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Every Killer Knows His Own

Title: Every Killer Knows His Own
Fandom: Bourne Supremacy
Pairings: Jason Bourne/Kirill
Rating/Warnings: NSFW; minor violence, assassination, mention of injuries and somewhat rough sex
Word Count: 6454
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: One way that Bourne and Kirill might have met.  Something of a prequel to The Dreams in Which I'm Fighting... though it's not officially any kind of series.


Someone else is after Jason's target.

The American agent has felt the other's presence since the planning stages, his rival never seen except as a shadow moving in the corner of his eye. But even ghosts leave ripples and someone else has been asking the same questions; someone else has been a little too interested in Clapton's movements and Jason is determined to strike first.

No foreign assassin is going to sweep in here and steal his kill out from under him, not when he has a reputation to uphold. His government needs this young man to die before he can spill the secrets buried in his booze-soaked skull so that's exactly what he’s going to do. Clapton is going to die of an overdose at one of his fancy Parisian parties and no one will ever remember the waiter who was more than he seemed, just as no one will ever discover the truths his target had to tell.

At least, that was the plan, but when Jason finally catches sight of his competition, he realizes that holding up his end of it may be harder than he'd thought.

Even if the agent didn't have the guest list memorized, he would know that this man was far too dangerous to belong. The other assassin moves like a panther, sleek and deadly amongst the pampered rich aristocrats, fools who are blinded by the tailored suit he wears.

The man has yet to notice him and for one split-second Jason thinks that he might salvage the situation, blend into the crowd and strike his target before the other knows he’s there. But as the American turns to do just that, dark eyes stop him in his tracks. His rival’s gaze pierces through him, cataloging every detail with a feral intensity that makes Jason shiver where he stands. A true killer can always recognize a kindred spirit and he knows his cover’s blown when he meets the other’s stare.

Well, that’s that then. But I guess I might as well know what I'm dealing with, the agent thinks, not bothering to be subtle as he searches for weaknesses in his rival’s stance. Looks Eastern European to me. Russian maybe? Though I don't know why they’d care about what Clapton has to say. Still, he's obviously well-trained if not very good at being unobtrusive. Probably military or KGB if he’s really Russian, those guys are always too proud to pass amongst the help.

Either theory would explain his rival's impeccable posture and the way that his suit doesn't quite fit in with the style of the crowd. Unfortunately, while the other man may eschew Jason's sort of blending, he obviously has his own methods and bad assassins rarely last long enough to gain that practiced air.

I suppose “mysterious sexy stranger” is a disguise of sorts, the American muses, noting the star-struck glances that follow his rival around the room. The party guests are obviously tantalized by the hint of danger he gives off, never realizing that they've invited a wolf into their pen. And they're certainly not going to remember his face in the morning if their eyes never leave his ass.

To be fair, it's a great ass and Jason is a teensy bit jealous of the other man right now. Although women certainly find him attractive, his appeal is more the wholesome boy-next-door variety and expensive suits never look quite right on him.

Not like tall dark and handsome over there with his ridiculously sharp cheekbones and elegant hands. But as much as the assassin might have liked to peel his competition out of his clothes under other circumstances, drooling is not going to help him come up with a plan. If he lets himself get distracted then he's no better than these pampered posers who can't see past a pretty face to the blood-soaked killer underneath.

Useless idiots, the lot of them, and Jason privately thinks that he would be doing the world a favor if he poisoned everyone. But he has his orders; this job is supposed to be quick, quiet and untraceable just like he does best.

Unfortunately, while the voice in his head that sounds like Conklin tells him to kill the other assassin and get on with his mission, even this lot would probably notice if he stabbed someone in the middle of the floor. Drugging his rival would be the safest course but there's no way that the agent could get close enough now that the man's suspicions are aroused.

This means that Jason’s only real choices are to go after his target as planned and hope the other assassin doesn’t interfere or abandon his mission until he gets a better chance. But the former would just be foolhardy given the rather strained relations between the USA and Eastern Europe over these last few years, and the latter option does not bear thinking about.

While regrouping would be the more professional choice, this is Jason's mark and he'll be damned before some Russian pretty boy takes his kill from him. So the agent is going to have to do something unexpected if he wants to salvage this mission, something to throw the other off his guard.

