Fic: Those Singer-Songwriter Types
Title: Those Singer-Songwriter Types
Word Count: 2090
Pairing: Pinto AU
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Chris and his guitar frequent a coffee shop where Zach works.
Warnings: PWPish. General silliness. Unbeta’ed.
Disclaimer: None of this is true.
A/N: Instead of working on fics that I should be ::cough:: pornathon :cough::, I get distracted with silly plot bunnies that eefreeboo plants in my head.
It was the third time this week, seventh time this month, that Zach had seen him in the coffee shop. Today was Thursday, and he’d come into The Beanery on Monday and Tuesday, too. Not that Zach was keeping count. Except he totally was.
He would show up at the off-campus coffeehouse around the same time in the afternoons, halfway through Zach’s shift, and would amble to the counter, guitar case in hand and messenger bag slung over his left shoulder, to order his double shot latte. Zach would ask for his name, even though he’s known damn well what his name is since the first time he looked at Zach with those brilliantly bright eyes and said “Chris” in that gravelly voice.
At first, Zach suspected he was a student, possibly a graduate student since Chris looked older than the average undergrad. But he always had that guitar with him. It was Berkeley after all, and it wasn’t like that area didn’t attract a fair number of non-student artists and musicians. Yeah, he had to be a musician.
Zach loved musicians. He loved the singer-songwriter types. He loved them with their guitars or pianos and songs about rain-soaked broken hearts.
Each time, Chris would set up camp in the far corner on the beat up couch with the sunken in cushions and scribble song lyrics in his notepad, taking breaks to sip on his drink and rest his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed, basking in the sun like a lazy cat. More than once, Zach fought the urge to walk by and rub his belly.
Without fail, some girl with a skinny, trendy scarf casually wound once around her neck would approach Chris, perched coyly on the arm of the couch as she pointed at his guitar case with a giggle before gesturing to the space next to him. They were so predictable that it would’ve been funny to Zach had he not been jealously drizzling caramel sauce on top of some coffee order.
Zach was attempting to refill the napkin dispenser when felt a nudge at his side.
“Hey.”
Zach wasn’t expecting that voice, or that face, or that lopsided little smile. The stack of napkins in his hand fell to the floor and fanned out between their Converse-clad feet.
Paralyzed, Zach watched as Chris bent down and scooped up the napkins.
“You probably can’t put these in there, huh?” Chris asked, looking pointedly at the empty napkin dispenser.
“No,” Zach said in a tiny voice. “That would be unsanitary.”
Chris tossed them in the trash bin next to the milk and sugar station and turned back to Zach. Taking the rest of the napkins, he quickly restocked the dispenser and snapped the front lid on. He pulled the first sheet out and took a pen from the side pocket of his messenger bag. With a nervous laugh and shake of his head, he scribbled his name and phone number onto the napkin and handed it to Zach.
“I know it’s cliché to say, ‘I don’t ever do this,’ but I’m being completely, seriously honest when I say, I never do this.”
And Zach just stood there and stared at the long fingers of his finely sculpted hand.
“Umm, maybe I misunderstood, sorry...” Chris’ hand dropped and he took a small step back. “I’ll just go,” he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
Something in Zach’s brain finally clicked and he lunged forward. “No, I’ll take that thank you,” he said quickly as he yanked the phone number from Chris’ hand.
“Okay, then,” Chris said with smile and nodded once before returning to the couch to collect his things. He gave Zach a wave on his way out.
The next night, they were sitting at a picnic table outside a taco stand when Zach finally brought it up.
“So, you play the guitar?”
Chris shrugged. “Yeah.”
Trying to play it cool, Zach nodded. “I’ve always wanted to learn.” He paused and crossed his legs under the table. “Do you write your own songs?”
Slowly, a grin stretched across Chris’ face and he looked up at Zach. “Are you into that thing? Guys who write their own music?” He reached for his soda and wrapped his mouth around the straw, eyebrows raised at Zach.
Zach felt himself blushing. “What? No? I don’t know. What? So do you? Write your own songs?”
Chris shrugged again and continued smiling at Zach. “You want to come over to my place and I’ll play something for you?”
Half an hour later, Zach was biting his lip and trying to look interested and enthusiastic while Chris strummed on his guitar in his living room. His voice was nice, deep and a bit rough, and his hands were exquisite, masculine and strong, yet graceful. It was clear Chris had been playing for years, his fingers coaxing the notes from the strings with ease and confidence. But the lyrics. Zach made it through the first song, but halfway through the second song, he just started singing “oh yeah” for about a minute straight while making this emotive face and Zach felt his soul die. This couldn’t go on.
