#burtfield

Each scar that littered James’ body like trash in the ocean felt like a stab to the heart. 

The scrawny blonde boy studied each and every disgusting, pink scar scattered on his arms as his eyes began to wet with tears. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he still resorted to dragging a cheap dollar store blade across his pale skin. With each shaky swipe, a jagged scar bloomed in its place, forever reminding James of his past mistakes. 

Each was smooth to the touch— almost ironic, considering how bumpy the road to recovery was. That’s what Cliff had told him. Recovery was never perfect, never linear. He’d have ups and downs. He would feel proud for months, and fall into a dark abyss some days. There was no preventing that. It seemed some years had more “fail” days than “clean” ones, which made James start to lose hope. 

Cliff never lost hope for James, though. His calloused hand was always upon the guitarist’s shoulder as he spoke (he had a way with words; he is an expert) about how proud he was of James. Even if James never seemed to understand why. Those pained, baby blue eyes always found their way to Cliff’s gaze, silently asking for a reason, and Cliff never failed to give him a million. 

James wishes he could find the same comfort in his reflection. 

Despite only being in front of the cracked mirror for a minute, maybe two, he decides he can’t bear to look any longer. Fluffy blonde locks cover his face as his head hangs low, hands coming to cover his face. He choked back a sob, taking everything to not fall to the floor. Holding back tears was not an option for long, however, because James is weak and can’t starve off the cries forever. 

A whine, and his hands move higher to tangle his thin fingers in his hair instead, an unforgiving grip quick to hurt his scalp. The troubled blonde stumbles back. The rickety bed behind him catches him. He’s left leaning against the cold, empty bed, alone, wishing he could disappear. It would be so much easier. No more disappointed, hurt looks from Cliff. No more worrying about scars. No more stupid “road to recovery”. Only the road to the afterlife, which must be so sweet, he thinks. 

Nausea starts to creep upon him, starting in his belly and slithering up to his throat, and he really thinks he might be sick. Shakily, he sits up, hoping the sickness will fade away. He’s lucky only this once. Another trembling exhale leaves his chapped lips as he clutches his sides in a weak attempt to comfort himself. His eyes fall shut. He begins to rock side to side slowly. Self-regulation, Cliff calls it. He always has the fancy terms. Cliff is already the music theory nerd— did he have to be the vocabulary one too? 

He likes that Cliff is a nerd. 

The slam of the door is enough to make James jolt of his trance like state. Cliff must be home. The bassist had a habit of accidentally closing the door too hard. That’s how James knew. It was the little things that the two picked up, like how Cliff can tell when James had last used the shower because the bathroom floor is extra wet because he ruffles his hair out like a dog and doesn’t clean up. Or how James can tell when Cliff has been home more than he has, because the hot sauce is lacking most of its contents. 

Despite the two knowing each other so well, Cliff had never understood why James was so insecure. When Cliff looks at the stripes across his boyfriend’s arm, he only sees beauty. When James looks at his arms, he sees ugliness and weakness. It feels almost emasculating reminiscing about his struggles— no other men in the scene took their frustrations out on themself like a girl or child. James huffs, his pink tinted face looking at his skin with disgust.

It didn’t help the nausea. 

Cliff knocks on the bedroom door only twice, giving James no time to answer or think, and enters the room. Cliff’s excited to see James after being gone for a while. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Whatcha doin’? Sulking?”He jokes, unaware that James is actually deeply upset. 

It doesn’t take Cliff long to realize he was actually correct. He feels a little bad for his joke when he picks up on how James is feeling from the lack of a reply and the sadness that’s practically radiating off of him. The bassist’s face softens as he walks closer, taking slow steps towards the teary eyed blonde. 

“Baby, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Cliff quietly asks. 

His face is contorted with worry at this point, as he quickly went from nonchalant to sympathetic seeing James’ state. James sniffles quietly before looking up at his lover looming over him, showing those shiny tears in his pretty eyes. Cliff’s heart aches almost immediately, his eyebrows furrowing. It was rare for James to be like this. Usually, when James was upset, he would get angry. He would isolate himself and glare at anyone who spoke to him (with the exception of Cliff) for hours. 

But this James? He looks incredibly vulnerable, a look on his face worthy of only pity. A silent sadness fills Cliff’s eyes as James gazes at him. A bony hand comes to softly caress James’ pink cheek. Cliff doesn’t think he’s the greatest at comforting; but James always appreciated every little thing he did. He appreciated it when Cliff cuddled the sadness away, when he wiped his tears. When he made him tea or coffee in the mornings when he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Cliff really cared. 

