kennahijja (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kennahijja) wrote2009-12-15 03:53 am
kennahijja) wrote2009-12-15 03:53 am
Riderfic: "Out in the Open" [Yassen/Alex, R]
Title: Out in the Open
Author:kennahijja
Fandom: Alex Rider
Pairing: Yassen/Alex
Rating: R
Summary: Yassen Gregorovich is straddling his hips, staring down at him unsmiling, the frost-blue eyes hard enough to make Alex's heart thud...
Note: Written forflash_rider, prompt: "scars". Thanks to annephoenix for the 'how to keep it short' tip :).
Alex twists his wrists behind his head, not trying to get free so much as hoping to distract himself. He can't move. And Yassen Gregorovich is straddling his hips, staring down at him unsmiling, the frost-blue eyes hard enough to make Alex's heart thud in irregular beats in his throat.
Alex is still wearing his jeans, which is a blessing; but the assassin has divested him of his shirt, and used his own belt to bind his hands to the headboard. Alex tries to keep his breaths even, but sweat is beading at his temples when Yassen's fingers trace lightly over the bullet scar on his chest, right above his heart. It's healed a long time ago, but seems to pulse raw under Yassen's touch as if Alex's skin was a mere film over blood and bone.
He presses his head back into the pillow, exposing his throat. Yassen leans forward with the smooth grace of a gymnast and replaces his fingers with his mouth. Alex arches up, offering himself. His hands twist, palms open in supplication. The sensation is doubly intense knowing that Yassen bears an almost identical scar where Damian Cray shot him. He can't reach out and touch it, but the knowledge made Yassen's caress twice as sweet.
Part of Alex still marvels, through the drugged heat of arousal crawling through his body, that he can draw pleasure from placing himself in a situation which mirrors his worst fears – captured, bound, helpless, at the mercy of those who revel in his pain and death. That he can have such blind trust in a killer.
Yassen's mouth moves slowly, maddeningly, over the scar, ignoring Alex's rumble of protest. Shuddering under the provocative touch, Alex knows there's nothing for it. Yassen won't give up a shred of control, not over himself, not over Alex's body. Not after that first time.
When Alex had traced Yassen three years ago in a shabby hotel room on Tottenham Court Road right after Yassen's escape from MI6, Yassen had beaten Alex almost to death.
Hurt and angry himself, Alex had confronted the assassin with the truth about John Rider's loyalties. In retrospect, he realised that the only thing that carried Yassen through two years at the tender mercies of the British Intelligence Services must have been the thought of resisting the people who had murdered John Rider. Whom Yassen had loved. And that he'd sacrificed himself to protect Alex, because he was John's son.
Finding out that John Rider had betrayed Yassen, had been sent by MI6 to infiltrate Scorpia and been loyal, always, to the people who'd tortured him, had snapped even Yassen's inhuman self-control.
Alex had barely fought back, knowing he had no defence against Yassen's superior strength and training, even less against his rage. At the end, he'd just cowered and hoped against hope he'd somehow survive. The memory made his groin tighten uncomfortably against the confines of his jeans.
He'd been bleeding, bruised and too weak to rise to his knees when Yassen's anger had finally burned itself out. But it was the look on his face that had scared Alex most – something in the assassin had broken that night and Yassen knew it. The look tore away the scab over a wound Alex had spent months convincing himself had long healed. It hadn't. Instead, it had festered, suppressed and ignored. Now, the story of Ash, his own godfather, delivering him into Scorpia's hands tumbled out of him through a tightening knot in his chest. Alex Rider rarely cried; not out of pride, but because it did no good. The worst would happen, whether you cried or not. When he'd felt Yassen's arms around him, careful of the bruises, the tears had come at last and had washed away the worst bitterness of betrayal.
That night, they'd slept curled up around each other like children on the hotel bed's lumpy mattress. When Alex had woken, he was alone.
They hadn't become lovers until two years later, running into each other in Rio. Ever since, they'd been snatching a shared night two or three times a year when 'work' brought them to the same corner of the world. Those are the only times, except when he finds himself in mortal danger, that Alex feels truly alive. If MI6 ever finds out about it, Alex knows, Alan Blunt will have him locked up and throw away the key.
"I want to hunt down and destroy whoever did this." Yassen growls against Alex's chest, and traces the ridge of the scar with his tongue.
Alex's back and arms break out in gooseflesh. "You do?"
"He took possession of you," Yassen says. "There is no connection more intimate than taking another's life. He took you. And you are mine."
Alex swallows, knowing Yassen can feel his pulse rushing under his lips. He has always known that one day, Yassen might end their mad trysts and come after him. There are no debts between them any more. However, he also knows that – unlike Ash – Yassen will tell him when the moment comes, and make sure he'll have a fighting chance.
Yassen's mouth moves up, laying a stinging bite against Alex's exposed throat, and Alex smiles. Not today.
"Yours tonight," he promises, a rough rasp when Yassen's hand closes around his erection through the cloth. He squeezes once, hard, and lights spark in front of Alex's eyes. "My own again tomorrow." Perhaps there's a touch of regret in Alex's voice. He isn't sure.
He looks up, catches the piercing eyes and holds them until something shifts in the unfathomable gaze. Yassen moves off him, stretching out alongside Alex like a big, lazy cat. Leans over him and places a last light kiss on the scar before reaching down to thumb open the button of Alex's jeans.
