Post by tingrin on Sept 19, 2006 11:50:03 GMT -5
Sibylinka tiptoed down the hall, her long white dress gathered in one hand to keep it from dragging on the floor. She curled the bottle under one arm, and knocked softly on Piotr's door, looking around to make sure she wasn't going to get caught in the boy's rooms after curfew.
It didn't take too long for the big man to open the door. He was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and had clearly been doing some form of exercise judging from the light sheen of sweat. Just behind him, she could see some weights resting neatly on a small rack.
His eyes widened when he saw her. "You should not be here," he said, but then he grinned - almost wickedly - and pulled her into the room before anybody saw her.
Her laugh was light and musical, her dress dropping to her feet as she followed the motion into the room. It was detailed in embroidery straight from the motherland, empire waist and low neckline flattering her lithe figure perfectly. Smiling at him, she held up a bottle of clear liquid in both hands.
"My father sent me this when I told him you were here..." she leaned in, whispering conspiratorily though they were alone in the room. "He also warned me not to get in trouble for having it. So you cannot tell."
The label on the vodka was in russian, and told him it was a very old bottle with a very high proof- something someone had saved for a special occasion. Just what has she told her father?
He caught the bottle up and examined it in minute detail, a delighted expression on his eyes. "I think you and I should have a nightcap," he suggested, rather daringly - for Piotr. "I am afraid I have no glasses in the room, so it will have to be from the bottle - but that is the proper traditional Russian way, da?"
Glancing around the room, he indicated for her to pull up the chair from the desk. "Please, you sit here, I will sit on the floor."
Ever the gentleman.
Giggling, she gladly sat, and placed her slippered feet on his knee like an empress, settling her skirt around her legs.
"See? You and I have the same mind." She nodded, watching him open the old bottle. "I was almost afraid you'd send me back to bed!" Her smiled told him how much she appreciated that he hadn't.
"Do you remember the first time you drank vodka?" Many families allowed their children- particularly male children- to drink at a relatively early age by comparison to American families, but some were a little more careful. Shifting her blue hair over one shoulder, she watched him with a lingering smile.
"I do," Piotr grinned up at her as he opened the cap on the bottle and inhaled deeply of the liquid within. "It was at the memorial held for my brother Mikhail. I was fourteen years old that day, little Illyana was barely two. It was a most solemn occasion."
Yes, it had been, too, he recalled. It had been his transition from youngest son to eldest.
"A very good occasion. Lucky for you." She nodded. "Perhaps it is not right to say your brother's death made you lucky, but it meant you now remember him when you drink." She smiled.
"Illyana is that much younger than you? Your parents have lived a long life then. The way you speak of your home, it makes me long for that peace. Life here is much more..." she gestured with her hands, unsure of the right word. "Busy."
"With this first drink, I toast my brother, Mikhail. Long may his memory live in me and in the memories of all those who knew him." The big Russian took a very healthy swig of the vodka and nodded in approval. "It is most excellent," he said, and passed it to her.
Her comment about his parents made him nod. "My father is a lot older than my mother," he confirmed. "Illyana was a surprise to us all."
Sibyl smelled the vodka, and sighed. It was -very- nice. She took on a quiet little smile, and drank, not saying a word. Blinking a little, she laughed and handed it back. "It has been a while."
"Tell me what she looks like, Petya."
"Illyana?"
Piotr accepted the bottle back again and considered. "She is very little and fragile, very blonde hair. Golden haired child. Mikhail and I are both - were both - very dark, she is the sunshine in everyone's life. I call her...my little snowflake."
He held up the bottle.
"Illyana Nikolovna," he said, solemnly and took another swig.
How touching, his love for his family.
With a soft sigh, she slipped from her chair- and in a move that was quite forward for the usually reserved Sibylinka, she took the bottle gently from his hands and sat in his lap. Pulling the bottle to her lips once more, she took a drink as well- albeit a much more conservative one, being only a fraction of Piotr's size.
He smiled down at her and wrapped his arms about her protectively until she handed the bottle back to him.
