004.
Title: Complication with Optimistic Outcome
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own tsn :-(
Words: 2972
Summary: Mark is angry at Eduardo for freezing the bank account, and Eduardo is tired of Mark ordering him around all the time. Sexual frustration prevails.
Notes: Another fic named after a TSN-OST track, yes. This was written for my beloved Devon, but then Amanda talked me into publishing it. So here it is! Smut, again, guys. IDEK.
Mark leans over the sink in the bathroom, breathing in deeply through his nose, fingers clutching the porcelain. His knuckles are white, and his shoulders are shaking, and when the door slams open it’s all he can do not punch whoever it is in the face and deal with the consequences later. Instead, he just grasps the edge of the sink ever harder and bites the inside of his mouth sharply enough that he can taste copper on his tongue.
“Fuck off,” he says, because this is his house in Palo Alto, and for as long as his company is here, he's in charge. Instead of a scared intern, however, he hears Eduardo snort, angry rather than amused.
“You don’t get to fucking order me around, Mark,” Eduardo says, a hiss in his voice, sibilant. It's not like him to curse like that. “You don’t fucking own me.”
“Fuck off, Wardo,” Mark says again, louder, watching the skin under his fingernails turn red and then white as he presses them into the porcelain. “I left to keep from arguing with you.”
“No, you left so that you could have the last word, you bastard,” Eduardo says. “As always.” He’s moved closer, Mark can tell from his voice, but Mark refuses to look at him. He just sucks on the inside of his cheek and tastes blood. He doesn’t say anything in response - he’s too angry. All he can think of is, if you think that, then get the fuck out of my sight, and if you’d fucking listen for just one second -, and a thousand other things he knows he won’t mean when he calms down. He knows what’s rash, by now. He’s had enough time, and enough arguments. They always say the things they don’t mean.
Eduardo makes a noise, frustrated and low like he’s trying to keep silent. His fingers dig into Mark’s shoulder, pulling him forcefully around and slamming him against the sink. The edge catches him in the small of the back, at the base of his spine, and he gasps in pain, hands scrabbling at the ledge behind him to keep from falling. He’s going to have one hell a bruise in a few hours. Eduardo’s glaring at him, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared.
“Don’t fucking ignore me, Mark,” he growls. He’s not touching Mark anymore; instead, his hands are fisted at his sides, clenching and unclenching.
“Leave me alone,” Mark says. He’s trying to keep his voice calm and quiet - he manages the latter, but not the former. Eduardo has a way of making him feel vulnerable, weaker. Eduardo’s taller and stronger, and he won’t let Mark forget it. Mark’s too angry to care right now, though, so he lets the anger come through in his voice, and he ignores the way Eduardo’s looking at him.
“No,” Eduardo says, “not until you fucking take it back.” Mark can see the way Eduardo wants to push him; he can tell by the tense line of Eduardo’s shoulders and the grit of his teeth.
“I’m not going to let you get out of doing your fucking job, Wardo, and -”
“And I’m not going to let you order me about just because you're 'CEO'. We're still friends, Mark. This is our thing.” Eduardo’s voice isn’t loud - it’s like flinty rock, hard and easily shattered. Mark can feel himself pause, and he doesn’t want to. His fingernails press into resisting porcelain and he sucks at the blood trickling from the inside of his cheek. The longer he takes to respond, the tenser the tendons in Eduardo’s neck get, the longer his fists stay clenched, and the less likely he is to believe anything Mark says.
“It’s got nothing to do with that,” he replies, finally. Eduardo snorts, but Mark doesn’t let him interrupt, for once. “You inconsiderate asshole, if you think I’m going let you fuck around like that, freezing vital bank accounts when the company is at it's most vulnerable, then you obviously haven’t learned a thing about me in the past year we’ve known each other.”
“I don’t believe -”
“Yeah, well, fuck you,” Mark interrupts, quietly, and looks over Eduardo’s shoulder at the closed door. At least they aren’t yelling, this time. The last thing he needs is someone barging in, even Dustin or Chris. Especially not Sean. “I’m not going to let all of this turn to shit just because you’re not doing your part.”
