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Adam Frankenstein has a scar across the bridge of his nose. It curves in an arc across the plane of his skin and the bump of his bones.
And when you kiss the ragged slip of skin, he scrunches his nose.
It must be involuntary. He does it even while he’s asleep next to you, one leg out of the blankets and the other tangled up, his arms curled close to his chest, his snores just on the side of animalistic. You kiss his nose, lips caressing the scar, and the skin there crinkles on instinct.
It’s dangerous. Kissing any part of Adam while he’s asleep is dangerous, but especially his nose, because once you do, it’s impossible not to be overcome by the urge to do it again, and again, and again.
And then, he’ll wake up with soft blinking eyes and a grumpy pout, and you’ll have no other option than to kiss the grumpiness right out of him. (How unfortunate.)
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Adam has a scar coming down his right brow bone. It’s thin, and snakes straight towards the inky blackness of his eye.
And when you rub along it, his eyes grow heavier.
It doesn’t matter what’s going on, what time of day, or what he’s doing. A careful, methodical stroking of that scar over his eyebrow sends all the tension in his body whooshing out in a single breath.
And then, after seconds, or minutes, (or even hours, if Adam found himself so lucky), he blinks up at you with wetter, softer eyes, and smiles, and then pulls you into his body, arms tight around you, until you become suffocated in his chest and in his love.
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Adam has a scar striping up his top lip. It appears to come from inside his mouth, tapering off as it straggles up towards his cheek.
And oh, does he gripe when you start to lavish it with affection.
He finds it embarrassing that such an unsightly thing would be pampered by your tongue and nuzzled by your nose, when his lips are right there.
“Kiss me properly,” he whines as you kiss just above his lip.
“I am kissing you properly,” you say back, hiding your smile in another kiss.
He rolls his eyes and shifts under you. “I meant my lips.”
“I am kissing your lips.” You peck the scar again.
You feel his teasing growl rumble up from his chest before you even hear it, and in no time at all, he’s pulling you in for a real, actual, proper kiss.
“There,” he grunts, sharp canines glinting as he smiles. “Now will you leave my scars alone?”
You laugh, and he laughs back. You both know that’s a fate neither of you would ever want. “Never,” you sigh, re-centering your affection on his lip scar. He sighs, but his faux irritation is busted by the way he holds you even tighter.
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Adam has a pair of intertwining scars under his right cheekbone. They start as one by his ear, before diverging along his cheek, and they reunite before meeting his mouth.
And when you trace its path, he purrs incredibly loud.
He leans into the pad of your finger as you follow the curving shape down to the corner of his mouth, back up along his cheek, around the shell of his ear and up into his hair to scratch his scalp, just for a second, before you’re following the scar back down again.
The healing rumble of his purrs and the pattern of the motions make it meditative for both of you. The perfect salve for a long, busy day.
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Adam has a large scar at the center of his throat. It’s T-shaped, and deep, and fragile-looking.
And you love to bury your nose into the crux of it.
You push your face in and breathe deep, enveloping yourself in his scent.
“What do I smell like?” he asks softly, stroking fingers through your hair.
The question isn’t easy. You have to think for a moment to find the right answers, taking a few more long inhales to make it precise.
“Like the woods. But not the trees. More like the earth itself. And paper. Old paper. A hint of the cream bun you ate earlier. And sweat.”
“Sweat?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t sound nice.”
“No, it is. It’s you sweat, that’s why.”
Adam laughed. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you smell good,” you gripe, pinching his bicep. “Now let me smell you.”
And he would never deny you.
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Adam has a scar on his index finger. It defines the digit from the rest of his hand.
And he feels so loved when you make a big deal about it.
He knocks at the door, and when you open it, he’s standing with his head ducked, one arm behind his back and the other fiddling with the hem of his blazer. His eyes jump to meet yours and in an instant, you both become equally bashful.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, revealing his other hand holding a small bouquet of wildflowers. He holds them out gingerly.
With one hand, you take the flowers. With the other, you take his hand and bring it to your lips. The kiss lands perfectly on the seam of his scar. “Thank you,” you whisper into his knuckles.
