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The Number of Vices, chapter 7
Title: The Number of Vices
Fandom: The Queen’s Gambit
Rating: Explicit
Chapters: 7/?
Word Count: 2052
Characters: Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov, Luchenko, Mr. Booth, Mrs. Borgova, Kate Cameron
Pairings Beth Harmon/Vasily Borgov
Warnings: Angst, Rough sex, Uneven power dynamics, M/f, BDSM, Choking, Oral sex, Older man/Younger woman, Delayed orgasm, Spanking, King negotiation, Cold war
Summary: Staying in Moscow after the Invitational, Beth is delighted to find Vasily Borgov is to show her the city. She has plans. So have Borgov.
The fic on AO3
Soon after lunch, Beth begged off the sightseeing with the excuse of having a headache. It was not a complete lie; there was a heavy feeling in the back of her head, and she hoped she would feel better lying on her bed in a darkened room. It didn’t work. She lay there and stared up at the ceiling, and in her head, the same thoughts went round and round.
Booth’s comment about consequences wasn’t the first time she had been told about it; Borgov had talked about it on their first evening together. She had paid little attention then, but after today she wondered if she would not experience several very shortly.
First, there was her promise to Mr. Booth when they got home again. She had said in the heat of the moment when she had just wanted him to back off, to let her continue to enjoy Borgov’s company in peace. But they were going back in four days, and she had nothing to say to him. She did not know what those fabled signs actually were. The image of Borgov marching up to her in front of his handlers, saying “I want to defect, take me to your leaders,” briefly entertained Beth, but then she grew serious again. It wouldn’t happen like that, of course. It would have to be something subtle, something like, well, like what they had talked about on their first cold walk. He had sounded so serious when he told her he was supposed to turn her but wasn’t going to, and she had, more or less as a joke, asked him if he wanted the question of defecting from her.
Beth sat up in bed. It had just been a flippant remark, but he had, still so serious, said he didn’t want her to ask him now. And she had, rather offhandedly, thought it made sense as you could hardly defect while actually being in the Soviet Union, but she had still not taken it seriously. But Borgov couldn’t joke about such things, could he? As a proper Soviet, he should have told her he was happy and content in his place. He had crossed the line just by asking her to postpone her question to a more appropriate setting, and in doing so he had already told her he wanted to defect.
Beth felt hot and then cold as her own naivety was laid bare in front of her. She had almost missed Borgov’s sign, and she even if she had felt pretty sure at least Borgov’s room was bugged, she hadn’t fully taken in what that really meant. In the past few days, she could only be sure they hadn’t been overheard were outside, for just a few minutes today and two days ago where their handlers had been too far away to hear them. And on both those occasions, Borgov had tried to warn her.
She pushed her fingers through her hair and lit a cigarette. Her stomach had turned into a tight knot, and the craving for a drink she had felt all day grew stronger. Consequences; they weren’t just for her, were they? Borgov was supposed to make her stay; what would happen to him when she went back to the USA? Would he be punished?
Beth lit another cigarette, only to find her first one was still burning on the ashtray, and for a moment she held two burning cigarettes in her hands, unsure of what to do with them. Then she put one of them out, forcing herself to smile at her distraction. Her agitation was surely unwarranted. Borgov was still the World Champion, the best and most famous chess player they had. Someone wouldn’t be pleased, but Borgov had been told to be agreeable to her, and it must be very obvious she was very pleased with how things had turned out. No one could say he hadn’t fulfilled his part, especially if she, as he had suggested, talked like she was planning to return soon.
Beth went to open a window to let some of the smoke out of her room, and she stayed there, leaning out to breathe cold winter air. Now, when she had thought of consequences for Borgov, she couldn’t stop. Because she wouldn’t come back to stay in Soviet, and if, no, when, she bested Borgov and became World Champion, what then? True, Borgov had once won the title from Luchenko, and the old man didn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects. The notion was ridiculous, really; if bad things happened to former World Champions in Soviet, no one would want to become one. But Luchenko had lost to a compatriot, not an American. Perhaps that would make a difference. And Beth had an uneasy feeling the KGB had their eyes on Borgov in a way they had never needed for Luchenko.
Some men would welcome having their decisions handled by someone else. Harry, for example. Beth had no problems imagining Harry feeling relieved to hand over responsibility to someone else. And Luchenko, with his cheery disposition, could brush off the restrictions and rules; laughing at them and refusing to give them importance; living by them, but not letting them affect unduly on his enjoyment in life.
