Really, this is some very poor PWP pr0n. This is just sex for sex's sake there's really no plot. But there's a lot of drabble there. Yeah, really not my best stuff but dang…does it ever make me happy. .
"Existentialism"
The school is dark and empty, the halls stretching on further and further into nonexistent points of eternity. To black little dots that lead to nowhere at the end of long corridors. In a corner of the school with the pungent smell of mildew and the sharp scent of water-dripping metal, Scott stands in the shadowed locker room.
His hands are clenched to his sides in tight dirty fists, the white tips of his fingernails dusted brown with caked soil beneath them. His face is calico spots of black and brown dirt clinging to his normally pale and fresh features. There are bright red drops on his lower lip that make a short river to the end of his chin and drop soundlessly to the floor.
Scott unclenches his fists, letting them rest helplessly by his sides.
Fighting again, Mr. Summers? The words repeat in his mind. He opens his locker door with a smooth clink. He thinks of how he must've looked then. Dirty, ruined, beaten. And his hand rams sharply against the row of lockers as he thinks of how Alvers had looked just then. Dirty, resilient, defiant, and heated.
He had looked victorious.
Scott lets his clothes fall off him to an unceremonious silent flop on the tile. He knows the blood must be staining his khakis, but for once in his life, he doesn't care.
Everything seems soiled and worn to him anyway.
The locker room, his clothes, himself; all filthy, beaten, and ashamed.
He walks slowly towards the showers, his body feeling raw and awkward. Scott holds his towel in a loose grasp as his shod feet shuffle to the black, reflective silence of the tiled shower room.
The water sprays in sputtering shots; cold and hissing from the shower head. Scott winces as the water claws over his fresh wounds and bruises. It feels strangely rewarding though. As if being punished for his failure.
Failure.
The word sticks in his mind more roughly than the dirt to his skin. Scott tilts his head back in a quiet hope that the harsh water will drag away the shame as it slinks down the drain.
Sporadically, the water heats up to a dull warm temperature. It feels even more soiled than he himself does. It slides thickly over his body and Scott rubs it along his hands and face. It sprinkles over his shades and for a moment Scott almost feels embarrassed about it.
The water is muddy but natural in the lack of light. Where nothing can see. It makes Scott comfortable in the covering blackness. Nothing is red here. His blood, the dirt, all of it is ebony and nothing more than touch. There is no shelter like the dark.
Then there are wet footsteps echoing around him.
Scott turns quickly, tense, but as the darkness has sheltered him, it has sheltered the newcomer as well. He speaks in a strong voice, but if one was clever they could hear the slight croak.
"Who's there?"
There isn't a response, but the footsteps stop.
There is silence.
Then a low and familiar chuckle begins. It's soft but resonates off the enclosed walls over the sound of the spating water.
"Summers."
Every part of Scott's body tightens. His breath stops a moment. He struggles to see in the once needed obscurity.
He hears the steps approach him.
"Get away Alvers. I'm warning you." Scott's voice is hard and stern. His fingers grip the brim of his shades.
"What are you gonna do?" Alvers chides. He seems closer. Scott reaches out listening for his voice, but the walls box it in and bounce it around. And the water runs quickly and beats the tile.
Scott feels a hand gripping tightly on his arm. He grabs it and tries to throw Lance to the closest wall. He miscalculates. Failure.
The two tumble to the hard floor immediately. There's a solid thunk and a cry of pain.
Scott smirks a little, realizing that this may have worked better. He grabs for his rival's arms as Lance has reached back to cradle his aching head. Scott rips them from Lance's head and pins them back against the floor. He feels the veins in Lance's forearms push roughly against his tightened palms as the muscles tense.
Lance's foot blindly slides across the light half-inch of water to kick Scott off of him; he struggles wildly against the tight hold. Scott begins to feel the ground shake and quickly boxes his body over Lance's. He presses his knees on either side of Lance's legs and forces the forearms further into the tile, knowing red indents would appear in Lance's flesh. Scott can feel the hot, damp breath in the already wet air. Heated. Defiant. And victorious. Scott's grip tightens more.
"Let me go!" Lance demands, trying to push Scott's body from his. The ground is shaking harder but Scott's knees pin against Lance's thighs tightly. As he hears the sharp sound of tile beginning to crack, he finally releases one of Lance's arms. Then Scott reaches back and bashes his fist across Lance's face.
