Mine
Title: Mine
Universe: AU
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: cutting. of skin. and porn.
Pairing: pinto
Summary: fills the kink!bingo prompt "scars/scarification"
Disclaimer: FICTION. MADE UP. NO BASIS IN REALITY WHATSOEVER.
A/N: ohhhh yeah, there's no reason for this.
“Umm… Chris?”
Zach knows he isn’t supposed to know the kid’s name; he’s only a freshman after all, a skinny-but-growing freshman with broad shoulders, and blond hair, and eyes like a summer sky, and…
Zach really isn’t supposed to know the kid’s name.
“Hey… Chris.”
The kid is standing at the sink in the deserted locker room, rinsing something in the basin. Zach doesn’t even know what he could be doing here this late- it’s well past the time when the baseball team gets done practicing; Zach himself is only here because he’s been working late on a set for the spring musical. He’s come into the locker room near the woodshop to wash the paint off his hands, and here is this little twerp with the amazing ass monopolizing the sink, with the water apparently too loud to hear Zach call his name.
He steps forward, reaching out to put a hand on the guy’s shoulder.
“Hey. Chris.”
The kid jumps nearly a foot, yelping in surprise and dropping whatever it is that he’s rinsing into the sink basin. Is that, Zach squints, is that a razor blade?
“Jesus fuck! What the hell, man, you scared the shit out of me!”
The kid is leaning against the sink, one hand clutched over his heart, his eyes wide. Zach takes a step back.
“Sorry. I called your name, like, three times.” He blinks. “You didn’t hear me?”
“No, I didn’t hear you. Geez.”
The kid looks anxious, Zach thinks, and he’s interposing his body between Zach and the sink. Which, of course, just makes Zach lean around to see, because really, the best way to make sure someone notices what you’re trying to hide? Be obvious about trying to hide it.
“Dude. What the hell are you doing with a razor blade, anyway? That thing’s from the bio lab, did you lift it?”
The kid flushes bright red, starting at the neck of his white t-shirt and spreading upwards, the damp skin pooling with blood as he ducks his head. Zach wants to touch it, see if the exposed dermis is as warm as it looks.
“You’re not trying to shave with that, are you?” Zach can feel his eyebrows rising.
Pale blond brows draw down over those ridiculously colored eyes as he scowls.
“No, I’m not trying to shave with it, Jesus, what, do you think I’m a total moron?”
He folds his arms across his chest, still blocking the sink.
Zach rolls his eyes. “Well, I don’t know, do I? I come into the bathroom, and some idiot kid is tying up the sink rinsing a razor blade.” He leans forward, peering into the sink, suddenly noticing the drop of red still lingering on the porcelin edge. “Did you cut yourself? Are you ok?” A sudden wave of panic hits his gut, and he steps forward, puts a hand on Chris’ shoulder (warm, firm).
“Did you hurt yourself? Should I call someone? Do you need to talk?”
Chris rolls his eyes so hard Zach’s surprised they don’t stick back in his skull.
“No, oh my god, I’m fine. I’m not a cutter, you can go away now, forget you ever saw anything. Go hang out with the other seniors or something, whatever it is you jackasses do.”
Zach must still look disbelieving, because Chris shrugs off his hand, thrusts his tanned arms out in front of him, fists nearly colliding with Zach’s chest.
“See? No scars. No cuts. I’m fine.”
He’s telling the truth, Zach admits to himself. There is not so much as a golden hair out of place on those lightly muscled arms. He firmly resists the urge to stroke a finger along the creamy inside where he can see the faint blue tracing of a vein. Just a finger.
Or maybe a tongue.
Fuck.
He shakes his head, and Chris gives him a funny look.
“Ok, sorry. Just… you know, you never know.” He gestures lamely, and takes a step toward the sink. “You done?”
“Yeah, all yours, man.”