Shifting over on Chris’ couch, he gently put his hands over Chris’ and stilled them. Chris looked at him with wide eyes and let Zach take the guitar from him.
After Zach carefully returned the instrument to its case, he grinned at Chris and sat so their thighs touched. He cupped Chris’ face with his hands and kissed him softly. Chris responded by pulling Zach closer, deepening their kiss as his hands found their way underneath Zach’s striped shirt. The feel of Chris’ calloused fingertips against his skin and down his spine made Zach shiver and moan into Chris’ mouth.
Chris smiled and pushed Zach onto his back. He quickly pulled off Zach’s shoes and stripped Zach of his shirt and skinny jeans, intermittently losing articles of his own clothing, until they were both in their underwear.
“Come here,” Zach mumbled, taking in the sight of Chris kneeling over him, golden and perfect.
Wrapping his hand around the back of Chris’ neck, Zach brought their mouths back together and gasped when Chris grounded his hips down on Zach’s. Even though the two layers of cotton, they were both moaning at friction of their erections rubbing on each other. Zach ran his hand down Chris’ chest, squeezing a nipple along the way, and tried the best he could to tease the head of Chris’ cock through his boxers while he frantically humped Zach into his couch. Zach’s fingertips slipped under Chris’ waistband, scratching lightly at his hip before he grabbed a handful of ass.
“Uhhnnngh, Zach. Yeah. I want to write a song for you,” Chris panted.
“Wha?”
“You’re so gorgeous,” Chris started gasping out his song in a random melody. “With your dark hair so dark, like chocolate. Even the hair on your chest, yeah, oh that on your chest. I bet it tastes good, better than licking a dog.”
Zach grabbed Chris by the ears and pulled him down to silence him with a kiss before the atrocity of his lyrics could kill the mood and his boner. One of Chris’ arms kept him from collapsing on Zach, while the other rested on Zach’s shoulder. Licking into Chris’ mouth, Zach quickly shoved Chris’ boxers down, his flushed red cock bobbing twice before Zach wrapped his hand around it and pumped as fast as he could. In the back of Zach’s mind, he regretted that he wouldn’t be able to properly take his time and admire his sweat and precum dampened cock up close, but he was afraid if he stopped his furious jacking, Chris would start singing again. Then suddenly, Chris’s fingers tightened on Zach’s shoulder and he bowed his head, blinking with lust-glazed eyes at Zach.
“Zach,” he breathed.
He felt Chris seize for a second, the muscles in his abdomen clenching, right before Chris’ cock pulsed in his hand, shooting over Zach’s fingers and the erection straining in his boxers. Gulping deep lungfuls of air, Chris hummed his appreciation into the crook of Zach’s neck.
Once he regained his composure, he slinked off Zach’s lap and onto the floor between his legs, hooking his fingers under the elastic band of his stained boxers.
It only took a couple minutes for Chris to learn how and where to flick his tongue before Zach was shaking and squeezing his forearm in warning. Chris looked up at Zach one last time and smirked around his cock before he sank down and buried his nose into the dark hair. He pulled back a bit as Zach came down his throat. He tried to swallow as much as he could without gagging, but a small amount still dribbled down his chin.
Letting Zach slowly fall from his lips, Chris tried to discreetly wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but blushed when he caught Zach watching him. Zach thought it was the sexiest thing.
“Get up here,” Zach whispered and pulled Chris to him so they were both squished lengthwise on the couch, chests pressed together.
They stayed silent for several minutes, gently brushing their fingertips over each other’s skin, waiting for their heartbeats to slow and their sweat to cool.
“So, what did you think of my songs?” Chris asked.
Zach avoided his eyes and instead threaded his fingers through Chris’ hair. He placed a kiss on his temple, hoping it would distract him.
“Zach?”
“Hmm?”
Pulling back, Chris forced Zach to look him in the eye. “Tell me the truth.”
Zach bit his lip. He wanted to be honest, but he didn’t think he could really tell Chris that his songs were awful. It would crush him.
“How long have you been playing the guitar?”
“Zach.”
“What? I’m curious.”
“Tell me the truth.” His expression was so earnest and his eyes were so blue.