"The next," he said, clearly starting to feel the effects of the very strong alcohol, "is for you, my beautiful Sibylinka. You have changed how I feel about life since you arrived here. Every day is worth waking for just to see your face."
He took another slug.
Sibyl closed her eyes, sighing happily. "Oh Piotr..." she whispered, and just enjoyed his arms around her for a long moment.
It had been a long couple of days. So many things had happened. And he always made her feel so safe, so loved. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to. Turning a bit to look him in the eyes, she smiled softly.
"My first was for you," she said, kissing his lips, the flavor of the alcohol there between their mouths. Pausing to take another drink, she gasped in softly, the vodka intense as it burned down her throat.
Slipping an arm around him she pulled their mouths together once more, and kissed him deeply.
Until now, Piotr's kisses had always been restrained, gentlemanly even. But now, his inhibitions loosening with the careful application of alcohol, he responded more eagerly. He broke off the kiss and took the vodka, taking a mouthful of it.
He set it down on the table and kissed her again, this time allowing the fiery liquid to trickle between them.
It was an oddly passionate thing for the usually restrained Piotr to do.
Perhaps encouraged by her intoxication- or his- Sibyl moaned full and lush against the kiss, no hesitation in her mind. She had wanted him from the moment she saw him, and could not stop herself from indulging in the moment, even if he regretted it in the morning.
She was determined not to. The sweat on him when she had first entered made him smell alive, something primitive and instinctual in her reaction to a man who built himself for strength. Drawing her hands across his back, her nails dragged lines down his shoulders just deep enough to let him know she was there.
He took a sharp intake of breath at her contact on his back and let his own hands trace an amazingly gentle line down her spine.
"My Sibylinka," he said, when they broke apart, "Oh, my Sibyl." He buried his head on her shoulder. She could feel his breath, warm and sweet on her neck as he nipped lightly at the skin behind her ear.
"I...am, that is, I do not wish to hurt you," he said, quietly. "But I am afraid that if I start this, I will not stop."
She did not open her eyes, trembling, her lips parted. "Piotr..." she breathed, clinging to him. "I am asking you not to."
He gathered her up in his arms then, and with an easy movement, stood up.
"Then I will not," he said, his voice thick with passion. "Not tonight."
It didn't take too long for the big man to open the door. He was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and had clearly been doing some form of exercise judging from the light sheen of sweat. Just behind him, she could see some weights resting neatly on a small rack.
His eyes widened when he saw her. "You should not be here," he said, but then he grinned - almost wickedly - and pulled her into the room before anybody saw her.
Her laugh was light and musical, her dress dropping to her feet as she followed the motion into the room. It was detailed in embroidery straight from the motherland, empire waist and low neckline flattering her lithe figure perfectly. Smiling at him, she held up a bottle of clear liquid in both hands.
"My father sent me this when I told him you were here..." she leaned in, whispering conspiratorily though they were alone in the room. "He also warned me not to get in trouble for having it. So you cannot tell."
The label on the vodka was in russian, and told him it was a very old bottle with a very high proof- something someone had saved for a special occasion. Just what has she told her father?
He caught the bottle up and examined it in minute detail, a delighted expression on his eyes. "I think you and I should have a nightcap," he suggested, rather daringly - for Piotr. "I am afraid I have no glasses in the room, so it will have to be from the bottle - but that is the proper traditional Russian way, da?"
Glancing around the room, he indicated for her to pull up the chair from the desk. "Please, you sit here, I will sit on the floor."
Ever the gentleman.
Giggling, she gladly sat, and placed her slippered feet on his knee like an empress, settling her skirt around her legs.
"See? You and I have the same mind." She nodded, watching him open the old bottle. "I was almost afraid you'd send me back to bed!" Her smiled told him how much she appreciated that he hadn't.
"Do you remember the first time you drank vodka?" Many families allowed their children- particularly male children- to drink at a relatively early age by comparison to American families, but some were a little more careful. Shifting her blue hair over one shoulder, she watched him with a lingering smile.