Zach shoves his hands under the stream, soaping thoroughly and rinsing, carefully not looking at the other boy’s tapered and lean fingers as he collects the abandoned blade and wipes it on a paper towel.
He rinses again, shakes the water off, and grabs his own piece of dark brown folded paper, drying each finger carefully, careful not to catch Chris’ eyes in the mirror.
It’s as the kid steps away from the sink that Zach notices the towel wrapped around his ankle. The towel wrapped around his ankle that is showing a small splotch of spreading red against the pristine white of the terry cloth.
Zach is mad, suddenly, skipping straight past annoyed and into downright pissed off.
It’s been a long day; he’s tired, all he ever wanted to do was wash the damn paint off his hands, and here’s this ludicrously, beautifully, I’d-like-to-fuck-him-into-next-week hot kid, here when he’s got no reason to be, hurt, and apparently lying to Zach about it.
Not. Acceptable.
Without a second thought he grabs the kid by the shirt, and manhandles him so that he’s sitting on the bench in the handicapped shower stall, pushing him down and dropping to his knees in front of him. Chris is wiry and tough, but Zach is older, and has the advantage of surprise. He pushes him back down with a firm jab to the solar plexus when he starts to rise, glaring him into submission.
“What the fuck, man? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The kid sounds irate, and panicky, his voice rising high, and Zach slaps his hands more than a little hard as Chris tries to push him away.
“You little prick, you lied to me.” He yanks at the towel, ignoring the kid’s futile attempts at escape. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
He looks up as the towel falls away just in time to see all the color drain from the kid’s face, to see him sink his perfect teeth into that plump bottom lip, and damned if his dick isn’t suddenly all sorts of interested in the fact that he’s here kneeling between Mr. Jail-bait’s knees.
He drops his eyes to the guy’s ankle, pressing the towel gently to the skin, dabbing away the excess blood to see…
“…letters?”
The silence from above his head is resounding.
“Dude, why would you cut letters into your leg? That’s totally gonna leave a scar…oh. Oh.”
He glances up again. Chris’ face is mesmerizing, every golden freckle standing out in bas relief against the milk white of his skin, his lip bleached where his teeth are sunk in, but gleaming red across the rest.
Zach can’t help himself. He locks eyes with him, pushes ever so lightly on the wound.
It’s Zach’s turn now to bite his lip, fighting the sudden rush of blood to his cock as those sharp blue eyes blow wide at the pressure.
The moment is too intimate. His head spins.
He looks at the letters again, raises the towel to blot them again, taking Chris’ foot in his hand to tip the skin so he can read them.
“…Zach…don’t…”
The kid’s voice is thin, breathy, and Zach frowns as he turns his calf in his grip.
“Since when do you know my name? And what is this, anyway? Are these…initials?”
Silence.
Zach’s seen this before, remembers his brother’s edgy ex-girlfriend and her companions, how they used to have these little tracings of letters, boyfriend’s names, all the way around their legs sometimes, the fiction and intensity of teenage love etched into their visible flesh, marks of self-declared possession, of masochistic claim.
“…Z…”
Zoe? He wonders. There’s a Zoe in their school. Must be her, he can’t think of any other names that start with a Z. Zelda? Zarabeth? Not likely.
Chris seems to have stopped breathing, and Zach forces himself to keep his touch light.
“…Q…”
The room swirls around him. Z…Q. ZQ.
The last time he checked, and he’s pretty damn sure he should know, those are not exactly common initials.
He looks up, his thumb ghosting over the exacting slices. The look on Chris’ face is two parts terror, one part sheer determination, and before Zach can even begin to form a word, Chris has fisted both hands in his shirt and hauled him up on his knees, mashing his lips to Zach’s with little finesse.