He speaks again. 

“Tell me what’s bothering you, and I’ll make it go away.” Cliff whispers. 

His breath tickles James’ skin ever so slightly. Under wavy strands, James’ eyes close slowly as a stray tear falls. There’s too

much to say and too little words to describe how he feels. His belly churns, slightly, and his lip curls out into a slight pout. Cliff’s thumb wipes away the tear halfway down James’ cheek. 

“My scars”, he croaks. “They’re horrible. Ugly. Make me look like a weak child.”

Cliff immediately shakes his head. Horrible? They’re wonderful. His scars are butter smooth against his fingertips. They’re a beautiful shade of baby pink. The tint reminds Cliff of the tulips that bloom outside of his Mom’s house. James’ scars are a garden of hope, a testament to his ability to overcome his hardest days. Cliff could see it clearly; he counts each like a beautiful flower. James counts each as weed.

He just had to make him see. 

“James. Your scars are anything but ugly. If they’re on the body of the handsomest guy in the world, how could they be?” 

James bites back a smile. Chews the inside of his cheek. Now was the time to be upset, to be self-loathing, and accepting any sort of compliment about the parts he hated was out of the question. Teeth chew his cheek harder. He pouts similar to a child. Hanging his head low, he looks away before replying. 

“They’re— they’re, fuckin’.. weird looking, and people stare, it’s.. it’s like, really embarrassing, man..” 

The bed dips when Cliff sits next to him. He smells like autumn. James supposes that’s fitting. Cliff’s brown-red hair, his soft eyes.. he looks like fall. James likes that. He’s too busy being embarrassed, staring at the stitching in the comforter messily splayed across the bed to make a proper comparison with the image now in mind. The guitarist can’t help how his heart beats faster when he hears a gentle sigh from Cliff. Not from annoyance, James can tell. He’s silently relieved. 

“What have I told you about caring what other people think? You’re perfect just the way you are. You’re perfect for me. It doesn’t matter if anyone thinks different. They don’t matter.”

Cliff assures. To James, Cliff was the strongest it got. He was confident, self-assured, never gave a fuck about what other people had to say. He didn’t dress like anyone else. No one else could play like him or write like him. Part of him says that because of that, he should feel worse. He’d never be as care-free as some people. But a more prominent part told him that if the most perfect person in his eyes thought he was truly the best, he must be stronger than he gives himself credit for.

 James swallows thickly. Comfort coming from his inner thoughts was new. They were always destructive. It was uncomfortable, but James would get used to it. That would take a while. James is stubborn, and stubborn people with primarily insecure thoughts like James were sometimes desperate to stay miserable. It was incredibly hard to stay miserable with someone like Cliff around; but James told himself wouldn’t let him win so easily, which wasn’t exactly true.

“No one is perfect.”

Cliff offers him a small laugh.

“Oh, shut up. Whoever made that saying has clearly never met you.”

James feels his face heat up. Cliff notices. Cliff is getting to him, slowly but surely chasing away those pitiful feelings that creeped up on James and attacked when he felt most vulnerable. Replacing them with much more welcome feelings. Cliff couldn’t believe this was all because of some old scars, which were actually quite pretty to the bassist. James catches Cliff eyeing his faded pink scars silently, committing each pattern of lines to memory. James silently watches, the pink in his cheeks only getting deeper. 

The nausea has faded by now.

Cliff’s hand moves to gently massage James’ wrist, where his scars cover his pale skin. His thumb is still damp from the tear when it caresses his skin. His touch is gentle, but firm. Adoration is etched into his movements. Cliff leans closer. A small grin plays on his face. He speaks gently. 

“Believe me when I say you’re fuckin’ gorgeous here. Don’t pay any of them any mind. Listen to me. Let me show you how perfect your scars are.” 

Before James can protest, Cliff is pressing his chapped lips against the pink stripes reverently; his kisses are lighter than an angel wing feather. His movement says devotion in all capital letters. His lips move like a priest praising his God, but Cliff could never be a priest— he could only worship James. Only James. 

James squirms, eyebrows furrowing, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t deny Cliff the sweet taste of his pale skin. It’s embarrassingly enjoyable. Internally, he tells himself he shouldn’t allow himself this kind of enjoyment if it means accepting that maybe his scars aren’t so bad. But it’s hard to pull away when Cliff is so obviously loving it. 