But Beth thought it must be very different for Borgov. He was forty years old and at the height of his career, with a temperament not naturally suited to blind obedience. And he still had to do what he was told. Someone, probably Mr. Ivanov, had told him to stay in Moscow to keep her company, and even if he had loathed the idea, he had to accept. It didn’t really matter, did it, that he had wanted to get to know her; that the decision was forced upon him must chafe, regardless. Borgov, with his air of quiet authority, must feel all those orders as an affront to his dignity. They must chafe; no, she knew they chafed; he had said as much. She knew how he sought relief now, and no doubt his handlers knew too; Borgov wouldn’t have spoken about it, otherwise in a place someone might be listening. He was their golden calf, and they must give him some leeway because they needed him to function properly. But what would happen if he stopped being useful?
The cold bit Beth’s face and fingers, and she closed the window and paced instead. She wanted that drink so badly now. She needed it. And really, she was in Soviet, and she had yet to taste vodka. She had heard they served it ice cold, and it must be an experience to shoot down something cold, and then get that rush of heat strong liquor always produced. Who would it hurt if she got a taste? It was practically a requirement as a tourist to try vodka at least once. And it would take care of the tight knot of worry inside her, it would soothe her. It would be so easy to slip down to the bar, it would only take a minute or two.
But there was something else she could do, something which would help as much as a drink. Borgov, with his warm eyes and hard hands, could make her feel better. Only then she first had to confess to him how much she craved a drink, and she didn’t want to do that. She had needed so little, her brief confrontation with Mr. Booth, and here she was, wanting to drink again. Beth felt she was a failure for being so weak, and she felt she couldn’t bear seeing the disappointment in Borgov’s eyes when he realized how quickly she succumbed. The anger she could handle; his anger in Partis had been hard, but what had been unbearable had been that look of disappointment. She never wanted to see that in Borgov’s eyes again.
And she could use the fuzziness alcohol provided, something which could erect a barrier between her mind and the fact that she suddenly cared so much of what Borgov thought about her. No, that wasn’t it. What Borgov thought of her had mattered since that day in Mexico City, when she had overheard him in the elevator. He hadn’t known she was there, and even if he had, he didn’t know she could understand him, and he still had defended her. In just a few words, he had given her the same right as he had to be driven and ambitious. The right to be his equal. Worthy of his respect. His opinion of her had been important ever since.
No, what had changed in the past few days was what she thought of him. True, Borgov had occupied so many of her thoughts since the first day she had read about him in a chess magazine, but it had always been at a distance. In Mexico and Paris, he had frightened her, and she had arrived in Moscow afraid. Scared of sitting in front of him yet again, scared of losing again, scared he would intimidate her into a quivering jelly with one of his icy stares. But the fear had melted away, leaving room to see what was behind his impassive face. And oh, what she saw made her heart melt. There was what she had already known; his brilliance and intelligence, but Borgov, the machine, was gone and would never return. There had never been a man who could put her on fire as he did, but there was so much more. He had allowed her to see his kindness, his sense of humor, and his compassion. What had started as a lighthearted wish for a little fun with an attractive man was rapidly turning into an infatuation she had not asked for, and which had no place in her life. Beth knew she shouldn’t, but at some point in the past three days she had fallen in love, and it was far too late to stop.
She continued to pace the room. The realization was unwelcome and felt impossible to handle. To tell Borgov was out of the question. Even if he liked her, and might even care for her a bit, he had not asked for a girlish crush. What use was her blushing yearning to him when what he needed was for someone to trust? To feel too much, to risk letting them impede reason; that would open the door for stupid mistakes. If Borgov wanted her to help him get away, then she couldn’t make any mistakes; it could cost him too much. She mustn’t let her feelings dictate her actions.
And it wasn’t just him, was it? His little boy, surely Borgov wasn’t prepared to leave him, and his mother behind? Beth couldn’t believe he was so cold-hearted he would abandon his family to face the ramifications of him deflecting. If he was, well, then she wouldn’t need to worry about her infatuation anymore, because that would surely kill it. Some way or the other she had to find out what he was planning, and she couldn’t be sure they would have the opportunity to talk freely with each other again, so she had to find out a way to ask without asking.
She really needed that drink now., possibly more than one. Vodka wasn’t supposed to smell. If she drank some, just to take the edge off and make her calmer, and then went back to her room to brush her teeth, Borgov would never know. They had so little time left. Surely it would be better for them both if she could make the most of the short time they had together.
Beth got as far as to the elevator; she even pushed the button when she heard Borgov’s voice in her mind, telling her not to lie to him. She tried to brush it off; she wouldn’t lie to him about that drink, she just wouldn’t tell him everything. But she had an uncomfortable feeling Borgov would be more disappointed in her not telling him than he would if she confessed to her need to drink. Before she could think too much about her decisions, she turned and rapidly strode down the corridor to Borgov’s room, knocking hard on the door.