It’s the hottest thing Zach’s ever felt; Chris’ skin where his hands move across the smooth planes is just as warm as that blush foreshadowed, and the hairs on his arms are soft, nearly untouchable in their fineness. Chris’ tongue is pushing indelicately at his lips, all blunt force and no art, but Zach is so far beyond caring that he moans and opens his mouth, sucking Chris’ tongue into his mouth and tasting it with his own. Chris is whimpering into his mouth, his hands clutching and pulling at his shirt, winding his uninjured leg around Zach’s hips as Zach kneels up to bring them chest to chest.
Chris’ skin is heated, a slight film of sweat on the planes of his chest as Zach slips a hand under his shirt and pushes back just slightly, just enough so he can see. Chris’ eyes are squeezed shut, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he runs a tongue across his swollen bottom lip, making Zach’s heart skip a full beat, stuttering in his chest.
“…you… you did that… for me?” He can hear that his voice is cracking, husky with surprise and lust. He raises a finger to trace the pad across the fine hairs of an eyebrow wrinkled into a question mark over a translucent eyelid.
Chris winces, eyes still closed.
“Sorry, know it’s fucking weird, just…” He opens his eyes, pins Zach with those gin-colored eyes. “Wanted you. Wanted to be yours.” He licks his lips again, and Zach feels his hips clench as his dick pushes ever more insistently at the edge of the bench. “Wanted to be all yours, wanted you to mark me, to make me yours, to have you on my skin…” He looks away, and Zach couldn’t move if he wanted to. “Didn’t think you’d want me, so I did it for you…” Drags his eyes back to Zach’s, all full of confrontation and determination and hope.
“Fuck.”
Zach grabs his hips, hauling him hard to the edge, pressing them together from crotch to mouth as he claims Chris’ tongue, his throat, his clavicle.
“Fuck. God in Heaven. You want to be mine?”
“Yes…”
“You want me to mark you?”
“God, yes…”
Zach gets a hand between them while he’s sucking a bruise onto Chris’ neck as he writhes, his heated breaths whispering past Zach’s ear and his hands burrowing shamelessly down Zach’s pants. He spares a moment to thank whichever saint is responsible for jocks and their elastic waist shorts, and then he has Chris’ dick in his hand, thick and pulsing and wonderful, and the moan that Chris gives off is ambrosia to his ears, he could listen to that sound forever.
There’s a painful sounding thud as Chris’ head hits the wall, which is probably directly related to the fact that Zach has managed to bend over enough to fasten his mouth around the head of Chris’ very pleased cock. Zach closes his eyes, trailing his tongue around, pushing gently at the tip and beginning to smile.
Bliss. This is what it feels like. He half expects to wake up any second, but decides it really doesn’t matter, he may as well enjoy the ride.
He licks again, sliding his tongue to chase the taste, but is suddenly hauled back up as Chris hooks his hands in Zach’s armpits and pulls, capturing his mouth with mindless abandon as he slides a hand down to grasp Zach’s dick and pull, making him shudder in near sensory overload.
“God, Zach…”
Zach pushes Chris’ knees wide with his elbows, leaning Chris back against the wall, and wrapping his fingers around them both, gasping helplessly at the sensation of Chris’ warm, slippery length against his own. His fingers tighten of their own accord, working against and with the movement beginning to rise insistently between them, pulling them both along in a rushing flood of sensation. He can’t tell whose moans are whose anymore, and has a faint thought that he sure hopes no one is passing in the hall, before he is flying past the point of any thought at all, coming as hard as he ever has, feeling Chris’ answering push against him as he straightens and freezes, crying out before sinking back against the wall with a strung out groan.
“Oh. My. God.”
Zach chuckles and raises his head from where it has fallen onto Chris’ stomach. He’s not sure he has kneecaps left at this point, thanks to the solid concrete below, but he’s also not convinced that he cares at all. He lets his eyes travel slowly up the panorama of debauched golden boy in front of him, his gaze chasing the rising blush all the way up to those twinkling eyes.
He pushes, gently, so gently, on those thin lines of already-forming scar tissue, watching as Chris’ eyes flutter shut and his teeth skate across his lip.
Zach smiles.
