The two of them are in the parlor-- or more accurately, Saburov’s throne room, where he holds court with the town’s sinners. The curtains are drawn. He sits in his high-backed chair while Rubin stands over him.
"I think you're heartsick over your mentor dying, and you're looking for someone to tell you what to do,” says Saburov. Not unkindly, but it still stings like a slap in the face.
"I want it to be you." Rubin looks away. "You're a good man."
"I'm not," says Saburov softly. "If you knew…"
“I know that the town doesn't deserve you." Rubin drops to one knee at the side of Saburov’s chair. He bows his head. “I don’t deserve you.”
Saburov is silent for a long time. Rubin’s legs begin to ache. Finally, Saburov lays a hand on his head, like a priest giving a blessing.
“So be it,” he says. “Stand up.”
He brushes his fingers over the velvet of Saburov’s coat. Worn at the seams, like the man who owns it. When Saburov takes it off, he folds it carefully over the back of the chair. Katerina, Rubin recalls, takes pride in her mending.
He turns Rubin toward him with a light hand at his jaw, pushes open his shirt and presses cold fingers to his ribs. Though Saburov is nearly a foot shorter, he keeps Rubin bending to him, chasing kiss after kiss.
They end up against the wall, Saburov pinning him with a thigh between his legs.
“Will your wife--” Rubin begins, but Saburov cuts him off, covering Rubin’s mouth with his own.
“She has her men, and I have mine.” He trails kisses down Rubin’s neck, over his collarbone. The possessive edge in his voice goes straight to Rubin’s dick.
“Oh, god.” He throws his head back against the wall when Saburov gets a hand around him. It's easy to look down at him from this angle, to see where the silver has laced through his hair.
Saburov's hand works him quickly. It’s clear he’s been with men before, but perhaps only in dark and in secret. He doesn't look at Rubin's face, keeps his head bent. Rubin imagines him moving lower, Saburov taking him between his lips, that stern mouth opening to him. He puts a hand on Saburov's shoulder to steady himself.
"Strong arms," Saburov says approvingly. He turns his wrist and Rubin bites back a moan.
“I could lift you.”
The hitch in his breath is so subtle Rubin thinks he might have imagined it. “That won’t be necessary.”
Rubin/Saburov, 1/?
The two of them are in the parlor-- or more accurately, Saburov’s throne room, where he holds court with the town’s sinners. The curtains are drawn. He sits in his high-backed chair while Rubin stands over him.
"I think you're heartsick over your mentor dying, and you're looking for someone to tell you what to do,” says Saburov. Not unkindly, but it still stings like a slap in the face.
"I want it to be you." Rubin looks away. "You're a good man."
"I'm not," says Saburov softly. "If you knew…"
“I know that the town doesn't deserve you." Rubin drops to one knee at the side of Saburov’s chair. He bows his head. “I don’t deserve you.”
Saburov is silent for a long time. Rubin’s legs begin to ache. Finally, Saburov lays a hand on his head, like a priest giving a blessing.
“So be it,” he says. “Stand up.”
He brushes his fingers over the velvet of Saburov’s coat. Worn at the seams, like the man who owns it. When Saburov takes it off, he folds it carefully over the back of the chair. Katerina, Rubin recalls, takes pride in her mending.
He turns Rubin toward him with a light hand at his jaw, pushes open his shirt and presses cold fingers to his ribs. Though Saburov is nearly a foot shorter, he keeps Rubin bending to him, chasing kiss after kiss.
They end up against the wall, Saburov pinning him with a thigh between his legs.
“Will your wife--” Rubin begins, but Saburov cuts him off, covering Rubin’s mouth with his own.
“She has her men, and I have mine.” He trails kisses down Rubin’s neck, over his collarbone. The possessive edge in his voice goes straight to Rubin’s dick.
“Oh, god.” He throws his head back against the wall when Saburov gets a hand around him. It's easy to look down at him from this angle, to see where the silver has laced through his hair.
Saburov's hand works him quickly. It’s clear he’s been with men before, but perhaps only in dark and in secret. He doesn't look at Rubin's face, keeps his head bent. Rubin imagines him moving lower, Saburov taking him between his lips, that stern mouth opening to him. He puts a hand on Saburov's shoulder to steady himself.
"Strong arms," Saburov says approvingly. He turns his wrist and Rubin bites back a moan.
“I could lift you.”
The hitch in his breath is so subtle Rubin thinks he might have imagined it. “That won’t be necessary.”