James loves it too. There’s no point in denying that. 

“Cliff..”

The brunette peers up at him through lidded, satisfied eyes as he continues his gentle kisses. A few more, and he’s starting to drag his tongue across the bigger ones, the smooth skin feeling like a blessing. James sucks in his breath through clenched teeth. It’s incredibly erotic watching Cliff’s cheeks get increasingly pinker from kissing and sucking and licking each scar on James’ arm. James feels his insecurities beginning to melt. One hand comes to gently rest upon James’ hip. 

The bassist takes deep breaths in through his nose as his lips and teeth dance across his lover’s fevered, pale skin. Cliff distantly wonders if he should suck a hickey into the scarred flesh. The thought of seeing James’ scars covered in blooming bruises makes him shiver. Oblivious, James has no idea what he does to Cliff. Doesn’t realize how crazy he drives him, how much his insecurities are really the biggest turn ons. 

James huffs as Cliff’s kisses turn a little sloppier, as his saliva cools on the blonde’s skin. Gripping James’ hip tighter, he angles his head to nip and kiss with more efficiency. It reminds the guitarist of making out. Which Cliff is essentially doing to his arm. It makes him bite his lip. It’s embarrassing how much he’s enjoying this. 

Nimble fingers, calloused at the tip from guitar playing, tangle in Cliff’s hair to idly hold him closer. To gently tug on his long auburn hair. James’ lips are slightly parted; he notices that he’s panting ever so slightly as Cliff continues his movements. This seems far too much like a simulated blowjob. James isn’t alone when he feels his cock slowly stir to life in his too-tight skinny jeans. 

Cliff places a final kiss on James’ arm before he pulls away. He’s panting too. James is almost surprised by how visibly turned on his boyfriend is. He really had the ability to make Cliff this flushed from his scars? The things he hated so much? James’ head spun. Cliff’s breathing is slightly labored. He crawls closer to the blonde, who’s been staring at the bassist. They don’t say a word before Cliff is hastily pulling him in for a real kiss.  

A muffled groan bubbles up in James’ throat. Cliff is all over him, hands roaming his scrawny body. Every sound that James involuntarily makes is swallowed up by Cliff’s lips, greedily drinking up the pathetic sounds of arousal that force their way out. James steadily hardens in his pants. His cock doesn’t take long to sport a full erection. If Cliff wasn’t busy sucking his face off, he’d tease him, despite his situation being the same. 

Roaming hands become less and less delicate as they explore James’ frame. They stop to thumb at his nipples over his shirt, caress his waist, and squeeze his thighs. Every curve and angle on the blonde’s body is addicting. Cliff imagines worshipping every part of James’ body, caressing and kissing every inch. The thought has the bassist feel like he’s floating. James, the sight of James, and the mere thought of James, is better than any weed he’ll ever smoke. 

Cliff finally pulls away. They’re both gasping for air. Cliff barely gives himself time to breathe before he’s diving in again, this time burying his face in James’ sensitive neck. His scent is strong; the pleasing smell of his shampoo, his natural musk, the faint trace of cigarettes and body wash. Teeth nip at the sensitive skin, his tongue following behind, slurping and kissing with reverent passion. Strained whines create a chorus of barely restrained arousal. It’s more than music to Cliff’s ears— it’s his favorite song. James’ sweaty palms tangle in the back of his lover’s jean jacket, clenching the rough fabric. 

“Ahh.. S—shit, shit.. Please..” James whines. He tilts his head back more to give Cliff more room to work with. 

Cliff’s eyes flutter open. He sucks a particularly big hickey into James’ neck (which earns him a considerably louder moan) for good measure before pulling away and wiping the saliva off of his pink lips. James stares at Cliff, rosy cheeks, a puffy bottom lip, and dark eyes. He wonders if he died and this is heaven. If he had finally, finally cut a little too deep, and his personal heaven was being worshipped by his perfect boyfriend. Who just so happened to look exactly like an angel. 

“Please what? Tell me what you want.”

James supposes he must be alive, because surely angels don’t tease humans like this. James chews the inside of his cheek, again, his chest rising up and down in time with his ragged breathing. He’s positively straining. All from a little kissing. But he can’t blame himself. Cliff is the most attractive man in the world, who swore to venerate James, to pleasure him, to make him feel loved and special. Right now, he feels more than just loved or special. He feels wanted. Needed. It gives him a rush. 

