taras_oleksei

"You want me, kommissar," Barshov told him, in a forceful whisper. "You always do."

It had the impact of a shout in the quiet, concrete room.

"Careful," said Lasha, softly, darkly. "Take care, little brother."

The dancer was voracious, like he had been the first time they met.

Met, thought Lasha feverishly, not so much as collided.

Ilarion's gaze remained cool and unforced.

"That's not what you want. Not now."

"There's nothing I want more," snarled Merkurii, who must have had winged heels like his namesake, in order to walk after Taras's treatment.

The systematic infliction of beauty marks.

Barshov was shoving himself to his feet, eyes riveted on Ilarion's face from beneath his tousled hair, dewed throughout with sweat. Determined.

One of them was expertly and thoroughly blacked, like a coal miner's.

Oleksei had done a number on him, thought Lasha. No question. The dancer looked like hell.

It wasn't unaesthetic, even if he was severely unprettied.

The dancer's voice was ragged, with a hint of pleading behind the oddly iron demand.

"You own my ass. So fuck it."

Barshov's hand was on his crotch.

"Come on, kommissar," he breathed, rawly. "Over the table."

Lasha's eyes narrowed.

"No," he said.

His hand cupped the dancer's neck.

His breathing was shallow and light, sips of anticipation.

"No," he said, in a voice like ground glass. "Against the wall."