So, I was just sitting in my dorm room at like one in the morning, writing BTR porn, you know, normal stuff, when I realized that I'd never put the majority of my kinkmeme fills on here. Which is like, a travesty, considering I have thousands and thousands of words of BTR porn sitting on my hardrive and livejournal.
Warnings for this fill: Bloodplay
Pairing: Carlos/Logan
Rating:PG-13
For as far back as Logan can remember, Carlos has always had an unusual penchant for dangerous activities. Carlos is the kind of guy who runs into walls and throws himself into wells, tries to jump things that the laws of physics clearly state cannot be jumped. That's simply the kind of guy Carlos is, it's what makes him Carlos; loveable, stupid, ridiculous Carlos.
"Oh shit!" There is a loud crash from the living room, the shatter of glass. The sound itself is distinctly Carlos, at least, distinct in the sense that it is a noise that often follows one of Carlos' master plans. He pauses mid-line in his textbook, waiting for either the patter of Mrs. Knight's footsteps as she runs out to check on Carlos or for Carlos to burst out laughing. There is only silence. There is never silence in the apartment, not when he's trying to study for a test.
He saves his place in his book with his blue highlighter, sticks his head out into the hallway.
"Carlos?" He doesn't get an answer, not a single peep. Shit. "Carlos what the hell did you do?" Carlos is sitting on the floor, his back to Logan, and around him there are dozens of shards of glass, crumbled on the ground like translucent snowflakes faintly pink with blood. "Carlos!"
"Dude." Carlos says softly, an exhalation of breath, eyes round and wide with awe. Carlos has crashed through the glass dome of the air hockey game and clutched in his palm is an impressive chunk of glass eight inches long. It's nearly an inch thick and the first five inches of it are smeared red and wet with blood. "That was in me." With that, Carlos promptly falls backwards, his helmet making a thunk as it collides with the floor.
True enough, the glass really was in Carlos, Logan can see the rapidly expanding line of red blossoming from his chest up near his shoulder, close to the bottom of his collarbone. The wound looks bad and Carlos of course pulled it out when everyone else in the world knows that you are supposed to leave things randomly impaled inside you in.
Mrs. Knight keeps a first aid kit under the sinks in the kitchen and the bathroom. Her motto is that you can never have enough first aid supplies with four teenage boys in the same apartment, especially when one of the boys is Carlos. He removes a pad of gauze, prepared to apply pressure like he'll learn in medical school someday if this whole rock star thing doesn't work out.
Carlos opens his eyes and blinks up at him, slow and lazy, the flush of excitement draining from his cheeks, leaving him pale beneath his natural tan. He looks helpless, utterly vulnerable, and for some reason the sad, pained expression on Carlos' face has heat rushing to Logan's belly, goose bumps rising on his skin. Carlos is bleeding and he needs to dress the wound, stop staring and mop up the blood.
"I'll have you patched up in a minute." He places a hand on Carlos' forehead briefly to reassure him, then cuts the front of his shirt away with the small, blue medical scissors.
The cut is worse than he anticipated it would be. The glass was in Carlos pretty deep and the flesh is torn from when Carlos yanked it out. Blood seeps up from wound like bubbles to the surface of hot water, rising steadily with the even increase in heat, one continuous flow. He wipes the area around it to get a better look at the severity of the injury but the blood he cleans is replaced in less than a minute, Carlos' left side painted a pretty crimson. Logan feels like a sick, twisted human being for watching rather than helping, for yearning to slide his fingers across the slickness of Carlos' blood warmed skin. He wants to be a doctor for God's sake; this is a completely inappropriate reaction. He's never going to make it through three years of medical school.
Carlos' eyes roll white into the back of his head, his mouth open, barely half conscious, knocked out from the shock of it all more so than the actual blood loss. "You're gonna be fine." Carlos' blood is spread out over his fingers and they are a lovely, dark cherry color up to the knuckles. He leans forward, careful not to disturb Carlos further, and in a rushing moment of spontaneity none of his friends would ever believe if he for some reason decided to tell them, he touches the very tip of his tongue to the bottom of the cut.
The blood is hot and he tastes the bitter tang of salt and iron. It's not an entirely unpleasant flavor, somewhat similar to sucking on a penny warmed by the sun. He could get used to the taste, and he does, presses his tongue flat onto the surface of Carlos' skin and trails it up in one long lick. Carlos moves slightly beneath him, moaning in pain or arousal or confusion, maybe all three. "Hm." He hums, lapping up more blood, his nose resting against the blood free part of Carlos' chest. This is so fucked up, too good for words. He's probably a sick bastard for enjoying this as much as he is. He's definitely going to be a crappy and creepy doctor.
The blood flow starts to ebb a little as Carlos' wound begins to clot and he experimentally pushes his tongue over and into the cut to seek out more of the sour metallic taste. His tongue is thicker than the cut, however, and it doesn't fit in easily, takes a little wriggling for him to part the two section of flesh wide enough. Carlos makes a keening whine, shuddering, but he's still too out of it to do more than shift where he lies. Inside the cut Carlos is warmer and sweeter, raw and tender. He crouches there on the floor, his face wet with Carlos' blood, tongue inside a new, virgin part of him, and for the first time is acutely aware of the pressure in the front of his jeans. He never knew he was this kinky.
"Lo-Logan?" Carlos gropes blindly for him. "What're you doing?" His words are slurred, bleary, feather soft and butterfly quiet. Carlos is on the edge of consciousness again and Logan seizes the brief opportunity to kiss him, shove his tongue past Carlos' lips this time, taste a different kind of sweet. Carlos drifts out a few seconds into the kiss but Logan continues to wreck his mouth to his liking and when he's out of breath and forced to break the kiss, he finds that Carlos' lips and chin are messy red with his own blood.
Finally, at the risk of becoming a complete and total pervert, he gives Carlos one last lick and puts a square of gauze over the wound, calls Mrs. Knight so she can drive Carlos to the hospital to get him stitches.
A few days later, when Carlos pops his stitches playing hockey, Logan holds his hand to Carlos' chest to stop the bleeding, and sucks the blood off his palm the second he's alone.