kirill let his gaze wander to the bar's other patrons. A boy who didn't look quite legal was hitting on two women he didn't have the experience or money to touch. Two couples in a dark corner booth were tongue fucking each other in between rounds of ale. A trio of men slouched over the bar, wrung out from a hard day at the factory or too much drink for dinner or both. One other man sat a few barstools away from Kirill, and Kirill's gaze came to rest on him.
The man sat by himself, his attention on the newspaper spread on the bar in front of him. He wore a grey sweater that looked too soft to be wool, soft enough that Kirill's fingers curled as he imagined what it would feel like under them. His jeans were pale with wear and fraying in spots. Strands of his hair, a tousled light brown that was going to grey in places, fell into clear blue eyes. Kirill saw the tattoos on his hands as he turned the pages of the paper, curled his fingers around his glass to lift it and take a swallow of his drink.
Kirill wet his lips as he watched the other man's neck arch, throat work as he swallowed. He looked away as he felt his cock hardening. After finishing his own drink, Kirill called the bartender over and ordered another for himself and for the man still pouring over the paper.
It was wrong. Kirill knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, as soon as he saw the bemused look the bartender gave him. Wicked. Kirill focused his attention on his vodka. He hadn't bought the drink because the man looked like he needed it, hadn't bought it as a round for a mate. He'd bought it because he liked the look of the man, because he'd made Kirill hard. He'd bought it because he wanted, which was the reason people bought strangers drinks.
"Thank you. For the drink." The words were firm, confident, even though the accent was strong, and they came from much closer than Kirill expected. The man had moved over several stools so he was sitting next to Kirill.
Kirill waved off the thanks, tried to sound more nonchalant than he felt. "You looked thirsty. Was the least I could do."
"I did?" The man laughed softly, knowingly, and Kirill felt himself harden more as warmth rushed to his cheeks. "And what else do I look like?"
"Uh...." Kirill blinked, took a swallow of his drink. "I suppose...." A host of inappropriate responses came to mind and were quickly dismissed. "New around here?" Without the vodka, Kirill would have winced at the horrible clich
Author: Barbara savageseraph
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Summary: He hadn't bought the drink because the man looked like he needed it, hadn't bought it as a round for a mate. He'd bought it because he liked the look of the man, because he'd made Kirill hard.
Comments: Written for LTM for yuletide 2009. Many thanks to caras_galadhon, best of betas.
Kirill liked it when the business was going well, though not for the same reasons as his father. He wasn't drawn to the ledgers, to pages of inventory and profit, to the conversations that happened well after the restaurant closed about how their influence was growing and how they could keep it that way. No, Kirill wanted the business to thrive and run smoothly because when it did, he had more freedom, fewer tethers to limit his comings and goings.
Because of that, he was able to slip out with only two men, one of them his driver. It was still too early for many people to have made their way to the pub, so Kirill managed to convince both of his keepers to wait for him in the car while he had a drink. Since they agreed, Kirill was even willing to overlook the fact that his driver rolled his eyes when he mentioned "drink" in the singular.
Not surprisingly, the drink turned into several, though not as many as he'd have knocked back if he was trapped with his family. Pleasantly buzzed more than flat out drunk, with the sweet warmth of the vodka humming through him, Kirill let his gaze wander to the bar's other patrons. A boy who didn't look quite legal was hitting on two women he didn't have the experience or money to touch. Two couples in a dark corner booth were tongue fucking each other in between rounds of ale. A trio of men slouched over the bar, wrung out from a hard day at the factory or too much drink for dinner or both. One other man sat a few barstools away from Kirill, and Kirill's gaze came to rest on him.
The man sat by himself, his attention on the newspaper spread on the bar in front of him. He wore a grey sweater that looked too soft to be wool, soft enough that Kirill's fingers curled as he imagined what it would feel like under them. His jeans were pale with wear and fraying in spots. Strands of his hair, a tousled light brown that was going to grey in places, fell into clear blue eyes. Kirill saw the tattoos on his hands as he turned the pages of the paper, curled his fingers around his glass to lift it and take a swallow of his drink.
Kirill wet his lips as he watched the other man's neck arch, throat work as he swallowed. He looked away as he felt his cock hardening. After finishing his own drink, Kirill called the bartender over and ordered another for himself and for the man still pouring over the paper.
It was wrong. Kirill knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, as soon as he saw the bemused look the bartender gave him. Wicked. Kirill focused his attention on his vodka. He hadn't bought the drink because the man looked like he needed it, hadn't bought it as a round for a mate. He'd bought it because he liked the look of the man, because he'd made Kirill hard. He'd bought it because he wanted, which was the reason people bought strangers drinks.
"Thank you. For the drink." The words were firm, confident, even though the accent was strong, and they came from much closer than Kirill expected. The man had moved over several stools so he was sitting next to Kirill.
Kirill waved off the thanks, tried to sound more nonchalant than he felt. "You looked thirsty. Was the least I could do."
"I did?" The man laughed softly, knowingly, and Kirill felt himself harden more as warmth rushed to his cheeks. "And what else do I look like?"
"Uh...." Kirill blinked, took a swallow of his drink. "I suppose...." A host of inappropriate responses came to mind and were quickly dismissed. "New around here?" Without the vodka, Kirill would have winced at the horrible clich