3

"Scars are just another kind of memory." ― M.L. Stedman

I don't ever remember feeling self-conscious about my body.

Countless hours of training toned my muscles to an admirable state as my strength grew and my flexibility improved. The extra work out sessions I pushed myself through sculpted me even more. After all that effort, I gloated about my physique.

Even when humans ran away screaming at the sight of my appearance, I wasn't put off by how I looked. Instead, it made me feel impressive and intimidating. I enjoyed not having to confine myself to the uncomfortable clothing that the surface dwellers insisted on wearing. I was content to dress in nothing more than a mask, a belt, and joint guards because I have never been the modest type.

At least, not until a few minutes ago when you coaxed me into taking off my gear.

Now, I'm kneeling on the edge of your bed, squirming in embarrassment for my nakedness. Every scar I have ever earned seems to stand out on my skin. Usually, I take pride in their presence. They're my badges of courage, testament to my dedication as a warrior, and proof that I'm a survivor.

But in dull glow of your bedside lamp, they're ugly and I hate them.

They're reminders of all the times I messed up. Like this healing cut on my forearm where a Foot soldier caught me with his katana because I had dropped my weapon…and the raised patches of chaffed skin on my wrists still visible from that time that we were captured and chained…and the cut on my thigh that I got after falling through the skylight of that old abandoned warehouse while racing across the roofs…

I can feel the heat rushing to my face as I try to cover my mistakes with my hands, to make you forget about all the times I let you down.

But there's too many.

You watch me with curious eyes. There's a smirk on your face. I stare back at you and frown as you start to laugh.

"What's so funny?" my voice sounds bitter as I demand an explanation.

"You," is the answer I receive. Slowly, you step towards the bed. "I didn't think that you were shy about anything."

Your response leaves me speechless and makes me blush even more. I can't even look at you anymore and my head sags towards my chest. Without me noticing, you creep even closer. Then suddenly your hands are on top of mine, pulling them away from the scars I tried to hide. Grabbing hold of the bed sheets, I tremble as your fingers graze the permanent marks dug into my flesh. There's hardly an inch of skin you don't touch. My eyes squeeze shut and I turn my head away as you lean in to kiss me. The action causes you to pause.

"You're adorable like this."

I can hear the amusement in your voice. It's slightly infuriating. Though my eyes flicker open again, I still can't meet your gaze.

So you force me to.

Your grip is gentle as you cup my cheek and turn my face towards yours. I jump slightly as your other hand drops down to my hip. Leaning in, you rest your forehead against mine.

"I love you."

You don't even give me a chance to reply before pressing your lips to mine. I can hear myself whimper pathetically, but I can't help it. Your kiss is drugging. The hesitation that I felt moments before is already starting to drain away. My arms lift to wrap around your shell.

In the next instant you're easing me backwards, crawling up onto the mattress as you carefully lay me down. All through the descent you kiss me, breaking away only to better settle on top of me. Your thumb caresses my cheek as you look at me expectantly.

"I love you, too."

My quietly spoken admission has you smiling. Your lips stay in their twisted grin as you kiss me again. Already your hands have resumed their exploration of my body.

I decide to respond in kind.

Sliding off of your shell, my own hands wander over your warm skin. Then at your right shoulder, my fingers halt as they touched upon the familiar feeling of mutilated flesh. I stroke the jagged line softly as your tongue sneaks out in search of mine. As it does, I can feel myself start to smile.

I don't like my scars.

Yours are better.