Well, if subtle isn't going to work, I might as well be bold instead, he thinks, plastering a polite smile on his face and strolling toward his competition casually. His handlers would never approve of this course of action but the American has learned to trust his instincts even when they're not professional. He's going to be reckless and crazy instead, counting on the other man's curiosity to lure him from the public eye.

“Would you care for a glass of wine, sir?” Jason asks, fighting the urge to laugh as he holds out his tray. His fellow assassin is obviously wary of attack, eyes narrowing with every step he'd taken, though he had relaxed slightly when the blond stopped just out of striking range.

This would be much easier if secret government agents had some kind of universal code that they could speak in, but bullets aren't exactly good at nuances.

So the American chooses his words carefully, his nerves singing with the same exhilaration that he feels in any fight. “I can assure you that it's a fine vintage, not one to irritate any palate no matter how expert it may be. However, if you would prefer something more interesting, I would be happy to assist you. I think that we may have similar tastes.”

His rival has quite a poker face, but Jason thinks he sees a hint of curiosity in those dark eyes and at least the other agent hasn't tried to kill him yet. Though he's probably just waiting for a better time to strike.

“And if I choose to keep the drink I have?” the man asks after a long moment of consideration and Jason is pleased to hear his hypothesis of origin confirmed in the slight accent that he hears. While the words themselves are hardly encouraging, this wouldn't be an interesting challenge if it were easy and the American increases the wattage on his smile as he replies.

“Then we may have a conflict on our hands. Perhaps we should discuss the matter in private so we do not disturb the other guests.” Jason's Russian isn't as fluent as he would like but it seems to get his point across by the way his rival frowns.

“Perhaps we should,” the other man says softly, placing his glass on Jason's tray with a slow nod. “Lead on then if you're so eager to talk.”

Still suspicious then, too wary to show his foe his back, but really the agent had expected that. So he places his tray on a side table before walking out of the hall, leading his fellow assassin toward the library. While fighting there may be something of a cliché, Jason chose the room for its distance from the party and the unlikelihood that any of this lot even knows what books are for.

Besides, all that musty paper helps to deaden the sound of fighting, an effect that will probably come in handy soon. Indeed, by the time they reach the door, the American's nerves are wound tight from the sensation of eyes upon his skin and the moment it begins to swing shut behind them, the Russian attacks.

If Jason hadn't been expecting it, the blow would have ended him right there since his opponent is just as good as he had thought. But being reckless doesn’t make the American an idiot; he had kept one eye on the other man's movements and he dodges the knife strike easily.

Well, perhaps not easily, the agent admits privately as the weapon flashes out again. However, he did dodge it cleanly and his rival has yet to hit him when Jason pulls out his own blade.

No guns for this job, too hard to explain away amongst this crowd, but a waiter could have a knife for many reasons, even one suited for this sort of butchering. So with weapons drawn, the two assassins begin to fight in earnest, the only sounds their panting breaths and the scrape of steel on steel.

Jason quickly discovers that whoever trained this man knew what they were doing, the American actually struggling to hold his own for once. In truth, if this goes on much longer, he thinks that he may lose because the Russian moves like he was born with a knife in his hand. However, while he is skilled, the assassin's style is strictly traditional, military for sure, and Jason has never been one to fight by the rules.

So the agent does what he does best and improvises, swiping a book off the shelves to block the other man’s next attack. His blade lodges in the thick leather cover with a dull thunk, the Russian leaping back as Jason tears his weapon from his hands.

His opponent is only unarmed for a second, quickly pulling out another knife from somewhere in his jacket, but that second is all that Jason needs.

The American lunges forward quickly, his blade seeking out the other's throat like lightning, and yet it's not quite quick enough. Because he's about to finish off his rival when he feels the Russian's knife dig into his side just as lethally.

They freeze there, neither assassin willing to back down from their position, and later on, Jason is never quite sure why he did not risk a strike. He probably could have ended his opponent's life before his own injuries killed him and it's not as though he fears dying at some stranger's hands. But while the offer of aid had been a ruse when he made it, the American realizes in this moment that he wants it to be true instead.

