Author: Jen
Rating: R
Summary: Pure. Clean. Unmarked.
Disclaimer: This work of fiction has not been produced for profit. I have no connections with anyone involved in the production of BWOC.
Author's notes: it's slash.
*****
It had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time. The first stroke had sparked a tiny fear of guilt inside him - what if it went wrong? What if he spoiled it? - but moments later he'd looked down at his handiwork, and decided that it was good.
Until he'd heard Merton's shriek as the dark-haired boy stood before the mirror, craning his neck to look over his shoulder and read the words property of Tommy Dawkins neatly printed in backwards writing on his reflection's behind.
"Just tell me it's not permanent." Merton's voice shook as he spoke, his head turning this way and that, as if viewing from a different angle might prove that the words were merely an optical illusion. Tommy wanted so much to be able to laugh out loud: teasing Merton was even more fun now that they had new ways to make up afterwards, but he didn't want to push it this time. He knew he'd been selfish, but he reasoned there ought to be a way to make Merton see the good side.
"How should I know?" He walked across the room to stand behind the other boy, crossing his arms across his bare chest as he took in the view in the mirror. Art class words flickered in his mind as he studied the image: contrast, complement, and compare. Compare was his favourite, and he did it at every available opportunity. I am tall, while he is short, and so Merton's head fitted so neatly under his chin when they embraced. I am tanned, and he is fair, so the difference in skin tone gave him an excuse to entwine Merton's fingers in his whenever he wanted, just so he could see the two side by side, so different but still matching. The planes and lines of his own body, next to the softness of Merton's, hazel eyes that stared into ice-blue, I am…but he is beautiful. A comparison he loved and loathed, because he could never complete it, never decide what he was that was him but not Merton. He knew he hadn't been short-changed in the looks department, but what comparison could there be to Merton's unspoiled, innocent, beauty?
Merton still twisted and pivoted between him and the mirror, enough to distract him from his observations, and he turned his attention back to the smaller boy. He moved his hands to Merton's shoulders, turning him to face Tommy, forcing those wide eyes to meet his.
"Which pen did you use?" So typical, he mused. The body may be stilled, but he can't rest. A thought phrased in a way that wasn't his, but then Merton had done that to him. Turned him all introspective, made him think in strange ways that he liked but still wasn't used to. Because there was another contrast: his near-baritone voice and Merton's light tenor, and he'd noticed that one long ago, when he realised how much he had to concentrate to follow Merton's conversations.
"I don't remember," which was true. He'd specifically picked a black one, making for another brief compare and contrast session as he watched the black ink travelling across white skin, but when his work was complete, he'd dropped it back into the pot on Merton's desk, the tools of the trade not nearly so important as the finished masterpiece. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I don't want property of Tommy Dawkins written on my ass for the rest of my life!"
"You planning on letting someone else own it?" The fear in his voice was only half in jest. He knew that eighteen was far too young to think about forever, but when Merton made him think about so many other outlandish concepts, forever didn't seem like much of a stretch. When he did let his mind wander that far, he found that it hurt, physically hurt, to think that someday Merton might not be his anymore. Already he could feel his stomach churn as he entertained that possibility, and he forced his mind back to the present, and the fact that Merton's backside currently bore his mark of ownership. "Come on, nobody's gonna see it."
"That's not the point, Tommy." Absurd, really, the types of things he was starting to notice. Like the way Merton always over-emphasised the first syllable of his name when he was annoyed, and the way it sounded like he was addressing a puppy. Which wasn't too strange a notion, but he couldn't let his mind wander too far into images of Merton petting him while the other boy was so upset. "The point is, you wrote on my ass, while I was asleep! And then there's an unidentified pen somewhere in the room that's been in contact with my butt, and I'm gonna have to throw out all my pens just to make sure I get rid of it!"
He couldn't find a response to Merton's outburst, and he wasn't all that interested in finding one anyway. Instead, he moved to stand between Merton and the mirror, allowing him to look at the words he'd written once again.
"I think it looks good." The smaller boy's shoulders sagged in defeat, but he didn't bother to turn back to face Tommy. So Tommy wrapped his arms around Merton's waist, stepping forward until his chest was flush against his boyfriend's back. Merton's skin still felt warm against his, even though he'd been out of bed for several minutes already, and he couldn't keep from closing his eyes and melting into the embrace. "Maybe you should get it tattooed." Spikes of stiff black hair brushed his jaw as he spoke, leaving a tingle even after the original sensation had stopped.