Scott doesn't need the light to know he hit his mark. He feels the wet flesh as he hears the sharp hit. He smirks to himself as the ground stops shaking abruptly and Lance's cheek slams against the soaked floor. The back of Scott's knuckles feel wet and he brings them up to his face and smells the familiar dampness of blood.
Lance's body then bucks harshly to try to throw Scott off. Quickly, Scott's hands thrust down to try and force Lance's shoulder to the floor, but his palm, instead, pushes against Lance's mouth and starts to roll the head back into the tile. Scott's fingers feel messy and strung together with blood. A seismic shockwave emits from Lance's body out of panic as he rips at Scott's arm to let go. The ground rumbles hard.
Scott grabs Lance's face and smashes the back of his head into the quaking tiles and the earth stops moving. Lance lets out a pained high-pitched noise. It sounds pathetic. Scott feels Lance's grip loosen and hang weakly from his forearm.
The water splashes vacantly behind them. Scott squints to see if Lance's eyes are closed, if they are staring straight up, or darting around searching the darkness. He can't see anything. He leans closer, moving his sticky hand from Lance's face and grabbing back onto his rival's now loose arm.
Scott can feel soft and hot, erratic breath against his face. His own chest touches accidentally on top of the rising and falling one beneath him. He means to just see if he can find those dark eyes in the even darker shadows. He means to see if that rebellious spark is still flickering there, even if it is murky or hidden.
Scott tastes the blood first.
His lips are slick with the sudden flavor of salty wetness. He jerks his head back slightly at the sudden taste and touch. Lance inhales sharply. Scott hadn't meant it. He only wants to see those smug eyes under the haze of defeat.
But nothing is revealed. The darkness still covers them. The stream of water continues to crash violently behind them in a wash of white noise. And it doesn't take Scott more than a moment to realize that they are just two figures in the concealing shadows. Nothing more than sounds echoing from the walls and breath sheltered by the orchestra of the showerhead. There is no definition of being in the darkness, no thought or purpose as to why anything is. Simply that it is.
Scott's head bows to Lance's dripping mouth again.
This time Lance's lips respond almost in agreement without sight. Perhaps he too knows that there is nothing to define him here. Or maybe his thoughts are too clouded to do anything but belie his subconscious.
And in the shadows, their hot mouths murmur against one another. It seems like eternity. As though there was nothing before or nothing ahead but the din and the heat. In the curling steam, the only tangibility in the room, Scott lifts Lance off of his back, still pressing his lips against the salt-warmed ones' of his rival.
Lance's arms grip onto Scott gently, almost weakly. But Scott feels no remorse. He feels himself taut against Lance's warm torso. Lance's kiss seems hungrier and more forceful as his hands tighten around Scott in a need for more, or a need not to fall. Suddenly a hot tongue licks on Scott's neck followed by slow soft nibbles. Lance's mouth feels so accurate and precise Scott wonders, briefly, how many lovers Lance has tasted in the dark. If there were any.
Then Scott is lying back on the slippery wetness. Space multiplied in front of him and the vague sense of a solid moving figure over his torso. The shallow pool beneath doesn't feel wrong but comfortable and thick. Lance is pressed against him and for a moment Scott isn't sure where Lance is on his body, or what part of Lance's body is touching him; and if Lance's face is above or over one of Scott's sides. For a moment Scott feels the anxiety of unknowing; the realization of where he is and what he's doing begins to settle in as his control has been relinquished.
Then the wet hotness of a mouth covers him.
It's sudden, soft, and silent as the heat engulfs. He thinks he can see Lance's slightly blacker form in the darkness, his head bowed and his damp hair falling onto Scott's stomach and hip. The mouth moving thoroughly and rhythmically as if trying to find all the answers it needs with touch and taste alone.
Scott's hair bunches in the tide of water beneath his head as his fingers tangle into Lance's unruly strands. Scott feels the head beneath his hands dip and rise slowly and feels the light thrill of blood hotness rise as well beneath his skin. Scott's hands ball into fists quickly when Lance's teeth graze the skin. But Lance jerks his head back and pries Scott's fingers from his head. And Scott is left with a cold, drenched wetness, his breath still harsh.