Exhaling, Alex lifts his hips to assist him. Let's his eyes drift shut, waiting for the hands to descend on his bare skin.
He smiles, again.
~ finis ~
Author:
kennahijjaFandom: Alex Rider
Pairing: Yassen/Alex
Rating: R
Summary: Yassen Gregorovich is straddling his hips, staring down at him unsmiling, the frost-blue eyes hard enough to make Alex's heart thud...
Note: Written for
flash_rider, prompt: "scars". Thanks to annephoenix for the 'how to keep it short' tip :).Alex twists his wrists behind his head, not trying to get free so much as hoping to distract himself. He can't move. And Yassen Gregorovich is straddling his hips, staring down at him unsmiling, the frost-blue eyes hard enough to make Alex's heart thud in irregular beats in his throat.
Alex is still wearing his jeans, which is a blessing; but the assassin has divested him of his shirt, and used his own belt to bind his hands to the headboard. Alex tries to keep his breaths even, but sweat is beading at his temples when Yassen's fingers trace lightly over the bullet scar on his chest, right above his heart. It's healed a long time ago, but seems to pulse raw under Yassen's touch as if Alex's skin was a mere film over blood and bone.
He presses his head back into the pillow, exposing his throat. Yassen leans forward with the smooth grace of a gymnast and replaces his fingers with his mouth. Alex arches up, offering himself. His hands twist, palms open in supplication. The sensation is doubly intense knowing that Yassen bears an almost identical scar where Damian Cray shot him. He can't reach out and touch it, but the knowledge made Yassen's caress twice as sweet.
Part of Alex still marvels, through the drugged heat of arousal crawling through his body, that he can draw pleasure from placing himself in a situation which mirrors his worst fears – captured, bound, helpless, at the mercy of those who revel in his pain and death. That he can have such blind trust in a killer.
Yassen's mouth moves slowly, maddeningly, over the scar, ignoring Alex's rumble of protest. Shuddering under the provocative touch, Alex knows there's nothing for it. Yassen won't give up a shred of control, not over himself, not over Alex's body. Not after that first time.
When Alex had traced Yassen three years ago in a shabby hotel room on Tottenham Court Road right after Yassen's escape from MI6, Yassen had beaten Alex almost to death.
Hurt and angry himself, Alex had confronted the assassin with the truth about John Rider's loyalties. In retrospect, he realised that the only thing that carried Yassen through two years at the tender mercies of the British Intelligence Services must have been the thought of resisting the people who had murdered John Rider. Whom Yassen had loved. And that he'd sacrificed himself to protect Alex, because he was John's son.
Finding out that John Rider had betrayed Yassen, had been sent by MI6 to infiltrate Scorpia and been loyal, always, to the people who'd tortured him, had snapped even Yassen's inhuman self-control.
Alex had barely fought back, knowing he had no defence against Yassen's superior strength and training, even less against his rage. At the end, he'd just cowered and hoped against hope he'd somehow survive. The memory made his groin tighten uncomfortably against the confines of his jeans.
He'd been bleeding, bruised and too weak to rise to his knees when Yassen's anger had finally burned itself out. But it was the look on his face that had scared Alex most – something in the assassin had broken that night and Yassen knew it. The look tore away the scab over a wound Alex had spent months convincing himself had long healed. It hadn't. Instead, it had festered, suppressed and ignored. Now, the story of Ash, his own godfather, delivering him into Scorpia's hands tumbled out of him through a tightening knot in his chest. Alex Rider rarely cried; not out of pride, but because it did no good. The worst would happen, whether you cried or not. When he'd felt Yassen's arms around him, careful of the bruises, the tears had come at last and had washed away the worst bitterness of betrayal.
That night, they'd slept curled up around each other like children on the hotel bed's lumpy mattress. When Alex had woken, he was alone.
They hadn't become lovers until two years later, running into each other in Rio. Ever since, they'd been snatching a shared night two or three times a year when 'work' brought them to the same corner of the world. Those are the only times, except when he finds himself in mortal danger, that Alex feels truly alive. If MI6 ever finds out about it, Alex knows, Alan Blunt will have him locked up and throw away the key.
"I want to hunt down and destroy whoever did this." Yassen growls against Alex's chest, and traces the ridge of the scar with his tongue.
Alex's back and arms break out in gooseflesh. "You do?"
"He took possession of you," Yassen says. "There is no connection more intimate than taking another's life. He took you. And you are mine."
Alex swallows, knowing Yassen can feel his pulse rushing under his lips. He has always known that one day, Yassen might end their mad trysts and come after him. There are no debts between them any more. However, he also knows that – unlike Ash – Yassen will tell him when the moment comes, and make sure he'll have a fighting chance.
Yassen's mouth moves up, laying a stinging bite against Alex's exposed throat, and Alex smiles. Not today.
"Yours tonight," he promises, a rough rasp when Yassen's hand closes around his erection through the cloth. He squeezes once, hard, and lights spark in front of Alex's eyes. "My own again tomorrow." Perhaps there's a touch of regret in Alex's voice. He isn't sure.
He looks up, catches the piercing eyes and holds them until something shifts in the unfathomable gaze. Yassen moves off him, stretching out alongside Alex like a big, lazy cat. Leans over him and places a last light kiss on the scar before reaching down to thumb open the button of Alex's jeans.
Exhaling, Alex lifts his hips to assist him. Let's his eyes drift shut, waiting for the hands to descend on his bare skin.
He smiles, again.