He's never met someone who came so close to matching him and he wants to ride this feeling of exhilaration as far as it can go. So even though his handler would have a heart attack if she knew what he was doing, Jason bares his teeth in a feral grin.

“Well, that was fun, but are you ready to listen to me now?”

“And why should I trust anything you say?” the Russian replies grudgingly, obviously displeased by his failure to take his competition out.

“Hey, you attacked me first. I was just defending myself and if I wanted to kill you, you would be dead right now.” While it's not quite the truth, it's close enough for men like them and Jason digs his knife in a little deeper to prove his point before smiling again. “But I think you're interesting and if you're also after Clapton, we might as well work together to get this damn job done.”

“You think I'm interesting,” the other man says flatly and the American wishes he could get that much 'you must be crazy' into his tone. However, even as he begins to plan for a rejection, the Russian surprises him.

“What do you suggest?” he asks and when Jason's eyes widen involuntarily, the assassin simply shrugs. “I am no use to my employer dead so I will work with you for now. But if you try to betray me, I will kill you at any cost.”

“Agreed.” On Jason's nod, the two men step back and sheathe their weapons simultaneously, though neither drops their guard. However, he doesn't need trust as long as he has cooperation and some things must be universal across black ops agencies because their plan comes together almost without a hitch.

The Russian, “Call me Kirill,” is indeed after Clapton, though Jason has a moment of doubt when he learns that the other man needs to interrogate him first. Silencing his target is the whole point of this mission and Conklin would be furious if he allowed Kirill to discover anything incriminating on his watch. However, the Russian notices his hesitation and swears that his employer wants their target silenced as permanently as Jason's, he simply needs to find out if Clapton has already spilled his secrets to anyone else.

This seems reasonable enough and Nicky would love to have that information so the agent accepts the Russian's reassurances for now. He’s going to be there for every second of the interrogation so he can step in if Kirill was lying and it's not as though this extra step really changes anything.

Honestly, it’s almost too easy for Jason to keep their mark supplied with alcohol in his role as a waiter and he sometimes wonders how these people manage to sleep peacefully at night. But the ridiculous lack of security works in their favor as usual, the Russian swooping in once Clapton is swaying on his feet. Kirill is surprisingly charming when he wants to be and no one even blinks when he steers the young man from the room, just one friend helping another sober up.

The agent waits a few beats to ensure that they aren't followed and then slips out of the room, keeping to the shadows so that their target doesn't notice him. They’re hoping to finish the interrogation without anyone the wiser and being stalked by a waiter would probably be memorable.

However, the pair reaches the bathroom without any problems, Jason planting himself by the door to stand watch once they're inside. He keeps one eye on the hallway and the other on his rival as the Russian takes Clapton apart skillfully. Most of Jason's fellow assets are better at killing than this kind of subtle work so he rather enjoys watching the other man's technique. While Kirill is not a true chameleon, he's plenty good enough to deal with Clapton and his facade of interest soon has the socialite spilling everything.

Although, I can't really blame him for wanting to impress the man, Jason admits to himself, the attraction beneath his skin only growing stronger at this new sign of competence.

He's never been in denial about his preferences; the assassin is drawn to intensity in whatever form it takes. But while Treadstone turns a blind eye to the occasional woman, it's not exactly the most progressive place in the world. Given that Jason was in the army before this, it's been far too long since he indulged certain desires and here is a man who could match him strike for strike.

Sparring with Kirill would be tantamount to foreplay and the agent really wishes that he had some idea of where the assassin fell. Unfortunately his gaydar has always been craptastic and the mission still comes first so his attraction will have to remain in the realm of idle fantasy.

By now the Russian seems to have finished mining Clapton for information and the agent really hopes that their target didn't say anything too incriminating since he had totally zoned out. Still, it's a bit too late to worry about that and Kirill doesn't have the air of a man who discovered unexpected gold. Instead, the assassin just looks at Jason impatiently, obviously ready to get this mission over with.

So the American shakes himself out of his stupor and steps forward, pulling a syringe from beneath his jacket and emptying it smoothly into the back of Clapton’s neck. The young man twitches at the sting of injection but he's still drunk enough that the Russian soothes him easily. From there it's a matter of moments to escort their mark back to the party, nudging him toward the appetizers as they blend back into the crowd.