Mark’s not expecting Eduardo to press forward, shoving him back against the sink. Eduardo’s hands cover his own on the edge, keeping him from moving them. Mark’s breath catches in his throat, but he still doesn’t make eye contact. He hates the way desire curls in his stomach, just from the proximity. That’s the thing, though - he always wants Eduardo, always. Even with anger in the set of his jaw and a scowl on his face, Mark wants to wrap his fingers around the back of Eduardo’s neck and pull him closer.
“And that has nothing to do with us?” Eduardo asks, close enough that Mark can feel Eduardo’s breath on the side of his jaw.
“Of course it fucking doesn’t,” Mark replies, trying not to shudder from the way Eduardo’s body feels, solid and warm. “You’re being childish.”
“I don’t see you yelling at Sean, for fuck’s sake,” Eduardo says, “who is a fucking houseguest, Mark, and who fucks around way more than I do. The drugs, the girls-” His tone is petulant now, rather than angry, and Mark lets himself feel a spark of relief.
“Sean's got connections to VCs. Deep pockets. He's been here before, he knows what he's doing. And he's going to help us get this thing going in the right direction. You knew we needed the money in that account Wardo, and still you just went ahead and froze it?” Mark knows he’s in the right, he does. Why should he go any easier on Eduardo? Eduardo would yell at him for that, too.
“I had to get your attention,” Eduardo mutters, and Mark realizes they've had this exact same conversation before, over the phone.
“Fuck off,” he says. It’s the third time he’s said it since they started this argument, but he can’t think of anything more venomous, nothing that he’d actually mean.
Eduardo doesn’t say anything, just bends forward and kisses Mark on the mouth. It’s not an apology, really, but Mark’s used to Eduardo being a prat, used to the way they bicker, so he just kisses back. He tries to pull a hand out from under Eduardo's, but Eduardo just holds on tighter, keeping Mark from moving.
“No,” Eduardo says, leaning back slightly. Mark can taste Eduardo’s breath against his lips. “Keep your hands there. Don’t move them.”
“Wardo -” he starts, but stops trying to pull his hands away. He isn’t surprised when Eduardo interrupts him.
“No,” Eduardo says again. “Leave them. I’m sick of you ordering me around.” Mark refrains from rolling his eyes - so fucking melodramatic - but Eduardo just leans closer and squeezes Mark’s hands with both of his, teeth nipping at Mark’s jaw. Mark shivers, but doesn’t press closer, even though he wants to.
If Eduardo wants to do all the work, for once, then he’s fucking going to do all the work.
Eduardo’s chest is warm where it touches Mark’s, pressed closer when they both breathe in. Mark’s breath stutters in his chest, Eduardo’s lips still against his jaw. He’s warm, even in just his t-shirt and jeans, so Eduardo’s mouth sticks to his skin, tacky. Eduardo’s fingernails dig into his palms, and it’s almost like holding hands. Almost. Not that they ever get to do that. Not that Mark's sure they would, even if they had the chance.
“Stop thinking,” Eduardo says, by Mark’s ear. “I can hear it.” Mark snorts, but tilts his head to the side.
“Does this mean we’re done fighting?” he asks, instead. “Have we moved on to the makeup sex stage of things?”
“Yeah,” Eduardo says, pushing his knee between Mark’s thighs. “I’d like to think so, anyway.”
“And after less than an hour, too. Dustin will be so proud.” Mark’s voice is breathier than he’d like, and he’s not exactly being sarcastic, but he can feel the way Eduardo’s trying not to laugh when he kisses Mark again on the lips.
“If our argument hasn’t made it into the press again, you mean.” Eduardo presses up with his thigh, and Mark gasps. The sound is half laugh, muffled by Eduardo’s mouth, and he just shakes his head. Eduardo’s clutching his hands hard enough that Mark’s losing circulation in the tips of his fingers, but he doesn’t actually give a fuck. He’d rather stay here, pressed against the sink in the studio bathroom by the weight of Eduardo’s body. Eduardo’s chest is solid and real against his, expanding and contracting with every breath, and Mark doesn’t have it in him to stay mad. They may fight like cats, but they’re good together, he knows they are.
