Шрам
Scar. Noun. A mark left on the skin or within body tissue where a wound, burn, or sore has not healed completely and fibrous connective tissue has developed.
A/N: Man I haven't written in forever...I'm really rusty...Hope you enjoy anyway.
There was something Ivan found alluring about the Colonel's scars, he realized.
Perhaps it was the sheer rawness of them. Deep and jagged, gnarled whorls on his face, his thick shoulders, his broad chest, the small of his back, and longer scars branching down his arms and legs.
To an outsider, Volgin was a terrifying man with a horribly grotesque appearance. The scars on his face were enough to cause a man to shake before he even uttered a word. It didn't help that he was often foul-tempered and his natural facial expression was a sort of grimace.
Raikov looked up from his paperwork, to the man silently leafing through reports beside him. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, as he watched Volgin narrow his eyes at a particularly displeasing section of the report currently in his hands. The scar on the side of his face contorted, making his frown seem more like a scowl. The major rested his head on a hand, smiling absentmindedly as he watched the scars on the man's face ripple with his shifting facial expressions.
They were horrifying, ugly blemishes. But in Ivan's eyes, they were artistic. Violent, and powerful. As if Mother Nature had unleashed all of her raw power into one man, and the scars were all that remained of that turbulence. As if Volgin himself was the embodiment of that force. He couldn't understand why, but the strange urge to touch them came over him.
The skin was always so tough, compared to the rest of his stiff, yet pliant skin. The feel of thick callouses running along softer skin. It felt sort of good whenever his softer fingers came into contact with the scars running along his lover's back or chest. They were fascinating, stiff yet moving with the larger man's muscles. Flashing brightly with streaks of electricity whenever the man became angered.
"Ivan, is something the matter?"
Raikov startled, snapping out of his musings. "Hm?"
Volgin's brow was knit together, analyzing the smaller man's expression with concern. Perhaps he had stared a bit too long?
He knew the colonel was conscious of his scars. That he loathed them, that he was ashamed of them. He remembered how Volgin wouldn't even let him touch the scars at first, for fear of damaging his "perfect soldier hands." For fear of corrupting the major with his filth.
"Hm." Raikov chuckled, leaning over to place a large affectionate kiss on the colonel's left cheek. Allowing his head to slide downwards, he rested his head on the other man's chest, a familiar sense of comfort washing over him as he felt the beat -no, thrum- of his heart. The soft, motor-like noise, with the lightest pulses of electricity running through his body with each beat. Truly a freak of nature. His freak of nature. His colonel. Scars and all.
"It's nothing, Zhenya."