“How long do we have?” the Russian asks as they watch the man wobble off and his quiet murmur sends shivers across Jason's skin.

“Half an hour. Then he'll have a sudden aneurysm from too much drugs and alcohol. Even if the examiner somehow finds the mark, they should just assume that it's an old scar from when he was doing heroin.” Kirill grunts an acknowledgment and starts to drift away, though the American is sure that he'll stick around to ensure that Clapton falls.

However, while Jason should also be thinking about leaving now that their mission is completed, he finds himself reaching out to grab the Russian's arm instead. Kirill may be straight as an arrow, but it's not like he's ever going to see the other man again and he'll wonder forever if he doesn't take the chance. Besides, the crowd should keep Jason from getting punched too hard if the Russian takes this badly so the agent opens his mouth to offer a different sort of proposition, given hope by the fact that Kirill hasn't shaken him off yet.

Which, of course, is when the men with guns burst through the ballroom door.

You must be fucking kidding me! Jason snarls to himself as the party guests are herded toward the center of the room. He’s going to have a serious talk with his handler once this job is through because groups willing to hold thirty people hostage don't just spring up overnight and the agent should have gotten some warning that this shit might go down.

However, there will be time for finger-pointing after Jason gets out of here and the American exchanges a measured glance with his Russian counterpart. People in their line of work can't afford to be remembered and they certainly don't want the kind of publicity that a hostage situation brings. So while better men might try to be heroes, the two of them just drift quietly toward the back of the crowd.

Along the way, Kirill discards everything that might make him stand out: watch, coat, and cuff-links dropping to the floor until the Russian looks almost unremarkable, just another underpaid member of the help.

Then he meets Jason's gaze and there is no need for words between them as the assassin tilts his head toward the nearest side door. Indeed, the American has never felt so in tune with someone else's train of thought, not even when working with one of his fellow Treadstone men. It's almost as though they share one mind and Jason takes the bottle of wine that Kirill hands him without breaking stride. The napkins here are expensive, lush and extremely flammable, their improvised Molotov cocktail drawing everyone's eyes as it soars across the room.

“Fire!” the Russian shouts into the shocked silence, panic quickly sending the crowd into pandemonium. He and Jason cut through the chaos like scalpels slice through skin: sharp and quick and painful once the shock wears off.

They reach their goal in moments and while the door is guarded, these men are clearly amateurs, waving their guns wildly at the screaming socialites and paying no attention to the shadows who slip by.

Jason does feel a pang of guilt at abandoning the other guests to their fate but he shoves it aside ruthlessly. The police will pull out all the stops for a wealthy group like this and the agent knows it won't be long before they go back to throwing wild parties without a care in the world.

Indeed, the American is sharply reminded why empathy is a weakness in his line of work when he hears a sharp crack behind him and a pained grunt from Kirill. Jason turns to see the Russian grappling with another masked man who had been hidden from their sight by the hideous potted plants that decorate the hall. Kirill's attacker goes down in moments with his throat sliced open and the agent steps over his twitching corpse to reach the Russian's side. The other assassin has one hand pressed against his stomach and the shirt beneath is quickly turning scarlet with his blood.

“Fucking amateurs,” Kirill curses harshly, shoving Jason's hands away to walk forward on his own.

The American honestly isn't sure whether to be impressed by the other's self-control or frustrated by his stubbornness but he's definitely thankful that they meet no more stragglers. Even the normal hotel staff are strangely absent so the criminals must have cleared the building before making their move.

It's a small silver lining on this unholy mess of a mission and the two of them walk unnoticed out of the delivery entrance just as the first Parisian cops pull up. Jason keeps one eye on them warily as the two assassins stroll by in the shadows since the last thing they need is for some trigger-happy copper to catch sight of the Russian's blood-soaked shirt. But Lady Luck is with them and the police are far too worried about the people inside the hotel to notice anyone else.

Once there are several blocks between them and the flashing sirens, Kirill gives Jason a short nod before turning down a nearby alleyway. In all honesty, the assassin is somewhat insulted that he rates no more than that, but the Russian probably is a bit preoccupied.

