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katydidmischief) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
cjs_own2009-10-17 10:17 am
katydidmischief) wrote in cjs_own2009-10-17 10:17 am
Entry tags:
Fic: You Find Your Home, 1/1. Chris/Zach.
disclaimer. Not mine and none of the events described here in have any basis in reality.
title. You Find Your Home
rating. NC-17
pairing. Zach/Chris, pre-relationship.
summary. Pine knows he's a little infatuated with the man, but he can't bring himself to care.
warnings. Homelessness, AU
notes. Originally written for and posted at this thread on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
trek_rpf_kink.
Zach's a regular - soy latte, large, with a shot of espresso (weird, but not unusual for a college kid) - and Chris looks forward to seeing him every Tuesday and Thursday. The guy apparently has night classes two days a week and it's the only way he can get through Shakespearan Text I without causing harm to someone.
They always chat for a bit while Zach pays, trade laughs and sometimes, if it's slow, Quinto will grace him with a few lines from his latest extracurricular play; it makes Chris grin like a doofus when he does that.
His visits are the bright spots in an otherwise dull existence as Chris struggles to get through every shift, get through every day knowing that when night falls, he'll be sleeping on the dank, disgusting floor of the 59th and Colombus Street station. Sleeping there, washing in public restrooms and scraping up the money to survive by eating the unclaimed meals at work, he looks forward to hearing Zach's soft voice those two days a week.
Pine knows he's a little infatuated with the man, but he can't bring himself to care.
;;
Zach knows its kind of ridiculous that he walks six blocks to that particular coffee shop given how he passes seven more on his way there, but when asked, he always tells people how the walking is good for him and how a pretty face is worth the mild soreness he feels on thursdays after making the trek twice.
The barista (baristo?)is definitely worth it. He listens, Chris that is, even when Zach's rants are fucking idiotic at best and he seems to permanently have an eye out for him; he never really has to wait for his drink and it's made to perfection and it doesn't hurt that the guy who makes it for him is hot as all hell.
Slowly but surely he thinks they're becoming friends and Zach's glad for that because sometimes he wants to pull Chris into his arms and hug the guy until the sad look in his eyes falls away. Until the dark bags under his eyes clear, his shoulders lose the seemingly permanent tautness.
And it's with those thoughts one night in December, Zach rushing to the subway with Whole Foods bags hanging from his arms and his messanger bag beating a bruise into his thigh, that he trips over a bum near the turnstiles.
"Fuck, man, there's a shelter not that far from here!" he declares as he re-secures his groceries, not daring to take a look at the guy. Only as he pats himself down for his metrocard does he realize who precisely he'd just kicked in the back, doing a double take and murmuring, "Chris?"
The man in question looks up sheepishly, rubbing his back with one hand and grasping his own bag to himself as though Zach were about to take it. "Hey," he greets finally; Pine knows he should say something witty or come up with a lie pronto, but he can't bring himself to form the words - he's too tired, too cold.
"So, um, this is where you live?" Zach tries, ignoring the glares he's being shot by other late night travelers as he stands in their way, refusing to move while he talks to the homeless man.
"Unfortunately." Chris wants to make a remark about the fridge being nonexistent or he'd offer up a drink, but instead he jokingly asks, "You wouldn't happen to have something to eat you wouldn't mind parting with?"
Zach moves to drop the bags and dig out his takeaway dinner of gluten-free falafel and tzatziki sauce, but instead he makes a split second decision and says, "Hold these," before passing over his groceries and moving to the nearby ticketing machine. He returns with a flimsy paper card, telling Chris, "Come with me."
Chris goes.
;;
The apartment's not that big, but it's comfortable and warm and Chris likes it the minute he arrives. He likes it more when Zach shoves a plate of leftovers at him, orders him to sit, and disappears into the bathroom; looking around while shoving the reheated baked beans and meatloaf into his mouth as quickly as possible, Chris can see a few pictures of people whom have to be Zach's mother, brother, and father.
There's some pages from a script on the coffee table in front of the couch that he drinks in because Chris loves stage, which he's never told Zach, but every audition he goes to, he gets turned down for his shabby clothing and somewhat rumpled appearance. It doesn't help that he doesn't have a permanent address and the time he'd laughingly told the casting woman, "Before the Turnstiles, Colombus and 59th Street Station, New York," he'd found himself having to duck away from the bleeding heart actresses who'd been waiting to audition themselves.