"I do," Piotr grinned up at her as he opened the cap on the bottle and inhaled deeply of the liquid within. "It was at the memorial held for my brother Mikhail. I was fourteen years old that day, little Illyana was barely two. It was a most solemn occasion."
Yes, it had been, too, he recalled. It had been his transition from youngest son to eldest.
"A very good occasion. Lucky for you." She nodded. "Perhaps it is not right to say your brother's death made you lucky, but it meant you now remember him when you drink." She smiled.
"Illyana is that much younger than you? Your parents have lived a long life then. The way you speak of your home, it makes me long for that peace. Life here is much more..." she gestured with her hands, unsure of the right word. "Busy."
"With this first drink, I toast my brother, Mikhail. Long may his memory live in me and in the memories of all those who knew him." The big Russian took a very healthy swig of the vodka and nodded in approval. "It is most excellent," he said, and passed it to her.
Her comment about his parents made him nod. "My father is a lot older than my mother," he confirmed. "Illyana was a surprise to us all."
Sibyl smelled the vodka, and sighed. It was -very- nice. She took on a quiet little smile, and drank, not saying a word. Blinking a little, she laughed and handed it back. "It has been a while."
"Tell me what she looks like, Petya."
"Illyana?"
Piotr accepted the bottle back again and considered. "She is very little and fragile, very blonde hair. Golden haired child. Mikhail and I are both - were both - very dark, she is the sunshine in everyone's life. I call her...my little snowflake."
He held up the bottle.
"Illyana Nikolovna," he said, solemnly and took another swig.
How touching, his love for his family.
With a soft sigh, she slipped from her chair- and in a move that was quite forward for the usually reserved Sibylinka, she took the bottle gently from his hands and sat in his lap. Pulling the bottle to her lips once more, she took a drink as well- albeit a much more conservative one, being only a fraction of Piotr's size.
He smiled down at her and wrapped his arms about her protectively until she handed the bottle back to him.
"The next," he said, clearly starting to feel the effects of the very strong alcohol, "is for you, my beautiful Sibylinka. You have changed how I feel about life since you arrived here. Every day is worth waking for just to see your face."
He took another slug.
Sibyl closed her eyes, sighing happily. "Oh Piotr..." she whispered, and just enjoyed his arms around her for a long moment.
It had been a long couple of days. So many things had happened. And he always made her feel so safe, so loved. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to. Turning a bit to look him in the eyes, she smiled softly.
"My first was for you," she said, kissing his lips, the flavor of the alcohol there between their mouths. Pausing to take another drink, she gasped in softly, the vodka intense as it burned down her throat.
Slipping an arm around him she pulled their mouths together once more, and kissed him deeply.
Until now, Piotr's kisses had always been restrained, gentlemanly even. But now, his inhibitions loosening with the careful application of alcohol, he responded more eagerly. He broke off the kiss and took the vodka, taking a mouthful of it.
He set it down on the table and kissed her again, this time allowing the fiery liquid to trickle between them.
It was an oddly passionate thing for the usually restrained Piotr to do.
Perhaps encouraged by her intoxication- or his- Sibyl moaned full and lush against the kiss, no hesitation in her mind. She had wanted him from the moment she saw him, and could not stop herself from indulging in the moment, even if he regretted it in the morning.
She was determined not to. The sweat on him when she had first entered made him smell alive, something primitive and instinctual in her reaction to a man who built himself for strength. Drawing her hands across his back, her nails dragged lines down his shoulders just deep enough to let him know she was there.
He took a sharp intake of breath at her contact on his back and let his own hands trace an amazingly gentle line down her spine.
"My Sibylinka," he said, when they broke apart, "Oh, my Sibyl." He buried his head on her shoulder. She could feel his breath, warm and sweet on her neck as he nipped lightly at the skin behind her ear.
"I...am, that is, I do not wish to hurt you," he said, quietly. "But I am afraid that if I start this, I will not stop."
She did not open her eyes, trembling, her lips parted. "Piotr..." she breathed, clinging to him. "I am asking you not to."
He gathered her up in his arms then, and with an easy movement, stood up.
"Then I will not," he said, his voice thick with passion. "Not tonight."