It was a long shot anyway, he sighs, shrugging away the disappointment. While his attraction hasn't disappeared, the American knows when to cut his losses and this would have been the end of it if he hadn't heard a crash from the alley. The sound peaks Jason's curiosity since Kirill had moved with a silent grace throughout the short time they'd known each other. So, of course, he has to look.

And then he starts running toward the still form on the ground.

God damn it! Jason curses, pulling Kirill's hands away from his side to see that the Russian's wound is much worse than he had thought. Although the assassin appears to have wrapped the injury with a makeshift bandage before he passed out, blood is already seeping through the cloth and he knows that without stitches, the other man will die.

I should just leave him, the American thinks as his training comes to the forefront, anyone who can't keep up nothing but a liability. He would have left any of his fellow Treadstone men in a heartbeat in order to complete a mission and the Russian is not even an ally to be missed.

If Kirill hadn't passed out into a pile of boxes, the agent would have been halfway to his safe house by now and really this doesn't change a thing. But Jason barely makes it to the mouth of the alleyway before he stops dead, his body refusing to take another step as long as he can hear the other man's halting breaths.

It's not his attraction that stops him because several of Jason’s targets have made his heart pound in the past. It's certainly not some kind of camaraderie since no such thing exists between assassins, even if they had declared a truce tonight.

Perhaps it's the fact that if things had been a little different, Jason could have been the one passed out on the concrete and he knows Kirill would have left him without a second thought. No one in their line of work survives forever so that will be him someday and maybe if he follows his better instincts now, fate will look on him more kindly when his luck runs out.

So the agent turns around with a frustrated sigh, hoisting the Russian's body over his shoulder and then struggling to his feet. The less said about the following journey the better because the height that he had admired earlier is a bitch to carry for any length of time.

But he makes it to his safe house eventually, depositing Kirill on the bed before heading to the bathroom to grab the kit beneath the sink. Jason has a number of these boltholes scattered throughout his territory and he's never been so happy that his handler keeps them all well-stocked with medical supplies. The American returns to the bedroom quickly, shoving a pill down Kirill's throat to keep him out until he's finished, and then cuts away the other man's suit to see what he's working with.

Thankfully the bullet was a through and through so the agent doesn't have to do any digging but there's still the rather gory matter of patching up the hole. However, while Treadstone only gives its agents enough medical training to keep them in basic working order, Jason has his stint in the army to fall back upon. Improvised field medicine was practically a calling in those days and although his stitches aren't exactly pretty, they get the job done.

By the time he finishes, the assassin's eyes are aching from the strain and he sits back with a tired groan. He stretches with a series of ominous cracks before he starts to clean up, dumping their blood-stained clothing in the corner to deal with once morning comes.

Then he tosses a blanket over the other man, calls Nicky to let her know that his mission has been completed and passes out next to Kirill on the bed.

---

Jason should probably be more surprised when he wakes up with a knife to his throat. But he had known that Kirill was a paranoid bastard from the beginning and it's not as though the American wouldn't have done the same. So instead of fighting against the Russian’s hold, he just looks up at the other man and grins.

“Is that any way to thank me for saving your life?” he asks, eyes cataloging the pallor and hint of pain on Kirill's face. In this condition, Jason is pretty sure that he can disarm the other assassin without too much trouble, making it easy to stay relaxed despite his suspicious glare.

“Why would you help me? Why did you help me?” Kirill asks in obvious confusion. “What do I owe you now?”

“I can't have helped you out of the goodness of my heart?”

“No. Do not treat me like one of those sheep who cannot see the beast beneath your skin. Tell me what you want from me and tell me truth.” The Russian's blade presses a little harder and Jason lets the joking smile drop off his face. Kirill may have asked for truth but the agent doubts that he actually wants to hear the philosophical musings which led them here.

So Jason decides to give his fellow assassin a different truth instead, tilting his hips to press his morning wood against the Russian's thigh. Kirill jerks back slightly in surprise, a small motion and yet enough for the blond to knock his blade away.

The knife embeds itself in the floor with a soft shink but neither assassin moves to retrieve it, Kirill sitting back on his heels instead.

“You saved my life because you want to fuck me?” he asks, staring down at Jason with a contemplative frown.