He smiles up at Zach when the man returns a few minutes later, wearing clean pajamas, and he tosses a pair of sweats at him, saying, "My couch might be kind of lumpy but you won't get fleshing eating disease from it."
Chris hopes like hell the surprise doesn't show on his face. Really, it's one thing to tag along to some guy's place where he'll either die or get fed (either way he knows he'll get a chance to thaw from the New York cold), an altogether other to be offered a place to, you know, sleep.
"Are you sure?" he asks, brow furrowed.
"Dude, you were the first person I met in New York. We talk about Yeats and Tolstoy and you make the best coffee on the East Coast," Zach answers, "You're my friend, Chris. And if you'd told me you were fucking homeless, I'd have offered up my couch in an instant. Now get some sleep and leave further discussion for the morning."
Chris relents only after Zach's cat's curled up in his lap, purring at him and kneading his thigh, and Quinto raises an eyebrow to inform the other, "He normally hates everyone who walks through that door. Take it as an omen if you have to - just fucking stay the night, will you?"
"All right," Pine says and reaches for the sweats piled beside him. "Thanks, Zach."
;;
One night turns into two, turns into three, four, five, six.
A week passes in the blink of an eye and every time Chris brings up the idea of leaving, Zach threatens him with bad poetry, so Chris decides the least he can do is put something toward the rent; he turns on the charm for that conversation, especially when Zach starts to refuse, but in the end he wins and one of Chris' meager paychecks goes toward keeping the two of them sheltered.
Sometimes it's harder – Zach's mom helps out with his rent (apparently it's part of the deal that if he got an apartment off campus to save on tuition, which it really doesn't in New York City of all places, she would give him money every month for expenses) and forgets to send the check in March. They spend the night before the first of April, racing through the apartment, hunting out every last penny until they'd scraped enough together to afford another month.
Sometimes it's easier. Chris gets a promotion in April to Key Manager and a pay raise with it; apparently the owner of the coffee shop noticed his change in demeanor, clothing, and hygiene and felt it needed to be reward which neither of them are going to complain about.
Chris thinks that's when it happened, the mutual realization of shared attraction, but he knows, realistically, it was earlier, maybe as early as the day they'd met. It doesn't really matter in the end, though, because it's that April, four months after Zach tripped over him in the subway, when Chris steals a kiss, innocently, before dinner.
It's natural and easy going and he does it absently, wearing his uniform since he's gotten home only minutes before and he's too tired to change when there's food on the coffee table and the cat is twining between his ankles. Leaning over the couch back with a noise of contentment, he presses his lips to Zach's in a chaste kiss, nothing more.
Zach's reaction, though, makes Chris blush later at the mere memory: Quinto, rearing up from the couch, had tackled him to the floor, murmuring, “Oh thank god. I thought it was just me,” as he licked over Chris' adam's apple.
“Hmm, yeah,” was all Chris had managed to say for a while.
;;
Chris moves into the bedroom and for the first time in nearly five years, he sleeps in an actual bed.
;;
In July, Zach comes home with a script and he makes Chris do several of the acts with him as a character named Duro, refusing to let Chris distract him with his half-naked body. Apparently dishes are done these days shirtless.
Zach's pretty surprised to find that Chris is as good at acting as he is at making lattes; his intonations, how easily he hits the marks, the way he moves with such perfect ease... It's glorious and perfect and he can't figure out how so many people could have rejected his attempts to get involved with theater. Yeah, he may be biased in that belief, but still – Chris is gorgeous, smart, and in his element working on lines.
He's so in to it, that it's making him a little turned on and Chris gets lost in the role the longer he gets to play with the character, Zach's arousal growing with every spot-on delivery. He stops reciting his own lines after a while, letting one hand fall to the prominent bulge in his pants to lightly rub over his dick, and waits for Chris to realize that he's the only one speaking.
It only takes him a few minutes thankfully; his eyes glimpse Zach and his mouth snaps shut, the script set back down on the coffee table, before Chris' mouth quirks into a smile. His pupils are blown in seconds, his cock hardening, and when he slides into Zach's lap, hands moving over his boyfriend's shoulders to rest against the couch back, Chris asks, “Should I recite monologues while I ride you?”
The moan that slides free against Zach's will is like something straight out of a bad porno.
Chris has his pants off a moment later, which Zach figures he missed because his eyes were momentarily rolled back in his head – it's not often that Chris wants to ride him and the idle mention of the possibility is enough to short-circuit his brain. He reaches for the fly of his lover's jeans, easing it down and helping Zach to free his already aching cock, the head shining wetly in the dull evening light of their apartment.