A splotchy blush blooms on his face, starting from the tip of his nose. “It’s nothing,” he mutters.
“They’re beautiful.” Another kiss to his hand, and Adam is grinning. You keep a firm grip on his hand as you bring them back down, thumbing over the scar. “My valentine.”
Adam pulls you close, melting into you as he leans down for a kiss, hand still in yours. “Always.”
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Adam has a scar that curves around his belly button. It starts all the way up at his chest and goes all the way down past the waistband of his pants.
And caressing it brings out his sweet, soft laugh.
He tucks his hands behind his head, tilting forward to watch as you kiss softly along the scar, leaving no patch of skin untouched.
“Careful,” he warns through gentle giggles, as you near his stomach. (What he really means is: It’s starting to tickle.)
“I’m always careful,” you reply, inching ever closer to that beautiful curve. (What you mean is: I know.)
His giggles grow stronger once you reach the little semi-circle, peppering it with quick kisses. “You love that spot, don’t you?” he asks.
“How could I resist? It's just so--” you press your face in closer “--tasty.”
And then, you're nibbling at the scar with lips and teeth, and making silly growls in the back of your throat.
Adam's laughing loud and bright now, the beautiful curve of his smile and the gap between his front teeth on full display. You'd do anything to see that smile and hear that laugh -- including pretending to eat your boyfriend to tickle him.
“I'm not!” He's half-heartedly pushing at your head, trying - but not really - to dislodge you.
“You are.” Lifting your head, you make a big show of licking your lips. “Mmm, delicious.”
And then, you dive back in, Adam cackling below you.
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Adam has a trio of scars outlining the plane of his back. On either far end, they curve outward, and the center line dips and waves with unique bends.
And his skin is always soft and warm there.
By the time you get inside the door, the rain has soaked you through. Fortunately, Adam is comfortably dry, stretched out on his stomach, reading. You approach as quietly as possible, but of course, he still senses you.
What he doesn’t sense is how cold your nose is as you push your head under the hem of his sweater.
“Cold outside?” you hear, muffled through the fabric and the vibration of his skin.
“How could you tell?” You press a kiss to his scars and feel the warmth radiate against your lips.
He curves an arm back to place his hand against your shoulder. “Are you warm enough back there?”
“So warm.”
“Just don’t fall asleep again. Remember last time?”
“I remember,” you mumble, eyes already drooping. “And I won’t.”
He chuckles at your obvious lie. As you drift off into comfortable sleep, you can feel three distinct vibrations coming through his chest. He’s saying something -- three words. And though you can’t hear it, you know what he’s said. And you smile.
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Adam has scars you can’t see. They come from his past: the hard parts, the sad parts, the parts he’s most ashamed of.
And you love him anyway.
He’s done his best to accept them, but sometimes, the pain hits again. He feels himself crushed by the weight of hundreds of years of isolation and fear and anger.
And when he feels that weight, he seeks you out.
You lay on your back and cradle his head close to your chest. You stroke your palm firmly down his back and whisper that you’re here and you’ll never leave. You tilt his head up and wipe his tears until his face is dry again. You tell him how wonderful he is, until his breathing becomes regular again.
It’s not a perfect solution -- because nothing is ever perfect (another sentiment you like to share with him) -- but it works. After ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour, three hours, Adam will sniffle, prop his chin up on your chest, and give a very wobbly smile.
“Hi, baby,” you coo.
“Hi.”
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
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You have scars -- maybe physical ones, maybe invisible ones. They’re not pretty.
Adam loves you anyway.
Because he’s lived a long time. He’s seen death, and war, and conflict. Rage, and selfishness, and jealousy. He’s seen all the scars that make up the world.
And he sees you. He sees your beauty. He sees your smile. He sees the way you care for the people around you, the way you think, the things you get excited about. He sees how you love him.
Sometimes, he can’t believe his luck. Because of all the scars in all the world -- the ones that rip things apart and stitch them back together in ragged ways -- somehow, some scar brought you two together from two separate worlds and stitched you up side-by-side.
That, he’s sure, is his favorite scar.