Eduardo smiles, and kisses him again. Mark bites into Eduardo’s bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to smart, and Eduardo tightens his fingers on Mark’s. His thigh is pushing steadily enough to make Mark’s eyes roll up and his hips thrust forward. Eduardo laughs in the back of his throat, in control, and Mark wants to hate him for it.
“Keep your hands still,” Eduardo says, lips pressing just under Mark’s ear, nose in his hair. When he pulls his fingers away, it’s all Mark can do not to wrap his hands in the fabric of Eduardo’s dress shirt and pull him impossibly closer. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t.
Eduardo pushes one hand under the fabric of Mark’s shirt, reaching between their bodies. There’s not much space, but Eduardo doesn’t seem to care, just scratches his fingernails over Mark’s stomach and chest, rucking the cotton up as he goes. Mark shivers; he just wants that hand down the front of his pants, wants those fingers on the zip of his jeans, past the elastic of his boxers, wrapped around his cock. He rolls his hips, impatient, and Eduardo laughs again, his teeth nipping at Mark’s skin.
“We don’t have much time,” Mark says. The edge in his voice isn’t anger, not anymore, and he knows Eduardo can tell the difference. He tightens his fingers on the edge of the sink, and he wants to touch Eduardo's face, wants to slide his hands down the back of Eduardo’s sleek, black designer pants. Wants the leverage to pull Eduardo closer.
“We have enough,” Eduardo says, and licks a stripe down Mark’s neck. Mark shudders, and pushes his hips against Eduardo’s thigh. “You have no idea how sexy it is when you code. It’s like - fucking. I half hate watching you work because I can’t just touch those hands of yours or bite into the tendons in your neck -” he punctuates his words by biting down, his teeth hard and blunt against Mark’s skin. Mark’s mouth gasps open, but no sound comes out. His fingers press into the porcelain with the effort not to move them.
“Fuck,” he says, his voice thin and breathy in a way he almost hates. “Fuck, Wardo, no fucking teasing.” He’s hard, shaking with the strain of holding himself up with his arms, and Eduardo’s teasing him.
Every time Eduardo pushes against him, the edge of the sink hits Mark in the centre of his back - he can already feel the bruise forming there from Eduardo’s stunt earlier, and he bites his bottom lip. The pain isn’t all bad; it makes him gasp louder every time Eduardo’s thigh grinds against his cock, pleasure and pain impulses twining together until he can’t precisely tell them apart. He makes a noise in the back of his throat - a shunted whimper, half-aborted - and Eduardo presses forward like he can get closer. He can’t, not really, and the more he tries, the harder the sink digs into Mark’s spine, but he doesn’t care.
“How do you fucking - expect me to pay attention and do my job,” Eduardo says, fingernails digging into the skin over Mark’s ribs, “when you sound like that? Your voice, it’s - fuck -” Eduardo cuts himself off, voice breathy against the saliva-slick side of Mark’s neck.
Mark doesn’t get any warning, just Eduardo’s free hand sliding past the loose waistband of his jeans, past the elastic of his boxers, wrapping warm and dry around his cock. It’s almost too much - callused palm and strong fingers against his skin - and he can’t help the strained noise that he makes. Eduardo bites into his neck again, and Mark can feel his cock, hard, against the bowl of his hip, but he can’t do anything about it. He has to concentrate on breathing as Eduardo moves his hand, thumb curling up on the down stroke, just the way Eduardo knows he likes; he’s sure he must be bruising his fingers by now, clutching at the sink. His arms are still shaking with the effort, and he lets his head fall back and thunk against the wall, back arched as much as it can with his arms behind him.
“Oh, fuck,” he manages, finally. Eduardo laughs, guttural in the back of his throat.
“Let me,” Eduardo says, “let me -” and grinds against Mark’s hip. Mark can hear their shallow gasps, he can smell sweat and arousal, and he wants Eduardo to kiss him, he wants - he wants everything.
Eduardo’s hand should chafe at him, it should hurt, and maybe it does, but he can’t tell - the stickiness of his own sweat eases the way, and he can’t do anything but thrust into the tight grip of Eduardo’s hand. Eduardo runs a fingernail down the underside of his cock, pressing just hard enough, and Mark can feel the muscles in his back convulse. Eduardo’s lips are sloppy on the side of his neck, hot with exhaled breath.