“Please tell me there's lube somewhere around here?” Chris whispers, trying to remember if they'd used up the last tube or if Zach had once again removed it to the bedroom when Kristen came over the other night.
Zach's only response is to reach behind one of the cushions, contort his wrist, and pull a small packet free. It's scented (Mango) but Chris doesn't care as he rips off the little plastic top and slicks his hand, slicks his fingers, slides it over Zach first then reaches behind him to slip his pointer finger inside himself. It rips another moan from Zach, who never seems to get enough of watching Chris stretch himself.
Strong hands slide over his hips, Zach pulling him forward so he can peer over Chris' shoulder to watch the rhythmic push and pull of those digits until he growls into Pine's ear and murmurs, “Gonna fuck you so fucking hard.”
Chris winks at him in challenge.
Zach growls again and hefts Chris up, positions the man over his cock, and pushes, slowly but surely, into his boyfriend. “Love how you look when we're like this, Chris,” he says once Chris is fully seated and panting through the immediate need to come. He thrusts, setting up a leisurely pace, something that'll drive Chris nuts and keep him on edge. “Love how open your face is and how hot you look on my cock. Does it feel good?”
“Fuck yes,” Chris groans back, hands returning to the back of the couch and his head falling forward into the crook of Zach's neck. “More,” he pleads after another handful of thrusts leaves him craving the release he's promised.
“More what, baby? More of my cock?” Zach presses and receives a nod in reply. If it were another night, he might have ignored it too, drawn out their coupling, but Chris is floating and kissing him and trying to speed the rhythm; he takes pity on the man he loves and changes their position. Now, with Chris bent over the coffee table, he gains enough leverage to bring them both off without much other stimulation – the benefit of six months of regular sex. “God, Chris... I love you.”
Chris whimpers, comes, and reaches a hand back to wind with one of Zach's. It's the closest he's going to be able to come to saying the words in return and strangely enough Quinto's okay with that.
More than okay with that because the reality was, if Chris didn't love him in return, he wouldn't have stayed. He wouldn't have set up house and home with him, wouldn't keep waking up next to him; Chris is a proud man, one who was raised hardworking and honest, and if he didn't love Zach, he would have gone back to the streets quickly enough which makes Zach wince to think about.
He squeezes Chris' hand and tells him, “You audition next week.”
Lax and warm with affection and the aftermath of sex, Chris only nods.
title. You Find Your Home
rating. NC-17
pairing. Zach/Chris, pre-relationship.
summary. Pine knows he's a little infatuated with the man, but he can't bring himself to care.
warnings. Homelessness, AU
notes. Originally written for and posted at this thread on
trek_rpf_kink.You Find Your Home
Zach's a regular - soy latte, large, with a shot of espresso (weird, but not unusual for a college kid) - and Chris looks forward to seeing him every Tuesday and Thursday. The guy apparently has night classes two days a week and it's the only way he can get through Shakespearan Text I without causing harm to someone.
They always chat for a bit while Zach pays, trade laughs and sometimes, if it's slow, Quinto will grace him with a few lines from his latest extracurricular play; it makes Chris grin like a doofus when he does that.
His visits are the bright spots in an otherwise dull existence as Chris struggles to get through every shift, get through every day knowing that when night falls, he'll be sleeping on the dank, disgusting floor of the 59th and Colombus Street station. Sleeping there, washing in public restrooms and scraping up the money to survive by eating the unclaimed meals at work, he looks forward to hearing Zach's soft voice those two days a week.
Pine knows he's a little infatuated with the man, but he can't bring himself to care.
Zach knows its kind of ridiculous that he walks six blocks to that particular coffee shop given how he passes seven more on his way there, but when asked, he always tells people how the walking is good for him and how a pretty face is worth the mild soreness he feels on thursdays after making the trek twice.
The barista (baristo?)is definitely worth it. He listens, Chris that is, even when Zach's rants are fucking idiotic at best and he seems to permanently have an eye out for him; he never really has to wait for his drink and it's made to perfection and it doesn't hurt that the guy who makes it for him is hot as all hell.
Slowly but surely he thinks they're becoming friends and Zach's glad for that because sometimes he wants to pull Chris into his arms and hug the guy until the sad look in his eyes falls away. Until the dark bags under his eyes clear, his shoulders lose the seemingly permanent tautness.
And it's with those thoughts one night in December, Zach rushing to the subway with Whole Foods bags hanging from his arms and his messanger bag beating a bruise into his thigh, that he trips over a bum near the turnstiles.