“Or you could fuck me. I'm not particular,” the American replies, his best shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Though if you're not interested, you might want to move before you give me any more ideas because I've always had a thing for men with knives.”

“I never said I wasn't interested; I'm merely questioning your sanity.”

“I think we all have to be a little crazy to do a job like this,” the agent retorts as something hot and filthy uncurls within his chest.

“True enough,” Kirill lets out a barking laugh, looking down at Jason with a smile that completely transforms his face. Suddenly he looks like a young man searching for some fun rather than a vicious killer and the American wants to bite the amused quirk of his lips.

Though there is still a dangerous edge to the assassin's movements as he murmurs, “I think I'll take you up on that,” and leans down to capture the blond's mouth. He kisses like he fights, pressing forward with a single-minded focus that crashes over Jason like a tide. The agent meets Kirill with equal pressure, shoving his tongue in the Russian's mouth to chase the taste of him. It's intoxicating, all heat and spice and power, and he pulls the other man down against him with a groan.

“Patience,” Kirill snarls, though his actions defy his words, fingers digging into Jason's shoulders as they rut on the bed. There's nothing soft about the assassin, all sharp angles instead of curves, and the American has missed the feel of strong muscles underneath his hands.

He bucks up against the Russian, grinding their hips together on the edge of too much pressure and then licking the groan from Kirill's lips. Jason can't get enough of the other's mouth, their tongues tangling together wickedly as the assassin starts in on his clothes. While the Russian is already shirtless, Jason is still wearing most of his serving outfit and the fabric definitely needs to go.

Fuck that's hot, the American thinks, clutching at Kirill's back as the other man rips his shirt apart. Despite his admonishment for patience, it is the Russian who growls with frustration and tears at Jason's clothes until there's skin beneath his hands.

Everything so much better without that last barrier, rough callouses dragging over his stomach on their way toward his pants. Kirill snaps the first button with a teasing grin, fingers stroking along the agen'ts waistband before finally dipping underneath. Jason sighs with relief when his aching cock is freed, hands twisting in the sheets as he fights to keep them still. The Russian is still an assassin and startling him would be a bad idea, no matter how much he wants to shove him down.

But Kirill only keeps him waiting a moment before wriggling lower, every sensual movement making his dick twitch. Jason could watch him for hours since his fellow agent truly is poetry in motion, at least he could if desire wasn't burning hot beneath his skin.

Instead, the American watches breathlessly as the other man leans forward, breath teasing across Jason's cock. There's a brief pause while Kirill shifts his position, his injury not allowing him to bend the way he'd like, but then warm lips are closing over the agent's length, hot and wet and smooth as silk and his mind whites out. Even the undercurrent of wariness that always lives beneath his skin disappears under a wave of pleasure because the Russian is far too good at this. There's only pressure and heat and Kirill's tongue swirling over the head of his dick, the touch of fingers against his entrance just one more burst of pleasure amidst the rest.

He spreads his legs in eager invitation, the other man chuckling softly as the sound of Jason's desperate panting fills the room. Though the Russian is just as eager, his own breaths harsh against the agent's skin and he bites back a moan of his own when he finally presses inside. Even one finger feels huge after so long without, the hint of pain only fanning Jason's need.

“If you don't fuck me soon, I'm going to knife you,” the American threatens, one hand scrabbling against Kirill's shoulder as his hips jerk back.

“Promises, promises,” the other man murmurs, licking Jason’s cock one more time before pulling away. Then he turns his focus to working the blond open, fingers pressing deep and stretching just to the edge of pain.

Kirill is more efficient than gentle but the agent is in no position to complain when he's pushing back into every thrust. He needs the Russian inside him already, needs to be pried open until there's no space that isn't filled. Jason still doesn't really trust him but that's a small concern compared to the desire rushing through his veins and the knowledge that Kirill may try to kill him only adds to the thrill.

So he draws the other man into a messy kiss when the Russian grabs a condom and prepares to enter him, both of them groaning with that first thrust inside. Kirill's cock is oh-so-good within him, long and thick and hot, and Jason can feel every inch as the other assassin presses forward until he bottoms out.