“Mine.”
Universe: AU
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: cutting. of skin. and porn.
Pairing: pinto
Summary: fills the kink!bingo prompt "scars/scarification"
Disclaimer: FICTION. MADE UP. NO BASIS IN REALITY WHATSOEVER.
A/N: ohhhh yeah, there's no reason for this.
“Umm… Chris?”
Zach knows he isn’t supposed to know the kid’s name; he’s only a freshman after all, a skinny-but-growing freshman with broad shoulders, and blond hair, and eyes like a summer sky, and…
Zach really isn’t supposed to know the kid’s name.
“Hey… Chris.”
The kid is standing at the sink in the deserted locker room, rinsing something in the basin. Zach doesn’t even know what he could be doing here this late- it’s well past the time when the baseball team gets done practicing; Zach himself is only here because he’s been working late on a set for the spring musical. He’s come into the locker room near the woodshop to wash the paint off his hands, and here is this little twerp with the amazing ass monopolizing the sink, with the water apparently too loud to hear Zach call his name.
He steps forward, reaching out to put a hand on the guy’s shoulder.
“Hey. Chris.”
The kid jumps nearly a foot, yelping in surprise and dropping whatever it is that he’s rinsing into the sink basin. Is that, Zach squints, is that a razor blade?
“Jesus fuck! What the hell, man, you scared the shit out of me!”
The kid is leaning against the sink, one hand clutched over his heart, his eyes wide. Zach takes a step back.
“Sorry. I called your name, like, three times.” He blinks. “You didn’t hear me?”
“No, I didn’t hear you. Geez.”
The kid looks anxious, Zach thinks, and he’s interposing his body between Zach and the sink. Which, of course, just makes Zach lean around to see, because really, the best way to make sure someone notices what you’re trying to hide? Be obvious about trying to hide it.
“Dude. What the hell are you doing with a razor blade, anyway? That thing’s from the bio lab, did you lift it?”
The kid flushes bright red, starting at the neck of his white t-shirt and spreading upwards, the damp skin pooling with blood as he ducks his head. Zach wants to touch it, see if the exposed dermis is as warm as it looks.
“You’re not trying to shave with that, are you?” Zach can feel his eyebrows rising.
Pale blond brows draw down over those ridiculously colored eyes as he scowls.
“No, I’m not trying to shave with it, Jesus, what, do you think I’m a total moron?”
He folds his arms across his chest, still blocking the sink.
Zach rolls his eyes. “Well, I don’t know, do I? I come into the bathroom, and some idiot kid is tying up the sink rinsing a razor blade.” He leans forward, peering into the sink, suddenly noticing the drop of red still lingering on the porcelin edge. “Did you cut yourself? Are you ok?” A sudden wave of panic hits his gut, and he steps forward, puts a hand on Chris’ shoulder (warm, firm).
“Did you hurt yourself? Should I call someone? Do you need to talk?”
Chris rolls his eyes so hard Zach’s surprised they don’t stick back in his skull.
“No, oh my god, I’m fine. I’m not a cutter, you can go away now, forget you ever saw anything. Go hang out with the other seniors or something, whatever it is you jackasses do.”
Zach must still look disbelieving, because Chris shrugs off his hand, thrusts his tanned arms out in front of him, fists nearly colliding with Zach’s chest.
“See? No scars. No cuts. I’m fine.”
He’s telling the truth, Zach admits to himself. There is not so much as a golden hair out of place on those lightly muscled arms. He firmly resists the urge to stroke a finger along the creamy inside where he can see the faint blue tracing of a vein. Just a finger.
Or maybe a tongue.
Fuck.
He shakes his head, and Chris gives him a funny look.
“Ok, sorry. Just… you know, you never know.” He gestures lamely, and takes a step toward the sink. “You done?”
“Yeah, all yours, man.”
Zach shoves his hands under the stream, soaping thoroughly and rinsing, carefully not looking at the other boy’s tapered and lean fingers as he collects the abandoned blade and wipes it on a paper towel.
