Trishaboom's request: Kirill/Rain
Aug. 18th, 2008 01:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jaye_voyOops! This is definitely not 100 words. And it's a very different Kirill, I think. Ah well...
Request from: Trishabooms
Prompts: Kirill/Rain
Disclaimer: Bourne Supremacy characters belong to Robert Ludlum et al.
Feedback: Always welcome, positive or negative.
Archiving: Not without permission.
***
Kirill had accepted the tiny balcony of his hotel room as a necessary risk. He had not considered that it would become a temptation, one that he would succumb to so easily.
But India was far from frigid winds and the flat-eyed stares of gray men. Here, even the rain was warm, welcoming him as he stepped into the night's embrace, stripped bare and arms turned out, hands curled, beckoning. He felt each drop as a kiss and then a caress, landing upon his skin and then sliding softly, slowly down to join its brethren in their descent to terra cotta tiles still radiating the day's heat.
He wondered if the American stood like this, somewhere in this lazy sprawl of a city. In a scratched-mud yard or on the steps of some shack, or perhaps on a balcony of his own. Bourne would be planes and shadows in the night, spangles caught by the spread of lashes, gathered drops settling in the hollows of collarbone and navel, channeled down the center of chest and length of spine, along the shallow slant at the top of each strong thigh.
Kirill knew that Bourne would be, would never allow himself *not* to be, sleek muscle over solid bone, warrior body formed and honed by a life that punished imperfection. And again, Kirill was tempted...to seek Bourne in the night, to run wet hands over wet skin and feel the drops yield to the slide of his palms as he learned, felt, touched...
His snort banished the fantasy with the drops clinging to the stubble on his upper lip. Such foolish thoughts belonged to the gangly youth who knelt on faded blue cushions, palms pressed to the panes to feel the lash of the rain against the windows as the wind flung close-hanging branches against the house. Snug and warm and filled with the dry scents of dust and charcoal and scattered papers, the subtle spices of chai rising with the steam from the glass waiting in its nest of gold filigree.
That boy had not been named Kirill. Had not yet learned the ways of the wolf...that prey was only meat, that mate and pack and purpose were dreams to be drowned in blood. The hunt for Bourne would wait until morning, until the sun had cracked the land anew and proved again that none could evade its baleful glare.
Yes, the hunt could wait. Kirill brought his hands up, slid palms over close-shorn hair. Laced his fingers at the base of his skull, stretched his head back and turned his face up to the rain.
Request from: Trishabooms
Prompts: Kirill/Rain
Disclaimer: Bourne Supremacy characters belong to Robert Ludlum et al.
Feedback: Always welcome, positive or negative.
Archiving: Not without permission.
***
Kirill had accepted the tiny balcony of his hotel room as a necessary risk. He had not considered that it would become a temptation, one that he would succumb to so easily.
But India was far from frigid winds and the flat-eyed stares of gray men. Here, even the rain was warm, welcoming him as he stepped into the night's embrace, stripped bare and arms turned out, hands curled, beckoning. He felt each drop as a kiss and then a caress, landing upon his skin and then sliding softly, slowly down to join its brethren in their descent to terra cotta tiles still radiating the day's heat.
He wondered if the American stood like this, somewhere in this lazy sprawl of a city. In a scratched-mud yard or on the steps of some shack, or perhaps on a balcony of his own. Bourne would be planes and shadows in the night, spangles caught by the spread of lashes, gathered drops settling in the hollows of collarbone and navel, channeled down the center of chest and length of spine, along the shallow slant at the top of each strong thigh.
Kirill knew that Bourne would be, would never allow himself *not* to be, sleek muscle over solid bone, warrior body formed and honed by a life that punished imperfection. And again, Kirill was tempted...to seek Bourne in the night, to run wet hands over wet skin and feel the drops yield to the slide of his palms as he learned, felt, touched...
His snort banished the fantasy with the drops clinging to the stubble on his upper lip. Such foolish thoughts belonged to the gangly youth who knelt on faded blue cushions, palms pressed to the panes to feel the lash of the rain against the windows as the wind flung close-hanging branches against the house. Snug and warm and filled with the dry scents of dust and charcoal and scattered papers, the subtle spices of chai rising with the steam from the glass waiting in its nest of gold filigree.
That boy had not been named Kirill. Had not yet learned the ways of the wolf...that prey was only meat, that mate and pack and purpose were dreams to be drowned in blood. The hunt for Bourne would wait until morning, until the sun had cracked the land anew and proved again that none could evade its baleful glare.
Yes, the hunt could wait. Kirill brought his hands up, slid palms over close-shorn hair. Laced his fingers at the base of his skull, stretched his head back and turned his face up to the rain.
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-18 09:37 pm (UTC)