“I think... maybe you just need some practice.”
There was a long pause, and then Chris smiled and kissed Zach’s jaw. “You want to know something?”
“What?” Zach craned his neck around to look at Chris.
“I made all that up. Like on the spot.” He chuckled. “I’m not a songwriter.”
“You what?”
Chris sat up. “I’m sorry. I lied to you.” He reached for Zach’s hand. “I just really wanted to get in your pants. But then I figured that maybe you’d think it was funny. You know, that I made up these shitty songs to try and seduce you.”
Blinking twice, Zach sat up, too. “So...”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Are you mad?” Chris asked, a look of hesitation and worry crossing his face.
Zach squeezed his hand. “No, I’m not mad. I’m incredibly relieved cause they were terrible.”
“I can make up more songs.”
“Please don’t,” Zach winced. “So what are you writing in your notebook all the time? I figured you were writing songs.”
A pink flush bloomed across Chris’ cheeks and down his chest. “Umm. Okay, that really is embarrassing,” he mumbled, “and not funny, and I don’t want you to think...” He waved his hand and tried to stand up, but Zach pulled him back on top of him.
“Tell me,” Zach said with playful grin. He smoothed his hand up Chris’ arm, over his shoulder and neck, and let his thumb trace the stubble on Chris’ cheek. “Tell me, please,” he whispered into Chris’ shoulder.
Chris sighed and made a reluctant noise. “My writing. Poetry. Short stories. Mainly poetry,” he confessed. “Like, really really bad poetry,” he added as he planted a row of kisses along Zach’s neck. “So bad that I decided to go to grad school for it,” he whispered. “And now I spend all day writing bad poetry about a certain hipster coffee barista. Sometimes he wears these glasses...”
Zach froze. With a slight nudge, he tipped Chris’ face toward him to see if he was lying. But his sudden shyness hinted that he was being truthful. “That’s kind of hot.”
“Yeah?” Chris asked. “And this whole time I thought it was the guitar--”
With another kiss, Zach shut Chris up again. He flipped them so Chris was under him and pressed him into the soft cushions, drawing a laugh and then a moan out of him. As Zach nibbled down his jawline, he moaned, too, at the thought of Chris reading his bad poetry to him in his gravelly voice first thing in the morning.
Word Count: 2090
Pairing: Pinto AU
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Chris and his guitar frequent a coffee shop where Zach works.
Warnings: PWPish. General silliness. Unbeta’ed.
Disclaimer: None of this is true.
A/N: Instead of working on fics that I should be ::cough:: pornathon :cough::, I get distracted with silly plot bunnies that eefreeboo plants in my head.
It was the third time this week, seventh time this month, that Zach had seen him in the coffee shop. Today was Thursday, and he’d come into The Beanery on Monday and Tuesday, too. Not that Zach was keeping count. Except he totally was.
He would show up at the off-campus coffeehouse around the same time in the afternoons, halfway through Zach’s shift, and would amble to the counter, guitar case in hand and messenger bag slung over his left shoulder, to order his double shot latte. Zach would ask for his name, even though he’s known damn well what his name is since the first time he looked at Zach with those brilliantly bright eyes and said “Chris” in that gravelly voice.
At first, Zach suspected he was a student, possibly a graduate student since Chris looked older than the average undergrad. But he always had that guitar with him. It was Berkeley after all, and it wasn’t like that area didn’t attract a fair number of non-student artists and musicians. Yeah, he had to be a musician.
Zach loved musicians. He loved the singer-songwriter types. He loved them with their guitars or pianos and songs about rain-soaked broken hearts.
Each time, Chris would set up camp in the far corner on the beat up couch with the sunken in cushions and scribble song lyrics in his notepad, taking breaks to sip on his drink and rest his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed, basking in the sun like a lazy cat. More than once, Zach fought the urge to walk by and rub his belly.
Without fail, some girl with a skinny, trendy scarf casually wound once around her neck would approach Chris, perched coyly on the arm of the couch as she pointed at his guitar case with a giggle before gesturing to the space next to him. They were so predictable that it would’ve been funny to Zach had he not been jealously drizzling caramel sauce on top of some coffee order.
Zach was attempting to refill the napkin dispenser when felt a nudge at his side.
“Hey.”
Zach wasn’t expecting that voice, or that face, or that lopsided little smile. The stack of napkins in his hand fell to the floor and fanned out between their Converse-clad feet.