He rinses again, shakes the water off, and grabs his own piece of dark brown folded paper, drying each finger carefully, careful not to catch Chris’ eyes in the mirror.
It’s as the kid steps away from the sink that Zach notices the towel wrapped around his ankle. The towel wrapped around his ankle that is showing a small splotch of spreading red against the pristine white of the terry cloth.
Zach is mad, suddenly, skipping straight past annoyed and into downright pissed off.
It’s been a long day; he’s tired, all he ever wanted to do was wash the damn paint off his hands, and here’s this ludicrously, beautifully, I’d-like-to-fuck-him-into-next-week hot kid, here when he’s got no reason to be, hurt, and apparently lying to Zach about it.
Not. Acceptable.
Without a second thought he grabs the kid by the shirt, and manhandles him so that he’s sitting on the bench in the handicapped shower stall, pushing him down and dropping to his knees in front of him. Chris is wiry and tough, but Zach is older, and has the advantage of surprise. He pushes him back down with a firm jab to the solar plexus when he starts to rise, glaring him into submission.
“What the fuck, man? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The kid sounds irate, and panicky, his voice rising high, and Zach slaps his hands more than a little hard as Chris tries to push him away.
“You little prick, you lied to me.” He yanks at the towel, ignoring the kid’s futile attempts at escape. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
He looks up as the towel falls away just in time to see all the color drain from the kid’s face, to see him sink his perfect teeth into that plump bottom lip, and damned if his dick isn’t suddenly all sorts of interested in the fact that he’s here kneeling between Mr. Jail-bait’s knees.
He drops his eyes to the guy’s ankle, pressing the towel gently to the skin, dabbing away the excess blood to see…
“…letters?”
The silence from above his head is resounding.
“Dude, why would you cut letters into your leg? That’s totally gonna leave a scar…oh. Oh.”
He glances up again. Chris’ face is mesmerizing, every golden freckle standing out in bas relief against the milk white of his skin, his lip bleached where his teeth are sunk in, but gleaming red across the rest.
Zach can’t help himself. He locks eyes with him, pushes ever so lightly on the wound.
It’s Zach’s turn now to bite his lip, fighting the sudden rush of blood to his cock as those sharp blue eyes blow wide at the pressure.
The moment is too intimate. His head spins.
He looks at the letters again, raises the towel to blot them again, taking Chris’ foot in his hand to tip the skin so he can read them.
“…Zach…don’t…”
The kid’s voice is thin, breathy, and Zach frowns as he turns his calf in his grip.
“Since when do you know my name? And what is this, anyway? Are these…initials?”
Silence.
Zach’s seen this before, remembers his brother’s edgy ex-girlfriend and her companions, how they used to have these little tracings of letters, boyfriend’s names, all the way around their legs sometimes, the fiction and intensity of teenage love etched into their visible flesh, marks of self-declared possession, of masochistic claim.
“…Z…”
Zoe? He wonders. There’s a Zoe in their school. Must be her, he can’t think of any other names that start with a Z. Zelda? Zarabeth? Not likely.
Chris seems to have stopped breathing, and Zach forces himself to keep his touch light.
“…Q…”
The room swirls around him. Z…Q. ZQ.
The last time he checked, and he’s pretty damn sure he should know, those are not exactly common initials.
He looks up, his thumb ghosting over the exacting slices. The look on Chris’ face is two parts terror, one part sheer determination, and before Zach can even begin to form a word, Chris has fisted both hands in his shirt and hauled him up on his knees, mashing his lips to Zach’s with little finesse.
