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It happens as you’re making out in the middle of John’s bed, the sheets a rumpled ocean around you. John’s got his arms wrapped tight around your waist and his teeth are almost feral, biting on your bottom lip while his fingernails scratch light trails into your back. The fabric of your shirt bunches around his fists, and he decides to tug it over your head for better access, and you freeze.
“John,” you mumble around his mouth, but he takes it as a moan.
“John, stop,” and this time he hears you.
“Shit, sorry!” He pulls away entirely, mouth turning down at the corners. “Too fast?”
“No, I just – I just – okay, this is embarrassing.” You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, cuddling up close. “I’ve never actually taken my clothes off in front of anybody before?”
John grins and pecks your nose. “Neither have I.”
“Yeah, but I have a lot of scars?”
“I know that already, Dave.”
Aaand there goes the rambling. “John, I have a lot of scars. And they’re really gross, like they’re not hot badass scars they’re just gross and some of them are twisted and some of them are purple and some are white and they’re nasty. And my ribs stick out a lot so it looks like my skin is like, melted to them, and I don’t have like any visible muscle and” –
“Dave, shh.” He kisses your hair, twining his fingers through yours and squeezing them. “I don’t mind your ribs or your bones or your skin or your scars. I think you are absolutely perfect even if you’re a dumb shit.”
“Shucks. You sure know how to butter a guy up.”
“Plus I’m really really chubby and have a lot more body hair than I’d really like to! So I highly doubt you’re going to be all that satisfied with me either.”
“We’re just a pair of super attractive dudes, aren’t we?”
“Totally.” John squeezes your hand again. “It’s okay if you don’t want to take your clothes off yet. I’m just saying that your body isn’t going to bother me. I promise.”
You let out the most longsuffering sort of huff you possibly can. “Well, if you’re going to insist on being really fuckin’ cute and adorable, how can I possibly resist? Also shirtless making out is appealing. And, you know…” Heat rushes to your cheeks, but he can’t see, so you force your voice to remain as nonchalant as possible. “If you wanted, we could also do The Full Sex. Capital letters and all. The. Full. Sex.”
“I’d like that. I’ve got lube in my bedside drawer.”
“Sweet.”
“Sorry in advance if I’m really bad at sex, oh man.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll be terrible at sex too.”
John tugs your shirt over your head, gentler this time, like he’s being careful not to spook you. His fingertips trace your collarbones and the contours of your chest, eyes raking over your skin like it’s an artist’s canvas. You flinch just the tiniest bit as he touches the thickest scar you have, jagged from your ribcage to the top of your belly button.
“Ha-ah, that one was bad,” you say. “I had to get stitches at the hospital. Didn’t sidestep a swing and Bro didn’t block the blow in time.”
“Turn over,” he says softly.
You do. “What? Tired of staring at my skeletal frame already?”
“Not at all.” John’s lips press against the back of your neck, a featherlight touch.
Your back is more scarred than your chest/stomach, but at least it lacks the shallowness of your rib cage. John kisses down your spine, and the touch of his lips is simultaneously cold and hot, sending goose bumps and a shiver all the way to the tips of your toes. They curl, your fingers twitching on the sheets.
He kisses a scar under one of your shoulder blades, then one next to your spine, slowly working his way down. His hands grip your hips and you close your eyes, and his kisses are lifeblood, they set your heart racing and pump volts of adrenaline through your veins. His kisses are sweet and soft and he drags his mouth through the fine hairs and freckles and spotted places like he wants to memorize every last inch, every last pore and flaw.
You have never in your life been touched like this. Your heart beats so fast that your ribs hurt, faster than during strifes. The air swirls out of your lungs, and you think you can see the stream spiral outward. John whispers a soft, “Shh,” when you take a ragged breath. A strange hollow ache nestles in the base of your throat.
“You can turn back over.” He scoots back up and rests his head on the pillow next to you.
You roll over and kiss him hard on the mouth, pulling him close, cupping a cheek in one of your hands. “I love you,” you say. “So much.”
“I love you too.” He leans to kiss your neck, permanent bedhead tickling your cheek. “Is it okay if I take your jeans off?”
You swallow and nod. “Yeah.”
He pecks your lips and undoes the button on your jeans and your fly, sliding them down. You help him out, kicking them off and tossing them across the room.
John watches you for an eternity that lasts only a few seconds, but is long enough to make you swallow and fidget nervously. Your thighs are scarred worse than anything yet, layers and rows of purple lines. Your boyfriend’s mouth pulls down at the corners. A sharp pang of guilt and shame stabs through your gut.
“John, I’m sorry. I told you it was bad.”
“I’m not upset about that, oh god, shh.” He pecks your lips again. “I was just sad that you used to hurt so much. And I’m really really happy that you’re not hurting quite so much anymore.”
“Yeah, but now my thighs are like, they look like, I don’t know, a fuckin’ torture victim’s. Whatever will happen to my dream of being a male model now?”
“Male models are all airbrushed anyway.”
He scoots down and kisses a scar just above your knee. “I love you,” he whispers, and moves his lips to the next one, and whispers another reverent “I love you.” His breath is gentle wind against your nerves. Being touched like this is simultaneously the sweetest and most sensual thing you’ve ever experienced, and as he travels upward and lets his hands settle at your hips again, you make a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob.
“Shh,” he murmurs, moving ever-upward. “I love you.” His tongue flicks out, just barely, to touch the marks. “You’re wonderful.” Another scar. “And perfect.” Another. “And talented…”
“…and sweet…”
“…and caring…”
“…and loving…”
“…and funny…”
“…and brave…”
“…and strong…”
“…and sometimes maybe sort of kind of cool…”
“…and I love you more than anything in the whole world.”
By the time he’s finished, nibbling on the line of your hipbone, you’re trembling. You’re also trying to catch your breath and come up with some way to show him how fucking much you adore him. While you’re distracted, he crawls back up and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“And you deserve to be loved more than you have been.”
Yep, that’s the cue. Your eyes start leaking the fuck everywhere. How strange. You push up your shades to rub at them, breath hitching.
John kisses all of your fucking dumb tears away too.
Once you get your bearings, the sex happens. To be honest, it’s pretty awkward and silly, and you and John both end up giggling a lot, and you are so fucking happy that you let him see you. And you are so fucking happy to love every single part of him, even the chubbiness and body hair. God, you love him so fucking much it hurts.
When it’s over, the two of you doze cocooned in the blankets. You feel like you could just fall asleep now from the combination of emotions and physical exhaustion, and you’re almost certain John feels the same.
He kisses the back of your neck, grinning. “You’re still a dork, though,” he whispers.
“Fuck you,” you whisper back.
And everything – everything – is okay.