"Fuck, man, there's a shelter not that far from here!" he declares as he re-secures his groceries, not daring to take a look at the guy. Only as he pats himself down for his metrocard does he realize who precisely he'd just kicked in the back, doing a double take and murmuring, "Chris?"
The man in question looks up sheepishly, rubbing his back with one hand and grasping his own bag to himself as though Zach were about to take it. "Hey," he greets finally; Pine knows he should say something witty or come up with a lie pronto, but he can't bring himself to form the words - he's too tired, too cold.
"So, um, this is where you live?" Zach tries, ignoring the glares he's being shot by other late night travelers as he stands in their way, refusing to move while he talks to the homeless man.
"Unfortunately." Chris wants to make a remark about the fridge being nonexistent or he'd offer up a drink, but instead he jokingly asks, "You wouldn't happen to have something to eat you wouldn't mind parting with?"
Zach moves to drop the bags and dig out his takeaway dinner of gluten-free falafel and tzatziki sauce, but instead he makes a split second decision and says, "Hold these," before passing over his groceries and moving to the nearby ticketing machine. He returns with a flimsy paper card, telling Chris, "Come with me."
Chris goes.
The apartment's not that big, but it's comfortable and warm and Chris likes it the minute he arrives. He likes it more when Zach shoves a plate of leftovers at him, orders him to sit, and disappears into the bathroom; looking around while shoving the reheated baked beans and meatloaf into his mouth as quickly as possible, Chris can see a few pictures of people whom have to be Zach's mother, brother, and father.
There's some pages from a script on the coffee table in front of the couch that he drinks in because Chris loves stage, which he's never told Zach, but every audition he goes to, he gets turned down for his shabby clothing and somewhat rumpled appearance. It doesn't help that he doesn't have a permanent address and the time he'd laughingly told the casting woman, "Before the Turnstiles, Colombus and 59th Street Station, New York," he'd found himself having to duck away from the bleeding heart actresses who'd been waiting to audition themselves.
He smiles up at Zach when the man returns a few minutes later, wearing clean pajamas, and he tosses a pair of sweats at him, saying, "My couch might be kind of lumpy but you won't get fleshing eating disease from it."
Chris hopes like hell the surprise doesn't show on his face. Really, it's one thing to tag along to some guy's place where he'll either die or get fed (either way he knows he'll get a chance to thaw from the New York cold), an altogether other to be offered a place to, you know, sleep.
"Are you sure?" he asks, brow furrowed.
"Dude, you were the first person I met in New York. We talk about Yeats and Tolstoy and you make the best coffee on the East Coast," Zach answers, "You're my friend, Chris. And if you'd told me you were fucking homeless, I'd have offered up my couch in an instant. Now get some sleep and leave further discussion for the morning."
Chris relents only after Zach's cat's curled up in his lap, purring at him and kneading his thigh, and Quinto raises an eyebrow to inform the other, "He normally hates everyone who walks through that door. Take it as an omen if you have to - just fucking stay the night, will you?"
"All right," Pine says and reaches for the sweats piled beside him. "Thanks, Zach."
One night turns into two, turns into three, four, five, six.
A week passes in the blink of an eye and every time Chris brings up the idea of leaving, Zach threatens him with bad poetry, so Chris decides the least he can do is put something toward the rent; he turns on the charm for that conversation, especially when Zach starts to refuse, but in the end he wins and one of Chris' meager paychecks goes toward keeping the two of them sheltered.
Sometimes it's harder – Zach's mom helps out with his rent (apparently it's part of the deal that if he got an apartment off campus to save on tuition, which it really doesn't in New York City of all places, she would give him money every month for expenses) and forgets to send the check in March. They spend the night before the first of April, racing through the apartment, hunting out every last penny until they'd scraped enough together to afford another month.
Sometimes it's easier. Chris gets a promotion in April to Key Manager and a pay raise with it; apparently the owner of the coffee shop noticed his change in demeanor, clothing, and hygiene and felt it needed to be reward which neither of them are going to complain about.
Chris thinks that's when it happened, the mutual realization of shared attraction, but he knows, realistically, it was earlier, maybe as early as the day they'd met. It doesn't really matter in the end, though, because it's that April, four months after Zach tripped over him in the subway, when Chris steals a kiss, innocently, before dinner.
It's natural and easy going and he does it absently, wearing his uniform since he's gotten home only minutes before and he's too tired to change when there's food on the coffee table and the cat is twining between his ankles. Leaning over the couch back with a noise of contentment, he presses his lips to Zach's in a chaste kiss, nothing more.