“Wardo -” he says, and he isn’t expecting to come, not that easily. But he can feel the build up, warmth from the tips of his fingers down, and he bites his lip like Eduardo’s biting his neck. Three more slow, hard strokes and he’s coming into the curve of Eduardo’s palm - his vision goes bright and white, and he can hear the shunted stuttering of his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but he can taste blood on his lips where he’s bitten them ragged. Eduardo’s dress shirt is stuck to his chest with sweat, his own t-shirt pushed up almost to his collarbones; he’s going to have fingernail shaped bruises on one side from where Eduardo is clutching at him.
He’s still riding the crest down when Eduardo steps away, chest rising and falling fast with his breath, and tugs down his shorts. Mark watches the way his mouth opens in an involuntary, inaudible noise, the way his eyes slide shut, eyelashes fanned against his cheekbones, the flat skin of his tan stomach, his hand around his own cock. It’s the same hand he used for Mark. He didn’t bother to wipe it off, and Mark can see the easy slickness of his strokes, where Eduardo’s skin is still wet with Mark's come.
“Fucking hell, Wardo,” Mark says. His knees are shaking, and he might need to sit. He might need to push Eduardo’s hand away and replace it with his mouth.
“Don’t move,” Eduardo says, low and breathy, and Mark only just manages not to groan. “Mark,” he says, and meets Mark’s eyes, thrusting steadily into his hand. How he still has rhythm, Mark isn’t entirely sure, but he can’t take his eyes away. He wants to say, you’re so fucking sexy, or please let me suck you off, or something, anything, but Eduardo’s the big talker. Words spew from Eduardo’s mouth so easily that it still sometimes surprises Mark, but - Mark can barely remember to breathe, watching Eduardo jerk himself off.
“Mark,” Eduardo says, again, urgency in his voice. Mark watches the curl of his fingertips and - he’s stroking himself the way he knows Mark likes it, thumb pressed hard to the underside of his cock. It’s almost like a show, if not for the neediness, the whimpered hunger in Eduardo’s voice.
“C’mon, Wardo,” Mark says, feeling the heat curl in his stomach. “Come,” he says. “Do it.”
He’s not sure how he manages to get the words out, but he stops breathing when Eduardo throws his head back, the column of his throat shiny with sweat, and comes all over his hand. Mark watches him come apart, watches the heaving of his chest and the tense line of his shoulders. He sees the muscles in Eduardo’s thighs shake, the way he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, and he wants to touch him.
Finally, finally, Mark lets go of the sink. He gets two steps, hands coming up to frame Eduardo’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and kisses Eduardo on the lips, tongue sliding messily into Eduardo’s mouth, loose and relaxed. It’s sloppy, sated, and Mark’s just glad to be touching - Eduardo’s warm skin under his palms, hair against his fingertips.
“Always ordering me around,” Eduardo says against Mark’s mouth. His clean hand cups the back of Mark’s neck.
“I stick to my skills,” Mark says, and then, “We should clean up before someone comes in.” He doesn’t pull back yet, though. He knows they’re not going to be able to hide anything from Dustin or Chris - not with the huge hickey probably forming on his neck - so. He lets himself bask, just a little.
“Okay,” Eduardo says agreeably, but doesn’t pull away either.
Mark gives them a few minutes. He figures that they’ve earned it.
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own tsn :-(
Words: 2972
Summary: Mark is angry at Eduardo for freezing the bank account, and Eduardo is tired of Mark ordering him around all the time. Sexual frustration prevails.
Notes: Another fic named after a TSN-OST track, yes. This was written for my beloved Devon, but then Amanda talked me into publishing it. So here it is! Smut, again, guys. IDEK.
Mark leans over the sink in the bathroom, breathing in deeply through his nose, fingers clutching the porcelain. His knuckles are white, and his shoulders are shaking, and when the door slams open it’s all he can do not punch whoever it is in the face and deal with the consequences later. Instead, he just grasps the edge of the sink ever harder and bites the inside of his mouth sharply enough that he can taste copper on his tongue.
“Fuck off,” he says, because this is his house in Palo Alto, and for as long as his company is here, he's in charge. Instead of a scared intern, however, he hears Eduardo snort, angry rather than amused.