His pants seem to tighten even more. 

“I.. I want to-.. to use my hand. On both of us. Let me touch you.”

James sounds out of breath. His eyes are slightly glossed, looking away from Cliff, seeing his angel in only his peripheral view. His blush makes his freckles stand out. He’s incredibly adorable. The fact that James acts like a nervous virgin, even after plenty of heated encounters that ended in Cliff buried in James, drives the bassist nuts. How could he deny such a cute request from the cutest, handsomest man he knew? The man he got to call his lover? As much as Cliff liked teasing, he’ll spoil James this time. 

“Anything for you.”

James tenses when the heel of Cliff’s palm grinds against his clothed erection, a high-pitched whine filling the room. Pre-cum smears against the inside of his boxers as he ruts against Cliff’s hand, seeking more of that delicious friction that sends electric sparks of pleasure down his spine. James’ fingers clench the stained sheets covering his old mattress for support as Cliff gently but firmly palms him through his jeans. James can nearly feel his brain leaking out of his ears. Arousal runs red-hot in his blood. He needs Cliff to move faster. 

He doesn’t give Cliff time to slowly palm him. James’ clumsily, calloused hand pushes his boyfriend’s hand to the side, allowing him to yank his zipper down and undo his button. Cliff watches James try to take his aching length out as quick as he can manage, the brunette’s mouth feeling like someone had just stuffed a hundred cotton balls in. Dry, like a desert.

 Cliff feels his own cock twitch in interest, wishing so badly to be pressed against his lover or hilted inside of his tight heat. Like all of those times they’d get too hot and bothered to help themselves, and end up in bar bathrooms, fucking against the stall. Or in hotel rooms, nearly breaking the bed with the force of Cliff’s thrusts. The look on James’ face when he cums is already burned into his memory, yet every time he sees his cute face contort with pleasure as jets of seed erupt from his sizable cock, it feels just as exciting as the last. 

Cliff can’t wait to see it again. 

“Fuck, baby..”

James already has his hard, weeping cock in his hand, giving it slow pumps that make him writhe with pleasure with every drag of his fingers. His eyes find the brunette’s eyes, noticing how blown his pupils look. Cliff is quick to replace James’ hand with his own. James’ breath hitches. A long groan follows. Cliff never gets tired of the sound; every moan, whimper, and whine is just as sweet as the other. And when Cliff’s skilled hands pleasure him so effortlessly, the sounds never stop. James’ eyes flutter closed. He’s so grateful he doesn’t have to hold back. The house is empty except for their tangled bodies, melting into each other like they were made to be molded together.

James bucks his hips into Cliff’s hand as he pumps his aching flesh. Each movement makes James twitch and whine more. His own doesn’t make him feel like this. Only Cliff’s. His own hand, which feels useless at times, doesn’t turn him into putty in 30 seconds flat. Masturbation’s lost it’s fun. He’s lazy. Thankfully, Cliff’s movements are anything but lazy. He’s purposeful in nature. As much as he loves the feeling of just the bassist’s hand, James isn’t satisfied yet. 

“Shit.. c‘mon.. Stop drawing it o-out, just let me feel your cock against mine..” James demands, nearly choking on his own words when Cliff’s thumb swipes over James’ sensitive tip. 

Huffing, Cliff slowly begins to remove his hand so he can undo his own jeans, but James stops him before he can. Confused, Cliff looks at the blushing boy beneath him for an answer. He gets the memo when he feels James undoing his jeans for him. Hot, he thinks. James wanted to do it himself. And didn’t want Cliff to let go of him for even a second. The bassist allows him to pop the button to his flared jeans, his zipper following. All while Cliff’s (now clumsily; it’s hard to focus) strokes continue, making more pre-cum bead at his tip. 

A few more hasty movements, and Cliff’s cock is finally freed from its confines. Cliff shakily sighs, the cold air of the bedroom hitting his hot and hard flesh. James still can’t believe he’s taken that in his ass before. Fully. It’s truly an impressive size. It dwarves James’ cock, which is already a respectable length. Cliff’s hand falters on James’ leaking dick, fighting the urge to bury his own cock in James’ mouth. But this was about his lover and what he wanted; so face-fucking his hot blonde until he passed out was for another time. 

“Hurry up..” James whines. He wraps a hand around Cliff, and Cliff groans. 