Zach's reaction, though, makes Chris blush later at the mere memory: Quinto, rearing up from the couch, had tackled him to the floor, murmuring, “Oh thank god. I thought it was just me,” as he licked over Chris' adam's apple.
“Hmm, yeah,” was all Chris had managed to say for a while.
Chris moves into the bedroom and for the first time in nearly five years, he sleeps in an actual bed.
In July, Zach comes home with a script and he makes Chris do several of the acts with him as a character named Duro, refusing to let Chris distract him with his half-naked body. Apparently dishes are done these days shirtless.
Zach's pretty surprised to find that Chris is as good at acting as he is at making lattes; his intonations, how easily he hits the marks, the way he moves with such perfect ease... It's glorious and perfect and he can't figure out how so many people could have rejected his attempts to get involved with theater. Yeah, he may be biased in that belief, but still – Chris is gorgeous, smart, and in his element working on lines.
He's so in to it, that it's making him a little turned on and Chris gets lost in the role the longer he gets to play with the character, Zach's arousal growing with every spot-on delivery. He stops reciting his own lines after a while, letting one hand fall to the prominent bulge in his pants to lightly rub over his dick, and waits for Chris to realize that he's the only one speaking.
It only takes him a few minutes thankfully; his eyes glimpse Zach and his mouth snaps shut, the script set back down on the coffee table, before Chris' mouth quirks into a smile. His pupils are blown in seconds, his cock hardening, and when he slides into Zach's lap, hands moving over his boyfriend's shoulders to rest against the couch back, Chris asks, “Should I recite monologues while I ride you?”
The moan that slides free against Zach's will is like something straight out of a bad porno.
Chris has his pants off a moment later, which Zach figures he missed because his eyes were momentarily rolled back in his head – it's not often that Chris wants to ride him and the idle mention of the possibility is enough to short-circuit his brain. He reaches for the fly of his lover's jeans, easing it down and helping Zach to free his already aching cock, the head shining wetly in the dull evening light of their apartment.
“Please tell me there's lube somewhere around here?” Chris whispers, trying to remember if they'd used up the last tube or if Zach had once again removed it to the bedroom when Kristen came over the other night.
Zach's only response is to reach behind one of the cushions, contort his wrist, and pull a small packet free. It's scented (Mango) but Chris doesn't care as he rips off the little plastic top and slicks his hand, slicks his fingers, slides it over Zach first then reaches behind him to slip his pointer finger inside himself. It rips another moan from Zach, who never seems to get enough of watching Chris stretch himself.
Strong hands slide over his hips, Zach pulling him forward so he can peer over Chris' shoulder to watch the rhythmic push and pull of those digits until he growls into Pine's ear and murmurs, “Gonna fuck you so fucking hard.”
Chris winks at him in challenge.
Zach growls again and hefts Chris up, positions the man over his cock, and pushes, slowly but surely, into his boyfriend. “Love how you look when we're like this, Chris,” he says once Chris is fully seated and panting through the immediate need to come. He thrusts, setting up a leisurely pace, something that'll drive Chris nuts and keep him on edge. “Love how open your face is and how hot you look on my cock. Does it feel good?”
“Fuck yes,” Chris groans back, hands returning to the back of the couch and his head falling forward into the crook of Zach's neck. “More,” he pleads after another handful of thrusts leaves him craving the release he's promised.
“More what, baby? More of my cock?” Zach presses and receives a nod in reply. If it were another night, he might have ignored it too, drawn out their coupling, but Chris is floating and kissing him and trying to speed the rhythm; he takes pity on the man he loves and changes their position. Now, with Chris bent over the coffee table, he gains enough leverage to bring them both off without much other stimulation – the benefit of six months of regular sex. “God, Chris... I love you.”
Chris whimpers, comes, and reaches a hand back to wind with one of Zach's. It's the closest he's going to be able to come to saying the words in return and strangely enough Quinto's okay with that.
More than okay with that because the reality was, if Chris didn't love him in return, he wouldn't have stayed. He wouldn't have set up house and home with him, wouldn't keep waking up next to him; Chris is a proud man, one who was raised hardworking and honest, and if he didn't love Zach, he would have gone back to the streets quickly enough which makes Zach wince to think about.
He squeezes Chris' hand and tells him, “You audition next week.”
Lax and warm with affection and the aftermath of sex, Chris only nods.