Paralyzed, Zach watched as Chris bent down and scooped up the napkins.
“You probably can’t put these in there, huh?” Chris asked, looking pointedly at the empty napkin dispenser.
“No,” Zach said in a tiny voice. “That would be unsanitary.”
Chris tossed them in the trash bin next to the milk and sugar station and turned back to Zach. Taking the rest of the napkins, he quickly restocked the dispenser and snapped the front lid on. He pulled the first sheet out and took a pen from the side pocket of his messenger bag. With a nervous laugh and shake of his head, he scribbled his name and phone number onto the napkin and handed it to Zach.
“I know it’s cliché to say, ‘I don’t ever do this,’ but I’m being completely, seriously honest when I say, I never do this.”
And Zach just stood there and stared at the long fingers of his finely sculpted hand.
“Umm, maybe I misunderstood, sorry...” Chris’ hand dropped and he took a small step back. “I’ll just go,” he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
Something in Zach’s brain finally clicked and he lunged forward. “No, I’ll take that thank you,” he said quickly as he yanked the phone number from Chris’ hand.
“Okay, then,” Chris said with smile and nodded once before returning to the couch to collect his things. He gave Zach a wave on his way out.
The next night, they were sitting at a picnic table outside a taco stand when Zach finally brought it up.
“So, you play the guitar?”
Chris shrugged. “Yeah.”
Trying to play it cool, Zach nodded. “I’ve always wanted to learn.” He paused and crossed his legs under the table. “Do you write your own songs?”
Slowly, a grin stretched across Chris’ face and he looked up at Zach. “Are you into that thing? Guys who write their own music?” He reached for his soda and wrapped his mouth around the straw, eyebrows raised at Zach.
Zach felt himself blushing. “What? No? I don’t know. What? So do you? Write your own songs?”
Chris shrugged again and continued smiling at Zach. “You want to come over to my place and I’ll play something for you?”
Half an hour later, Zach was biting his lip and trying to look interested and enthusiastic while Chris strummed on his guitar in his living room. His voice was nice, deep and a bit rough, and his hands were exquisite, masculine and strong, yet graceful. It was clear Chris had been playing for years, his fingers coaxing the notes from the strings with ease and confidence. But the lyrics. Zach made it through the first song, but halfway through the second song, he just started singing “oh yeah” for about a minute straight while making this emotive face and Zach felt his soul die. This couldn’t go on.
Shifting over on Chris’ couch, he gently put his hands over Chris’ and stilled them. Chris looked at him with wide eyes and let Zach take the guitar from him.
After Zach carefully returned the instrument to its case, he grinned at Chris and sat so their thighs touched. He cupped Chris’ face with his hands and kissed him softly. Chris responded by pulling Zach closer, deepening their kiss as his hands found their way underneath Zach’s striped shirt. The feel of Chris’ calloused fingertips against his skin and down his spine made Zach shiver and moan into Chris’ mouth.
Chris smiled and pushed Zach onto his back. He quickly pulled off Zach’s shoes and stripped Zach of his shirt and skinny jeans, intermittently losing articles of his own clothing, until they were both in their underwear.
“Come here,” Zach mumbled, taking in the sight of Chris kneeling over him, golden and perfect.
Wrapping his hand around the back of Chris’ neck, Zach brought their mouths back together and gasped when Chris grounded his hips down on Zach’s. Even though the two layers of cotton, they were both moaning at friction of their erections rubbing on each other. Zach ran his hand down Chris’ chest, squeezing a nipple along the way, and tried the best he could to tease the head of Chris’ cock through his boxers while he frantically humped Zach into his couch. Zach’s fingertips slipped under Chris’ waistband, scratching lightly at his hip before he grabbed a handful of ass.
“Uhhnnngh, Zach. Yeah. I want to write a song for you,” Chris panted.
“Wha?”
“You’re so gorgeous,” Chris started gasping out his song in a random melody. “With your dark hair so dark, like chocolate. Even the hair on your chest, yeah, oh that on your chest. I bet it tastes good, better than licking a dog.”
