Your name is Dave Strider, and you have never been loved quite like this.
"Dave-" John was laying next to you in bed, wearing nothing but boxers. His hands clawed up your arm, his body warming yours.
"I told you it's not a pretty fuckin' sight." You didn't want John to see the imperfections marring your already imperfect body.
"You're absolutely perfect. I'd do anything for you to see it, anything." He plants a kiss on your cheek, trying to persuade you. He was one to talk; his self-confidence wasn't exactly the best either. Of course, he was amazing, you were not.
"Nope." You were hellbent on this; he could be clad in nothing but boxers at home (you preferred it honestly- he was so god damn adorable in them), but you'd only be wearing pants and a tee-shirt. You were also aware this was something you'd have to get over if you ever wanted to do anything with him (and god did you want to), but it'd happen later on. Somehow, you deluded yourself into thinking later was forever away.
He gets on top of you, hands at either side of you. His eyes wander over you, from the red in your eyes, to the white of your hair. Lifting a hand, he starts playing with your fair locks, twirling them around his index finger. Eventually, he just ran his fingers through your hair, knowing how much it made you relax. A small sigh escapes from between your lips, you were so serene. His hand goes back to where it was; his face draws closer to your face. He doesn't move; only his eyes.
He looks at every single freckle dusting your cheeks and nose, every single eyelash, every single crack in your lips that were always so god damn chapped. Even though he knew it made you uncomfortable when he stared into your eyes he did; finding every speck of ember in the red coloring your irises.
He drew even closer, his nose lightly touching yours. His lips met yours, their softness a contrast to your tough ones. You kissed him back, but let him lead. His tongue grazed against your teeth, as did yours to his. It was warm and wet, and it wasn't rushed like they usually were; it was slow, like a movie's. He drew back, taking in a breath, only to kiss from the tip of your nose to across your cheek to your earlobe; his teeth softly grazed against it, until they moved down to your neck.
He started sucking on the skin there, delicate and pale. It left a pretty good hickey; shit wasn't going to leave for days. And you don't think you wanted it to. The rest of his kisses are soft, trailing around the collar of your shirt.
You didn't let him finish.
"You won't get upset over it?" Your fear only lay in him leaving you over it; only a fool could think love was unconditional, what if this broke it?
"Never." He whispered against your skin, causing goosebumps to spurt. He moved to lay right next to you, trying to pull off your shirt. You assist him in this, if not straight out do it yourself.
You could feel him looking.
His fingers start to run down your arm, and you could see him bite his lip harder every time it went over a scar. Some were deep enough to leave a raised line; pink, long and straight, while others were shallow enough to be nearly white. He swiped his finger over one of them, and it somehow relaxed you. Your tense grip on the sheets you didn't know you were holding slackened; you almost felt like putty.
He leans in to kiss them, and you close your eyes.
Once again, he raises himself so he was right on top of you; you could feel his weight shift, but your eyes were still closed.
His fingers ghosted over the welts under your collarbones first, short, red, angry, and messy. His lips met them, too, gentle as ever. Then he moved down your chest, adorned with white angry lines from your strifes with Bro and the bullshit the game put you through; his fingers followed their trail, one leading into another. There was a birthmark there, too, which he kissed. He kissed the trails too, as if the kisses sealed the seams of the cuts so scars wouldn't remain.
He moved down to unzipping your jeans, which you helped him get off, still in total silence. It was a comfortable sort of silence; as if the air carried a conversation all its own.
Even in your boxers, you know he could see the lines marring your thin, gangly legs, too long for your frame. These, he ran his fingers over too. These, he pecked at as well. Then he looked up at you, with eyes even you couldn't quite place.
"I love you, Dave." He had moved back to laying next to you, cuddling into your side. You play with a lock of his hair, and replied with a stubborn,
"I love you more."
was that good enough im sorry i was sad and i shat this out