"No way!" There was a laugh in Merton's voice now, and he smiled faintly to himself, pleased that the funny side was making itself known. "I'm not having anything written my ass for the rest of my life."
"So don't get it on your ass. Get it…" He moved his hand over Merton's chest and down one arm, eventually coming to rest in the small of the other boy's back. "Get it here."
"But I wouldn't be able to see it." Tommy's hand picked up the tiniest stroking motion, eliciting brief shivers in the other boy's body. It was a sensitive spot he'd only recently discovered, even though he'd longed to touch it since the first time he'd seen Merton's back exposed, months ago now, not long after they first met. It was a wonderful way to get Merton to relax: his fingertips ghosting over the smooth skin had some near-magical effect, calming the other boy until he was nearly catatonic, and Tommy loved to watch the way his eyelids would flutter shut as he moved into the touch.
"Doesn't matter. It wouldn't be for you anyway." A gasp of breath that was very nearly a moan escaped Merton's lips, and Tommy smiled even wider, altering the path of his hand to stroke between Merton's shoulder-blades. Another shiver rolled through the body in his arms.
"Why are you suddenly so obsessed with having your name written on my body?"
"It wouldn't have to be my name," he offered, his voice growing husky as Merton leaned further into him, his signed behind pressing softly against Tommy's groin. "Just…something. Some kind of mark. So that whenever I see it, I'll know that you got it there for me."
It was getting harder to hide the disappointment in his voice every time he had to remind a pouting Merton that hickies faded after a few days. Marking Merton's body was turning into an obsession, even he had to admit that. Not that he'd tell Merton why, because the truth was, he wasn't sure he knew the exact reason himself.
There was just something about all that skin, that near-white softness that he found spread before him almost every night now, that begged to be marked. Such perfection, and even though that was a corny word, it was the truth, as far as Tommy could tell. Tinted like cream, with the faintest pink glow in his cheeks, and Tommy had been delighted when he'd discovered the blush could spread across his entire body if Tommy touched him just right or said the right words. So much smooth, blank white that was offered to him without him even having to ask. Like a canvas, and we're back in art class again, because it looked unfinished. He could mark it and spoil it, there was always that worry, but corruption had its merits too.
He'd laughed out loud once at the thought of corrupting Merton. Someone who had a bedroom full of manacles and chains and innumerable spiky objects might seem thoroughly corrupted already, but there was always that excitable, wide-eyed innocence, that not-quite-fear whenever they found something new to play at. As Merton grew more daring, he began to realise he'd marked the other boy already in some way, made Merton his, but it wasn't enough.
So he'd looked at Merton, really looked, and seen all that perfect cream-coloured skin, which wasn't even tempered by the smattering of fine, almost blonde body hair - and hadn't that been an interesting moment? When he'd finally gotten the other boy on his bed, peeled off all of Merton's clothes, taken a moment to try and figure out what was wrong with the picture, and then sat back on his heels and exclaimed, "you're blonde!" That had sparked the blush, but when he'd swooped back in to kiss the pink on Merton's neck, any embarrassment had disappeared in an instant.
It was flawless, untouched, until he'd been allowed to run trembling fingertips over it, to press his palms to Merton's chest and stroke Merton's back. He'd taken it all into his possession, now he just had to show the world that it was his. Like when he looked out of his bedroom window on a crisp January morning to see the blanket of clean white snow, and he had to rush downstairs and out the door so he could be the first one to leave a trail of footprints. When everyone else had walked across it, it would look a mess, so much so that it almost made him sad to see it, but for a few perfect moments, it was his and his alone. Which was selfish, he was the first to admit that, but when it came to Merton, he didn't care. He liked being selfish over Merton, because it proved that Merton was his, that he didn't just get to look but he could touch too, and stroke and pet and so many other things that no one else should be allowed to do.
No one else. Because Merton was his. And maybe Merton would wash it off in a few minutes, and maybe that could be fun too if he got to be in the shower at the same time. He would be disappointed when the words weren't there anymore, but he'd find a way to leave his mark.
*****
<---Home