Zach grabbed Chris by the ears and pulled him down to silence him with a kiss before the atrocity of his lyrics could kill the mood and his boner. One of Chris’ arms kept him from collapsing on Zach, while the other rested on Zach’s shoulder. Licking into Chris’ mouth, Zach quickly shoved Chris’ boxers down, his flushed red cock bobbing twice before Zach wrapped his hand around it and pumped as fast as he could. In the back of Zach’s mind, he regretted that he wouldn’t be able to properly take his time and admire his sweat and precum dampened cock up close, but he was afraid if he stopped his furious jacking, Chris would start singing again. Then suddenly, Chris’s fingers tightened on Zach’s shoulder and he bowed his head, blinking with lust-glazed eyes at Zach.
“Zach,” he breathed.
He felt Chris seize for a second, the muscles in his abdomen clenching, right before Chris’ cock pulsed in his hand, shooting over Zach’s fingers and the erection straining in his boxers. Gulping deep lungfuls of air, Chris hummed his appreciation into the crook of Zach’s neck.
Once he regained his composure, he slinked off Zach’s lap and onto the floor between his legs, hooking his fingers under the elastic band of his stained boxers.
It only took a couple minutes for Chris to learn how and where to flick his tongue before Zach was shaking and squeezing his forearm in warning. Chris looked up at Zach one last time and smirked around his cock before he sank down and buried his nose into the dark hair. He pulled back a bit as Zach came down his throat. He tried to swallow as much as he could without gagging, but a small amount still dribbled down his chin.
Letting Zach slowly fall from his lips, Chris tried to discreetly wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but blushed when he caught Zach watching him. Zach thought it was the sexiest thing.
“Get up here,” Zach whispered and pulled Chris to him so they were both squished lengthwise on the couch, chests pressed together.
They stayed silent for several minutes, gently brushing their fingertips over each other’s skin, waiting for their heartbeats to slow and their sweat to cool.
“So, what did you think of my songs?” Chris asked.
Zach avoided his eyes and instead threaded his fingers through Chris’ hair. He placed a kiss on his temple, hoping it would distract him.
“Zach?”
“Hmm?”
Pulling back, Chris forced Zach to look him in the eye. “Tell me the truth.”
Zach bit his lip. He wanted to be honest, but he didn’t think he could really tell Chris that his songs were awful. It would crush him.
“How long have you been playing the guitar?”
“Zach.”
“What? I’m curious.”
“Tell me the truth.” His expression was so earnest and his eyes were so blue.
“I think... maybe you just need some practice.”
There was a long pause, and then Chris smiled and kissed Zach’s jaw. “You want to know something?”
“What?” Zach craned his neck around to look at Chris.
“I made all that up. Like on the spot.” He chuckled. “I’m not a songwriter.”
“You what?”
Chris sat up. “I’m sorry. I lied to you.” He reached for Zach’s hand. “I just really wanted to get in your pants. But then I figured that maybe you’d think it was funny. You know, that I made up these shitty songs to try and seduce you.”
Blinking twice, Zach sat up, too. “So...”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Are you mad?” Chris asked, a look of hesitation and worry crossing his face.
Zach squeezed his hand. “No, I’m not mad. I’m incredibly relieved cause they were terrible.”
“I can make up more songs.”
“Please don’t,” Zach winced. “So what are you writing in your notebook all the time? I figured you were writing songs.”
A pink flush bloomed across Chris’ cheeks and down his chest. “Umm. Okay, that really is embarrassing,” he mumbled, “and not funny, and I don’t want you to think...” He waved his hand and tried to stand up, but Zach pulled him back on top of him.
“Tell me,” Zach said with playful grin. He smoothed his hand up Chris’ arm, over his shoulder and neck, and let his thumb trace the stubble on Chris’ cheek. “Tell me, please,” he whispered into Chris’ shoulder.
Chris sighed and made a reluctant noise. “My writing. Poetry. Short stories. Mainly poetry,” he confessed. “Like, really really bad poetry,” he added as he planted a row of kisses along Zach’s neck. “So bad that I decided to go to grad school for it,” he whispered. “And now I spend all day writing bad poetry about a certain hipster coffee barista. Sometimes he wears these glasses...”
Zach froze. With a slight nudge, he tipped Chris’ face toward him to see if he was lying. But his sudden shyness hinted that he was being truthful. “That’s kind of hot.”
“Yeah?” Chris asked. “And this whole time I thought it was the guitar--”
With another kiss, Zach shut Chris up again. He flipped them so Chris was under him and pressed him into the soft cushions, drawing a laugh and then a moan out of him. As Zach nibbled down his jawline, he moaned, too, at the thought of Chris reading his bad poetry to him in his gravelly voice first thing in the morning.