Fandom: The Queen’s Gambit
Rating: Explicit
Chapters: 7/?
Word Count: 2052
Characters: Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov, Luchenko, Mr. Booth, Mrs. Borgova, Kate Cameron
Pairings Beth Harmon/Vasily Borgov
Warnings: Angst, Rough sex, Uneven power dynamics, M/f, BDSM, Choking, Oral sex, Older man/Younger woman, Delayed orgasm, Spanking, King negotiation, Cold war
Summary: Staying in Moscow after the Invitational, Beth is delighted to find Vasily Borgov is to show her the city. She has plans. So have Borgov.
The fic on AO3
Soon after lunch, Beth begged off the sightseeing with the excuse of having a headache. It was not a complete lie; there was a heavy feeling in the back of her head, and she hoped she would feel better lying on her bed in a darkened room. It didn’t work. She lay there and stared up at the ceiling, and in her head, the same thoughts went round and round.
Booth’s comment about consequences wasn’t the first time she had been told about it; Borgov had talked about it on their first evening together. She had paid little attention then, but after today she wondered if she would not experience several very shortly.
First, there was her promise to Mr. Booth when they got home again. She had said in the heat of the moment when she had just wanted him to back off, to let her continue to enjoy Borgov’s company in peace. But they were going back in four days, and she had nothing to say to him. She did not know what those fabled signs actually were. The image of Borgov marching up to her in front of his handlers, saying “I want to defect, take me to your leaders,” briefly entertained Beth, but then she grew serious again. It wouldn’t happen like that, of course. It would have to be something subtle, something like, well, like what they had talked about on their first cold walk. He had sounded so serious when he told her he was supposed to turn her but wasn’t going to, and she had, more or less as a joke, asked him if he wanted the question of defecting from her.
Beth sat up in bed. It had just been a flippant remark, but he had, still so serious, said he didn’t want her to ask him now. And she had, rather offhandedly, thought it made sense as you could hardly defect while actually being in the Soviet Union, but she had still not taken it seriously. But Borgov couldn’t joke about such things, could he? As a proper Soviet, he should have told her he was happy and content in his place. He had crossed the line just by asking her to postpone her question to a more appropriate setting, and in doing so he had already told her he wanted to defect.
Beth felt hot and then cold as her own naivety was laid bare in front of her. She had almost missed Borgov’s sign, and she even if she had felt pretty sure at least Borgov’s room was bugged, she hadn’t fully taken in what that really meant. In the past few days, she could only be sure they hadn’t been overheard were outside, for just a few minutes today and two days ago where their handlers had been too far away to hear them. And on both those occasions, Borgov had tried to warn her.
She pushed her fingers through her hair and lit a cigarette. Her stomach had turned into a tight knot, and the craving for a drink she had felt all day grew stronger. Consequences; they weren’t just for her, were they? Borgov was supposed to make her stay; what would happen to him when she went back to the USA? Would he be punished?
Beth lit another cigarette, only to find her first one was still burning on the ashtray, and for a moment she held two burning cigarettes in her hands, unsure of what to do with them. Then she put one of them out, forcing herself to smile at her distraction. Her agitation was surely unwarranted. Borgov was still the World Champion, the best and most famous chess player they had. Someone wouldn’t be pleased, but Borgov had been told to be agreeable to her, and it must be very obvious she was very pleased with how things had turned out. No one could say he hadn’t fulfilled his part, especially if she, as he had suggested, talked like she was planning to return soon.
Beth went to open a window to let some of the smoke out of her room, and she stayed there, leaning out to breathe cold winter air. Now, when she had thought of consequences for Borgov, she couldn’t stop. Because she wouldn’t come back to stay in Soviet, and if, no, when, she bested Borgov and became World Champion, what then? True, Borgov had once won the title from Luchenko, and the old man didn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects. The notion was ridiculous, really; if bad things happened to former World Champions in Soviet, no one would want to become one. But Luchenko had lost to a compatriot, not an American. Perhaps that would make a difference. And Beth had an uneasy feeling the KGB had their eyes on Borgov in a way they had never needed for Luchenko.
Some men would welcome having their decisions handled by someone else. Harry, for example. Beth had no problems imagining Harry feeling relieved to hand over responsibility to someone else. And Luchenko, with his cheery disposition, could brush off the restrictions and rules; laughing at them and refusing to give them importance; living by them, but not letting them affect unduly on his enjoyment in life.
