The day is warm, but Saburov still arrives buttoned up to the chin in his green overcoat, because of course he does. Victor has his sleeves pulled back and his shirt open past his collarbone to deal with the heat. When he answers the door, Saburov's eyes sweep over him, narrowing.
"Good afternoon, Governor."
"May I come in?" His voice is curt, clipped. Victor steps aside and Saburov brushes past him into the study. Victor closes the door behind him, calculating the rest of the family's whereabouts. Georgiy and Simon are holed up in the workshop. Maria is in her quarters. Kasper… well.
"People are unhappy with you, Victor," says Saburov. He hovers in front of the desk, hands folded behind his back. "They say the Kains are responsible for stealing everyone's children."
Victor takes a seat across from him, folds his arms over his chest. "They know I've lost one as well, don't they?"
Sabrov’s mouth twists. "He's the ringleader, so it's doubly your fault."
"And they bring these concerns to you?"
"It would seem they think your family has a bias in the matter. Simon did give his permission, but it's harder on families whose children help them with the household. I suppose you wouldn't know what that's like."
He can imagine the rebuttal from his brothers (the miracle of life, the ingenuity of mankind over the struggles of a few working families), but Victor just sighs. "I won't bore you with a treatise on Onirotecture."
Saburov's expression barely changes, but there's a softening around the eyes that Victor knows to look for now. "It would be lost on me, I'm afraid."
For a long time, Victor wrote the Governor off as unimportant, a bureaucrat. What hand had he in building their masterpiece? After Nina died, though, the governor stepped into the spotlight as someone looking to impose his will on the town. Victor took notice of the way he held himself, how he spoke to the townspeople like a benevolent king.
Maybe that's why Saburov always liked him better than his brothers. Georgiy and Simon had teased him for it, one night during dinner.
"Victor admires him, isn't that right?" said Simon, tearing his bread with his fingers.
"I pity him," said Victor. "He seems to care about the town."
Georgiy shook his head. "If he truly cared, he would let it evolve. And the business with his wife is shameful…"
Victor had nothing to say for that. A part of him resented Katerina for trying to become Nina (and lately, a treacherous voice whispered, for being married to Saburov).
“Is that why you’ve come, Alexander?” Victor asks. He folds his hands in front of him and rolls his head to the side. There’s an ache in his shoulder lately. He’s getting older. He wakes up cold and stiff, like a corpse, alone in his too-large bed. Human bodies are such fallible things.
Saburov reacts predictably to the use of his given name, crossing the room in two strides.
"No," he whispers. He leans down.
Do you think me cold, Nina, for using him in this way? For knowing what it does to him and doing it anyway?
They've never used a bed. Saburov will not allow himself to be held or gentled at all. Often Victor tries to imagine him in bed with his wife and fails. Katerina must be a lonely woman.
It suits Victor well enough. Since Nina died, he finds the rituals of courtship to be an irritation. Still, he looks forward to it when Saburov visits, once every few weeks. Victor lets him be the one to initiate. Saburov sometimes goes almost a month before dragging himself back to the Crucible like a man starved.
Or an addict, says that dark voice again.
He has that look about him today, as he slides his hands beneath Victor's shirt. Haggard and haunted. Victor wastes no time in stripping off his coat and catching him in a deep, bruising kiss. Saburov groans into his mouth and sags against him.
“I can’t stay long." He drops to his knees beside the chair, fumbles open the button on Victor’s trousers.
Is it a comfort to know that despite their relationship, they are loyal to their own families first and foremost?
Saburov's lips part. He breathes in; Victor can feel the movement of air over his cockhead. His shoes scrape the tiled floor as he shifts his legs.
"Don't touch yourself,” says Victor. “Keep your hands on me."
The silky heat of Saburov's mouth closes on him. Victor places one hand on his cheek, strokes his hair back with the other: he knows what Saburov needs.
"You're doing well," he says, and Saburov moans, low and deep in his throat, his hands trembling where they clutch at Victor's trousers. He must be hard. His face is flushed with color.
Saburov pulls back, wraps a hand around Victor's cock and laps at the head, eyes bright, lips swollen and slick with spit. Victor feels a spark of possessiveness, of desire. This display is only for him. Victor never wanted to rule the way Nina or Alexander did-- Nina listened to him because she loved him, that was all. But he recognizes the feeling of having power leashed and what it does to him.
"Right there,” he murmurs, as Saburov takes him inside again. “Yes. Just like that.”
Victor's body feels wound too tight, and he knows he's close. He nudges at Saburov, but Saburov bends his head lower, choking as Victor jerks and finishes down his throat.
Saburov sits back in his heels and wipes with his mouth with his hand. When he stands, shakily, Victor can see--
"Let me," he says, drawing Saburov in with a hand at his hip, palming the front of his trousers where his erection strains against the fabric. Saburov pushes forward into the touch--
The parlor clock chimes the hour, and the bell tower in the Cathedral follows, ringing through the house. For just a moment, Victor stills, and Saburov takes the opportunity to wrench himself away.
"That's enough,” says Saburov.
Victor doesn't protest when he turns to collect himself. His own body feels heavy and sated, and he knows better than to press his attention where it’s unwanted. After Saburov leaves, he goes to the window and opens the curtains, letting sunlight flood into the study.
