#mitrofan

“The Dormition of the Virgin” by Mitrofan the icon painter from Modavia 1820 from the collection of the National museum of art of Romania

Valkurius inclines his chin, jaw tight at the request. Nimble fingers stroke the length of his crisp beard, and he slowly looks toward the greasy, lanky Mordesh nearby. Well. It would only be a moment... wouldn't it?The Cassian raises his brows, drawing in a deep breath before rolling his shoulders back and striding with confidence toward the leering, pale-skinned scientist. Digits curl at the back of the far taller man's neck to urge him to lean down as the human--quite unused to being the shorter of a pair--rocks up onto his toes.As with everything, he did not dare to do such a thing partway, and it was by his honor as a gentleman that he ought to make the experience... enjoyable?Gods above.He could feel the press of sharp teeth beneath soft lips, and the oiled length of his beard tickled against Mitrofan's chin. What he did not expect was the steely grasp of long fingers in his coat, holding him there for a few seconds longer than intended.When released, the Cassian cleared his throat, stepping back and glancing to the side, smoothing his palm over the front of his jacket, cheeks hot.He did not have to glance to see the leering grin and narrow of pale eyes. At least one could never say the Mordesh were not, ah... passionate.

Ты скоро уедешь насовсем, я знаю. Я чувствую. А еще я знаю и чувствую, что скоро мы начнем реже общаться - твой прощальный почерк. Я хочу писать тебе письма, мой друг. В обожаемый тобой и ненавистный мне Питер.