(Im)Perfect: Romance/Fluff, G
I traced the curve of a strong collarbone with my fingertips, running along the gentle arc up the slope of a neck and reveling in the feel of smooth skin beneath my touch. Sergei’s throat fluttered under my gentle caress, breathing as he slept; softly inhaling and exhaling in the quiet of the bedroom. I ran my fingers along his jawline to his chin, rubbing at the little scar there that had been etched into his flesh from some stick wielded by some clumsy player.
Avoiding his lips for now, I instead followed an invisible path around his cheek and across that sculpted cheekbone; down his nose, over the bump where it had been clearly broken in the past. His face scrunched up a little when I brushed my fingers over his eyebrows, smoothing light as a feather across his eyelids, but he didn’t yet wake. I slid my fingers into soft blond hair and stroked his forehead with my thumb, cupping his head in my hand.
Sergei was gorgeous. It wasn’t a matter of my own personal opinion, either; Detroit had once been captured by that face, all cheekbone and angular Russian, enigmatically fresh. The Wings had marketed him, Nike had marketed him, thousands-millions-recognized him… Hollywood had been titillated by him. He was a superstar, adored and hated by many, the object of Detroit fans’-NHL fans’-ire and desire.
And they didn’t even get to see him like this, up close and intimate. They didn’t get to see his features relaxed in sleep; didn’t get to see the peaceful look on his face as he slumbered in bed with me, one arm thrown over my waist. Up close he was even more beautiful than those pinup posters and advertisements; than the endless cards and photos and memorabilia that held his visage. Because here, from this vantage point, I could see all of his imperfections; all of his scars. That once-broken nose, the scar on his chin, the little slash on his jaw, the lines of pain and lines of laughter that creased his skin. Where others wanted to see him as perfect I loved seeing him flawed: gloriously, breathtakingly human, with real emotions, real wants and desires. That flawless legend was nothing compared to the real man I held in my arms.
I leaned in and brushed my lips against his, chapped and cracked just like my own. Where my fingers had not roused him that did, and when I pulled away pale blue eyes fluttered and opened, a sleepy gaze regarding me.
I smiled at him gently.
“Good morning,” I murmured, stroking my fingers through his hair. Sergei blinked fuzzily and smiled back, wrapping his arm tighter around my waist, tucking his face against my shoulder as he mumbled a greeting. The sun hadn’t yet risen and the contentment that fell over me was quiet, tender, and I reveled in the feel of him warm and strong against me.
“I love you, Sergei,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. I felt his mouth curve and his lips turn up as he pressed closer against me, nuzzling against my bare shoulder.
“Ya vas lyublyu, David.”
-
Avoiding his lips for now, I instead followed an invisible path around his cheek and across that sculpted cheekbone; down his nose, over the bump where it had been clearly broken in the past. His face scrunched up a little when I brushed my fingers over his eyebrows, smoothing light as a feather across his eyelids, but he didn’t yet wake. I slid my fingers into soft blond hair and stroked his forehead with my thumb, cupping his head in my hand.
Sergei was gorgeous. It wasn’t a matter of my own personal opinion, either; Detroit had once been captured by that face, all cheekbone and angular Russian, enigmatically fresh. The Wings had marketed him, Nike had marketed him, thousands-millions-recognized him… Hollywood had been titillated by him. He was a superstar, adored and hated by many, the object of Detroit fans’-NHL fans’-ire and desire.
And they didn’t even get to see him like this, up close and intimate. They didn’t get to see his features relaxed in sleep; didn’t get to see the peaceful look on his face as he slumbered in bed with me, one arm thrown over my waist. Up close he was even more beautiful than those pinup posters and advertisements; than the endless cards and photos and memorabilia that held his visage. Because here, from this vantage point, I could see all of his imperfections; all of his scars. That once-broken nose, the scar on his chin, the little slash on his jaw, the lines of pain and lines of laughter that creased his skin. Where others wanted to see him as perfect I loved seeing him flawed: gloriously, breathtakingly human, with real emotions, real wants and desires. That flawless legend was nothing compared to the real man I held in my arms.
I leaned in and brushed my lips against his, chapped and cracked just like my own. Where my fingers had not roused him that did, and when I pulled away pale blue eyes fluttered and opened, a sleepy gaze regarding me.
I smiled at him gently.
“Good morning,” I murmured, stroking my fingers through his hair. Sergei blinked fuzzily and smiled back, wrapping his arm tighter around my waist, tucking his face against my shoulder as he mumbled a greeting. The sun hadn’t yet risen and the contentment that fell over me was quiet, tender, and I reveled in the feel of him warm and strong against me.
“I love you, Sergei,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. I felt his mouth curve and his lips turn up as he pressed closer against me, nuzzling against my bare shoulder.
“Ya vas lyublyu, David.”
-