FILL: Victor/Saburov, blowjob
***
The day is warm, but Saburov still arrives buttoned up to the chin in his green overcoat, because of course he does. Victor has his sleeves pulled back and his shirt open past his collarbone to deal with the heat. When he answers the door, Saburov's eyes sweep over him, narrowing.
"Good afternoon, Governor."
"May I come in?" His voice is curt, clipped. Victor steps aside and Saburov brushes past him into the study. Victor closes the door behind him, calculating the rest of the family's whereabouts. Georgiy and Simon are holed up in the workshop. Maria is in her quarters. Kasper… well.
"People are unhappy with you, Victor," says Saburov. He hovers in front of the desk, hands folded behind his back. "They say the Kains are responsible for stealing everyone's children."
Victor takes a seat across from him, folds his arms over his chest. "They know I've lost one as well, don't they?"
Sabrov’s mouth twists. "He's the ringleader, so it's doubly your fault."
"And they bring these concerns to you?"
"It would seem they think your family has a bias in the matter. Simon did give his permission, but it's harder on families whose children help them with the household. I suppose you wouldn't know what that's like."
He can imagine the rebuttal from his brothers (the miracle of life, the ingenuity of mankind over the struggles of a few working families), but Victor just sighs. "I won't bore you with a treatise on Onirotecture."
Saburov's expression barely changes, but there's a softening around the eyes that Victor knows to look for now. "It would be lost on me, I'm afraid."
For a long time, Victor wrote the Governor off as unimportant, a bureaucrat. What hand had he in building their masterpiece? After Nina died, though, the governor stepped into the spotlight as someone looking to impose his will on the town. Victor took notice of the way he held himself, how he spoke to the townspeople like a benevolent king.
Maybe that's why Saburov always liked him better than his brothers. Georgiy and Simon had teased him for it, one night during dinner.
"Victor admires him, isn't that right?" said Simon, tearing his bread with his fingers.
"I pity him," said Victor. "He seems to care about the town."
Georgiy shook his head. "If he truly cared, he would let it evolve. And the business with his wife is shameful…"
Victor had nothing to say for that. A part of him resented Katerina for trying to become Nina (and lately, a treacherous voice whispered, for being married to Saburov).
“Is that why you’ve come, Alexander?” Victor asks. He folds his hands in front of him and rolls his head to the side. There’s an ache in his shoulder lately. He’s getting older. He wakes up cold and stiff, like a corpse, alone in his too-large bed. Human bodies are such fallible things.
Saburov reacts predictably to the use of his given name, crossing the room in two strides.
"No," he whispers. He leans down.
Do you think me cold, Nina, for using him in this way? For knowing what it does to him and doing it anyway?
They've never used a bed. Saburov will not allow himself to be held or gentled at all. Often Victor tries to imagine him in bed with his wife and fails. Katerina must be a lonely woman.
It suits Victor well enough. Since Nina died, he finds the rituals of courtship to be an irritation. Still, he looks forward to it when Saburov visits, once every few weeks. Victor lets him be the one to initiate. Saburov sometimes goes almost a month before dragging himself back to the Crucible like a man starved.
Or an addict, says that dark voice again.
He has that look about him today, as he slides his hands beneath Victor's shirt. Haggard and haunted. Victor wastes no time in stripping off his coat and catching him in a deep, bruising kiss. Saburov groans into his mouth and sags against him.
“I can’t stay long." He drops to his knees beside the chair, fumbles open the button on Victor’s trousers.
Is it a comfort to know that despite their relationship, they are loyal to their own families first and foremost?
Saburov's lips part. He breathes in; Victor can feel the movement of air over his cockhead. His shoes scrape the tiled floor as he shifts his legs.
"Don't touch yourself,” says Victor. “Keep your hands on me."
The silky heat of Saburov's mouth closes on him. Victor places one hand on his cheek, strokes his hair back with the other: he knows what Saburov needs.
"You're doing well," he says, and Saburov moans, low and deep in his throat, his hands trembling where they clutch at Victor's trousers. He must be hard. His face is flushed with color.
Saburov pulls back, wraps a hand around Victor's cock and laps at the head, eyes bright, lips swollen and slick with spit. Victor feels a spark of possessiveness, of desire. This display is only for him. Victor never wanted to rule the way Nina or Alexander did-- Nina listened to him because she loved him, that was all. But he recognizes the feeling of having power leashed and what it does to him.
"Right there,” he murmurs, as Saburov takes him inside again. “Yes. Just like that.”
Victor's body feels wound too tight, and he knows he's close. He nudges at Saburov, but Saburov bends his head lower, choking as Victor jerks and finishes down his throat.
Saburov sits back in his heels and wipes with his mouth with his hand. When he stands, shakily, Victor can see--
"Let me," he says, drawing Saburov in with a hand at his hip, palming the front of his trousers where his erection strains against the fabric. Saburov pushes forward into the touch--
The parlor clock chimes the hour, and the bell tower in the Cathedral follows, ringing through the house. For just a moment, Victor stills, and Saburov takes the opportunity to wrench himself away.
"That's enough,” says Saburov.
Victor doesn't protest when he turns to collect himself. His own body feels heavy and sated, and he knows better than to press his attention where it’s unwanted. After Saburov leaves, he goes to the window and opens the curtains, letting sunlight flood into the study.