He wants to question the sudden abandonment when he feels moisture on his fingertips and remembers smashing the back of Lance's head into the tile. Lance's thighs tense with pain against his own. Scott can vaguely make out Lance's arms folding over his head in protection. Scott sits up and stares at the curling figure his arms grayed in the darkness.
Without questioning further, Scott pushes Lance backwards against the floor slowly. Lance is still grunting with pain and cradling his head.
Scott's fingers rub against the junction of Lance's strong inner thighs and his slender hips. Lance's voice is muffled and overtaken by the pounding shower behind him. It still vacantly assaults at nothingness, crashing at the floor and covering up the heavy breathing and the sound of skin gliding over skin. Scott's hands push Lance's thighs apart gently; he can't even see what's in front of him but he can feel the heat there. Lance's thighs begin to close against the hands forcing them back, but Scott resiliently holds them apart. For a brief moment he sees them both as if they're back in the hallway after school, fighting against one another, and he sees Lance's smirking, gloating face. But the thought vanishes with the flecks of wetness from the spraying water and the heavy scent of mold and sweat.
Lance begins to struggle against the hands and tries to force himself to sit up, pulling back and away. Scott sneers angrily and thrusts his hands to Lance's shoulders and pins the younger boy to the ground. Violently, Lance's body bucks beneath Scott's and for a moment the two touch.
Then the rush of water behind them blends into dull humming and for a moment the world is more a warm gray than a blood red black. Lance's back arches further to continue the sensation. The grazing of one against the other causes Scott's head to tilt back quickly. Yes. He hears, unsure if it was spoken or thought and not even sure by whom.
Hips rubbing against hips in a fast and wanting manner. Nothing but pure, desperate noise and friction in the torrential darkness. Scott's chest heaves as he tries to breathe in the solid air and the thudding of his own pulse. Lance's hot and gasping breaths fill his ears as the burning skin thrusts rapidly against his own.
Faster and louder, their silent voices thrown against one another in breathless, unintelligible moans. The heat and sensation igniting beneath their flesh, in their blood, whipping through their hearts like wind over buildings. Like standing at the top and tilting forward to jump.
And Scott feels the muscles tense against his. The fingers dig in a sharp new sensation of pain into his shoulder. Lance's moaning breath hisses into his ear. The gentle hiss, the sharp pain, the heated excitement. He lets go, and finds himself over the ledge. Weightless.
White noise.
The din of color. And where once was nothing, there is everything. Until the first sound he hears clearly is his own coursing breath, haggard in the syrupy thick air. His hands are shaking and he feels his body shaking and there are hot tears on his face. Or it could be shower water.
Scott can only see the tinted scarlet blackness and the form of Lance in front of him. He thinks he can make out the off-reddish tone of the boy's skin. And Scott thinks that for a moment, in those seconds when he was weightless, that in the cacophony of colors, he saw the true shade of Lance's skin. Maybe it was a color he imagined.
Suddenly Scott realizes that Lance is leaning against him heavily and lightly rubbing his messy damp hair into the crook of Scott's neck. Scott's jaw tightens. He then realizes that there are consequences to disproving the old myth that all there is in the light remains there in the dark.
Because everything begins to blend in the shadows. Everything becomes blackness and nothing, not even the intangible escapes back into the light. It must remain in the shadows.
Scott breaks away from the touch and feels Lance's warm breath against his neck. And Lance pauses. Then he rests his head upon Scott's collar bone softly again, his lips give a warm and questioning, insistent kiss. Scott pushes a hand against him again, lightly.
He stands unsteadily, and walks away from the boy on the floor. He steps into the stream of now colder water for a moment before turning it off. There is nothing now but obscurity, the empty space, and the hard drip of the faucet.
The light turns on and Scott's hand twitches on the switch. He looks back at Lance.
The younger boy's tan face is blotched with blood. A stream of it from behind the tangled strands over his forehead trails into the corner of his left eye; it seems to stain his sienna irises a deep red that then trails over his cheeks. It almost looks like he's been crying blood.
All Scott thinks is, He sees things like I do now.
He feels a thorny sting somewhere in the back of his mind and Scott refuses to believe that there was anything more than what just was. Nothing escapes back into the light. Not even the intangible.
So Scott turns and walks away, the sound of a hard drop of water hitting the tile and the vague splash of red dropping near-soundlessly to the floor.
And Scott closes his eyes.
There is nothing in the dark.