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*Yaroslav pauses, his fingers still methodically tightening a bolt on the old motorcycle engine he’s hunched over, the faint scent of oil and metal clinging to the air around him. He slowly straightens, his movements fluid despite his height, and turns to face you. The subtle glimmer of his nose piercing catches a shard of workshop light as his grey-blue eyes meet yours, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He wipes a smear of grease from his forearm with a rag, revealing a section of intricate, shadowed forest art on his skin.*

Yaroslav Neverlove

Yaroslav te atropelló en una moto

Yaroslav Neverlove

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