“You’re such a needy brat.”

“You love it.”

Cliff cracks a small grin before finally pushing his cock against James’. They moan together, their voices mingling together as flesh meets flesh. If anything was better than Cliff’s hand around James, it was his dick pressed against him. The bassist’s tip presses against him, flush, and drags across each inch, carefully and slowly. Cliff likes to take his time. He also knows how fragile James has been today. He wants to make this good. 

James appreciates it, but he just needs Cliff to speed it up and make him cum. The guitarist wraps a hand around both of them before immediately getting to work. He pumps both of them, rubbing their dicks together and feeding off of each others  pleasure and drinking up each others moans. Cliff’s sounds are deeper, quieter. James sounds like a girl most times. It’s embarrassing to James, but the best to Cliff. He wants nothing more than to know how good his cock feels against James, to know that he makes him unable to hold back. No matter how embarrassing. 

“James… Shit, James…”

James’ copious amount of pre-cum acts as a lube for both of them, covering their tips in a thin layer of sticky, clear fluid. It adds to the heat that pools low in both of their bellies. And with every stroke, with every deep groan that comes from Cliff’s throat, he dribbles more and more, smearing his arousal over his lover’s needy length. James’ hand is much quicker than Cliff’s slow and deliberate movements. Neither of them will last long. Cliff eyes the limp arm at James’ side while his other jerks both of them off, staring at the scars that he worshipped.

He needed to feel those deliciously soft stripes on his lips again. 

Cliff leans down, catching James off guard, before sucking and kissing at his scars yet again. James whimpers, and Cliff can feel his smaller cock twitch against his bigger one. Good, he thinks. I want him to crumble under me. 

“Cliff, fuck, Cliff.. yeah, more, c’mon..” James babbles, speeding up his movements, grinding himself on Cliff harder.

More moans and groans of pleasure muffled themself against James’ arm, and Cliff feels his legs start to feel more and more like

jelly as James works his cock against his like an expert. His knees spread a little wider. His breathing gets a little heavier. James knows he’s doing a good job. It fills him with a sense of pride. Knowing he can bring Cliff this much pleasure without using his mouth or his ass makes his heart flutter. He wonders if maybe Cliff would let him do this more, let him grind and jerk himself against the brunette’s thick member when he needed it if he gave him puppy eyes cute enough. 

A particularly sharp nip of Cliff’s teeth against his arm makes him come back to earth, making him yelp in surprise. Cliff’s starting to get a little rougher. It’s hard to hold back when you have someone as cute as James whining like a dog in your ear, desperately masturbating against you. Cliff squeezes his eyes closed, moaning deeply when he feels James squeeze their cocks harder together. As if he wasn’t close enough. They’re impossibly close together, and James is also close to the edge.

Cliff knows he won’t last when James spills all over him. By the sound of it, James’ll do that any second now. He cums fast, that’s usual. But Cliff can usually manage to hang on a little longer. That is, when he isn’t face first in his boyfriend’s healed cuts, eating his scars out like he’s in between someone’s thighs. The mental comparison makes him shiver. How he’d love to be buried between

James’ thighs right now, teasing him with his tongue until he’s crying fat salty tears and begging him to stop teasing. James speeds up for the final time. It forces a painful sounding moan out of the both of them. 

“Fuck, Cliff, gonna fucking cum..” James warns. 

Drool trickles down the side of the blonde’s freckled face. He’s a mess, desperately rutting into his hand, grinding against Cliff, jacking them both off with intensity. Wet kisses sloppily paint saliva on James’ free arm until Cliff pulls away again, opting to kiss James instead of his scarred arm. A whine, and James is shooting jets of thick, white spunk onto his belly and all over Cliff’s length. Cliff eats up every sound that James makes while he’s spasming and cumming so

hard his world feels like it’s starting to tilt. Clumsy strokes that wring out the rest of James’ own orgasm are the same that bring Cliff over the edge, twisting his hand up and down the both of them until they’re both spent. 

Cliff breaks the kiss, panting. He’s covered in spunk. So is James. James’ mind is clouded; he feels like he’s had 50 drinks and half of them were spiked. Cliff collapses on top of James, their breathing mingling into a single rhythm of desperate panting, trying to find their breath again. 

“Don’t ever,” Cliff pauses to catch his breath. “Think you’re disgusting again.” 

James takes a few moments to respond. 

“I think we’re both disgusting now, actually.. Can we shower?”