It’s the hottest thing Zach’s ever felt; Chris’ skin where his hands move across the smooth planes is just as warm as that blush foreshadowed, and the hairs on his arms are soft, nearly untouchable in their fineness. Chris’ tongue is pushing indelicately at his lips, all blunt force and no art, but Zach is so far beyond caring that he moans and opens his mouth, sucking Chris’ tongue into his mouth and tasting it with his own. Chris is whimpering into his mouth, his hands clutching and pulling at his shirt, winding his uninjured leg around Zach’s hips as Zach kneels up to bring them chest to chest.
Chris’ skin is heated, a slight film of sweat on the planes of his chest as Zach slips a hand under his shirt and pushes back just slightly, just enough so he can see. Chris’ eyes are squeezed shut, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he runs a tongue across his swollen bottom lip, making Zach’s heart skip a full beat, stuttering in his chest.
“…you… you did that… for me?” He can hear that his voice is cracking, husky with surprise and lust. He raises a finger to trace the pad across the fine hairs of an eyebrow wrinkled into a question mark over a translucent eyelid.
Chris winces, eyes still closed.
“Sorry, know it’s fucking weird, just…” He opens his eyes, pins Zach with those gin-colored eyes. “Wanted you. Wanted to be yours.” He licks his lips again, and Zach feels his hips clench as his dick pushes ever more insistently at the edge of the bench. “Wanted to be all yours, wanted you to mark me, to make me yours, to have you on my skin…” He looks away, and Zach couldn’t move if he wanted to. “Didn’t think you’d want me, so I did it for you…” Drags his eyes back to Zach’s, all full of confrontation and determination and hope.
“Fuck.”
Zach grabs his hips, hauling him hard to the edge, pressing them together from crotch to mouth as he claims Chris’ tongue, his throat, his clavicle.
“Fuck. God in Heaven. You want to be mine?”
“Yes…”
“You want me to mark you?”
“God, yes…”
Zach gets a hand between them while he’s sucking a bruise onto Chris’ neck as he writhes, his heated breaths whispering past Zach’s ear and his hands burrowing shamelessly down Zach’s pants. He spares a moment to thank whichever saint is responsible for jocks and their elastic waist shorts, and then he has Chris’ dick in his hand, thick and pulsing and wonderful, and the moan that Chris gives off is ambrosia to his ears, he could listen to that sound forever.
There’s a painful sounding thud as Chris’ head hits the wall, which is probably directly related to the fact that Zach has managed to bend over enough to fasten his mouth around the head of Chris’ very pleased cock. Zach closes his eyes, trailing his tongue around, pushing gently at the tip and beginning to smile.
Bliss. This is what it feels like. He half expects to wake up any second, but decides it really doesn’t matter, he may as well enjoy the ride.
He licks again, sliding his tongue to chase the taste, but is suddenly hauled back up as Chris hooks his hands in Zach’s armpits and pulls, capturing his mouth with mindless abandon as he slides a hand down to grasp Zach’s dick and pull, making him shudder in near sensory overload.
“God, Zach…”
Zach pushes Chris’ knees wide with his elbows, leaning Chris back against the wall, and wrapping his fingers around them both, gasping helplessly at the sensation of Chris’ warm, slippery length against his own. His fingers tighten of their own accord, working against and with the movement beginning to rise insistently between them, pulling them both along in a rushing flood of sensation. He can’t tell whose moans are whose anymore, and has a faint thought that he sure hopes no one is passing in the hall, before he is flying past the point of any thought at all, coming as hard as he ever has, feeling Chris’ answering push against him as he straightens and freezes, crying out before sinking back against the wall with a strung out groan.
“Oh. My. God.”
Zach chuckles and raises his head from where it has fallen onto Chris’ stomach. He’s not sure he has kneecaps left at this point, thanks to the solid concrete below, but he’s also not convinced that he cares at all. He lets his eyes travel slowly up the panorama of debauched golden boy in front of him, his gaze chasing the rising blush all the way up to those twinkling eyes.
He pushes, gently, so gently, on those thin lines of already-forming scar tissue, watching as Chris’ eyes flutter shut and his teeth skate across his lip.
Zach smiles.
“Mine.”