But Beth thought it must be very different for Borgov. He was forty years old and at the height of his career, with a temperament not naturally suited to blind obedience. And he still had to do what he was told. Someone, probably Mr. Ivanov, had told him to stay in Moscow to keep her company, and even if he had loathed the idea, he had to accept. It didn’t really matter, did it, that he had wanted to get to know her; that the decision was forced upon him must chafe, regardless. Borgov, with his air of quiet authority, must feel all those orders as an affront to his dignity. They must chafe; no, she knew they chafed; he had said as much. She knew how he sought relief now, and no doubt his handlers knew too; Borgov wouldn’t have spoken about it, otherwise in a place someone might be listening. He was their golden calf, and they must give him some leeway because they needed him to function properly. But what would happen if he stopped being useful?
The cold bit Beth’s face and fingers, and she closed the window and paced instead. She wanted that drink so badly now. She needed it. And really, she was in Soviet, and she had yet to taste vodka. She had heard they served it ice cold, and it must be an experience to shoot down something cold, and then get that rush of heat strong liquor always produced. Who would it hurt if she got a taste? It was practically a requirement as a tourist to try vodka at least once. And it would take care of the tight knot of worry inside her, it would soothe her. It would be so easy to slip down to the bar, it would only take a minute or two.
But there was something else she could do, something which would help as much as a drink. Borgov, with his warm eyes and hard hands, could make her feel better. Only then she first had to confess to him how much she craved a drink, and she didn’t want to do that. She had needed so little, her brief confrontation with Mr. Booth, and here she was, wanting to drink again. Beth felt she was a failure for being so weak, and she felt she couldn’t bear seeing the disappointment in Borgov’s eyes when he realized how quickly she succumbed. The anger she could handle; his anger in Partis had been hard, but what had been unbearable had been that look of disappointment. She never wanted to see that in Borgov’s eyes again.
And she could use the fuzziness alcohol provided, something which could erect a barrier between her mind and the fact that she suddenly cared so much of what Borgov thought about her. No, that wasn’t it. What Borgov thought of her had mattered since that day in Mexico City, when she had overheard him in the elevator. He hadn’t known she was there, and even if he had, he didn’t know she could understand him, and he still had defended her. In just a few words, he had given her the same right as he had to be driven and ambitious. The right to be his equal. Worthy of his respect. His opinion of her had been important ever since.
No, what had changed in the past few days was what she thought of him. True, Borgov had occupied so many of her thoughts since the first day she had read about him in a chess magazine, but it had always been at a distance. In Mexico and Paris, he had frightened her, and she had arrived in Moscow afraid. Scared of sitting in front of him yet again, scared of losing again, scared he would intimidate her into a quivering jelly with one of his icy stares. But the fear had melted away, leaving room to see what was behind his impassive face. And oh, what she saw made her heart melt. There was what she had already known; his brilliance and intelligence, but Borgov, the machine, was gone and would never return. There had never been a man who could put her on fire as he did, but there was so much more. He had allowed her to see his kindness, his sense of humor, and his compassion. What had started as a lighthearted wish for a little fun with an attractive man was rapidly turning into an infatuation she had not asked for, and which had no place in her life. Beth knew she shouldn’t, but at some point in the past three days she had fallen in love, and it was far too late to stop.
She continued to pace the room. The realization was unwelcome and felt impossible to handle. To tell Borgov was out of the question. Even if he liked her, and might even care for her a bit, he had not asked for a girlish crush. What use was her blushing yearning to him when what he needed was for someone to trust? To feel too much, to risk letting them impede reason; that would open the door for stupid mistakes. If Borgov wanted her to help him get away, then she couldn’t make any mistakes; it could cost him too much. She mustn’t let her feelings dictate her actions.
And it wasn’t just him, was it? His little boy, surely Borgov wasn’t prepared to leave him, and his mother behind? Beth couldn’t believe he was so cold-hearted he would abandon his family to face the ramifications of him deflecting. If he was, well, then she wouldn’t need to worry about her infatuation anymore, because that would surely kill it. Some way or the other she had to find out what he was planning, and she couldn’t be sure they would have the opportunity to talk freely with each other again, so she had to find out a way to ask without asking.
She really needed that drink now., possibly more than one. Vodka wasn’t supposed to smell. If she drank some, just to take the edge off and make her calmer, and then went back to her room to brush her teeth, Borgov would never know. They had so little time left. Surely it would be better for them both if she could make the most of the short time they had together.
Beth got as far as to the elevator; she even pushed the button when she heard Borgov’s voice in her mind, telling her not to lie to him. She tried to brush it off; she wouldn’t lie to him about that drink, she just wouldn’t tell him everything. But she had an uncomfortable feeling Borgov would be more disappointed in her not telling him than he would if she confessed to her need to drink. Before she could think too much about her decisions, she turned and rapidly strode down the corridor to Borgov’s room, knocking hard on the door.