“Fuck!” the agent gasps, his nerves overwhelmed with the sensation of being claimed like this. “Fuck, it's been too long.”

His body needs time to adjust, time to decide that this isn't something to fight against, but when Kirill would have paused, the American rebels. Instead of waiting, he locks his legs around the other man's waist and drags him deeper, whispering a rough demand into his mouth.

Jason wants it fast and messy and just this side of hurting and Kirill is only too happy to oblige, the Russian's next thrust slamming Jason up the bed. But the assassin has barely found a rhythm before he falters, falling onto his elbows with a curse. He rests his forehead on the blond's chest for a moment, one hand pressing against his side again.

“Are you all right?” Jason starts to ask, once his thoughts have made it past, why, why did it stop? However, he hasn't even finished the sentence before Kirill growls in frustration, hooking one arm under his back and flipping them. Somehow the motion drives the Russian's cock in even deeper until Jason can almost feel it in his bones and the only thing keeping him upright is the other man's firm grip on his thighs.

“You will have to ride me,” Kirill orders roughly, hands stroking abstract patterns across Jason's skin. It takes the agent a moment to register the Russian's words but eventually they penetrate the haze of pleasure in his mind.

Jason rolls his hips once to savor the slow burn before starting to fuck himself properly. Every time he slams back down on the other man's cock, ecstasy shoots through him and Kirill lets out a vicious curse when the American's fingers dig into his chest. At first the words are still in English but as the two of them move together, his growls devolve into a mess of Russian, the feral sound making Jason ache.

Though this is nothing compared to the lightning that shoots through him when he finds the perfect angle and the head of Kirill's cock drags across his prostate. Jason's rhythm stutters as sensation overwhelms him, the Russian grabbing his hips tightly and grinding up against his ass.

It's too much after so long without being fucked by anyone, the pressure and heat and slide of skin on skin. So the agent probably would have come in moments anyway but when Kirill reaches up to stroke his cock, Jason's fate is sealed. All it takes is a few quick jerks before he's coming harder than he has in ages, mind gone silent while he moans the other's name.

Then he slumps across the Russian's chest, letting Kirill use him however he pleases to find his own release. His fellow assassin thrusts up a few more times, his movements rough and ragged now as his control unravels and Jason has never seen a more attractive sight. Kirill is gorgeous like this, all his grace stripped bare by desire to reveal the wild heat beneath.

The American can't take his eyes away from the other man's face, his cock twitching even though he's too spent to manage another round. Instead, he just watches intently while the Russian gasps out his release, eyes snapping shut as he shoves up into Jason one more time.

When his breathing has finally returned to normal, the agent pulls off carefully, his hole clenching at the aching emptiness. He's going to be sore for days and the idea only thrills him, though Jason has to wonder how much harder Kirill could have fucked him without his injury. If this was fantastic sex then that was bound to be astounding and he's definitely going to have to find a way to keep this guy around. Step one, stroke his ego, and it's not hard to sound impressed as he flops down on the bed.

“Man, it's been ages since someone managed to shut off my brain like that,” Jason murmurs, staring up at the ceiling with a blissed out grin. Next to him the Russian just smiles smugly and the two men enjoy their new-found closeness for the short time that it lasts.

Short because the American can already feel his paranoia kicking in again, that part of his mind which catalogs every exit and cannot rest with someone else this close to him. Kirill obviously feels the same since he sits up abruptly a few minutes later, tossing the condom and then looking for his clothes.

“This was a pleasurable experience but I should be moving on,” the assassin says, though his stern words are undermined by the rumpled hair and scratches on his skin.

It’s a damn attractive sight and Jason would really prefer the other man to warm his bed a little longer, but he knows that the fastest way to chase Kirill away would be to try and keep him here. Indeed, the assassin visibly relaxes when the American doesn't argue, unbending enough to give him a short kiss goodbye.

“Maybe we'll run into each other again and we can find out if you give as good as you receive,” the Russian offers softly, though Jason is sure that he doesn't actually expect that to occur. However, the universe has a way of giving the blond exactly what he wants and he's going to do everything in his power to make sure that ass is his.

But for now he just says, “I should warn you not to underestimate my skills,” waiting until Kirill has left to flop back on the bed and give a fist pump of victory.


The End