“You don’t get to fucking order me around, Mark,” Eduardo says, a hiss in his voice, sibilant. It's not like him to curse like that. “You don’t fucking own me.”
“Fuck off, Wardo,” Mark says again, louder, watching the skin under his fingernails turn red and then white as he presses them into the porcelain. “I left to keep from arguing with you.”
“No, you left so that you could have the last word, you bastard,” Eduardo says. “As always.” He’s moved closer, Mark can tell from his voice, but Mark refuses to look at him. He just sucks on the inside of his cheek and tastes blood. He doesn’t say anything in response - he’s too angry. All he can think of is, if you think that, then get the fuck out of my sight, and if you’d fucking listen for just one second -, and a thousand other things he knows he won’t mean when he calms down. He knows what’s rash, by now. He’s had enough time, and enough arguments. They always say the things they don’t mean.
Eduardo makes a noise, frustrated and low like he’s trying to keep silent. His fingers dig into Mark’s shoulder, pulling him forcefully around and slamming him against the sink. The edge catches him in the small of the back, at the base of his spine, and he gasps in pain, hands scrabbling at the ledge behind him to keep from falling. He’s going to have one hell a bruise in a few hours. Eduardo’s glaring at him, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared.
“Don’t fucking ignore me, Mark,” he growls. He’s not touching Mark anymore; instead, his hands are fisted at his sides, clenching and unclenching.
“Leave me alone,” Mark says. He’s trying to keep his voice calm and quiet - he manages the latter, but not the former. Eduardo has a way of making him feel vulnerable, weaker. Eduardo’s taller and stronger, and he won’t let Mark forget it. Mark’s too angry to care right now, though, so he lets the anger come through in his voice, and he ignores the way Eduardo’s looking at him.
“No,” Eduardo says, “not until you fucking take it back.” Mark can see the way Eduardo wants to push him; he can tell by the tense line of Eduardo’s shoulders and the grit of his teeth.
“I’m not going to let you get out of doing your fucking job, Wardo, and -”
“And I’m not going to let you order me about just because you're 'CEO'. We're still friends, Mark. This is our thing.” Eduardo’s voice isn’t loud - it’s like flinty rock, hard and easily shattered. Mark can feel himself pause, and he doesn’t want to. His fingernails press into resisting porcelain and he sucks at the blood trickling from the inside of his cheek. The longer he takes to respond, the tenser the tendons in Eduardo’s neck get, the longer his fists stay clenched, and the less likely he is to believe anything Mark says.
“It’s got nothing to do with that,” he replies, finally. Eduardo snorts, but Mark doesn’t let him interrupt, for once. “You inconsiderate asshole, if you think I’m going let you fuck around like that, freezing vital bank accounts when the company is at it's most vulnerable, then you obviously haven’t learned a thing about me in the past year we’ve known each other.”
“I don’t believe -”
“Yeah, well, fuck you,” Mark interrupts, quietly, and looks over Eduardo’s shoulder at the closed door. At least they aren’t yelling, this time. The last thing he needs is someone barging in, even Dustin or Chris. Especially not Sean. “I’m not going to let all of this turn to shit just because you’re not doing your part.”
Mark’s not expecting Eduardo to press forward, shoving him back against the sink. Eduardo’s hands cover his own on the edge, keeping him from moving them. Mark’s breath catches in his throat, but he still doesn’t make eye contact. He hates the way desire curls in his stomach, just from the proximity. That’s the thing, though - he always wants Eduardo, always. Even with anger in the set of his jaw and a scowl on his face, Mark wants to wrap his fingers around the back of Eduardo’s neck and pull him closer.
“And that has nothing to do with us?” Eduardo asks, close enough that Mark can feel Eduardo’s breath on the side of his jaw.
“Of course it fucking doesn’t,” Mark replies, trying not to shudder from the way Eduardo’s body feels, solid and warm. “You’re being childish.”
“I don’t see you yelling at Sean, for fuck’s sake,” Eduardo says, “who is a fucking houseguest, Mark, and who fucks around way more than I do. The drugs, the girls-” His tone is petulant now, rather than angry, and Mark lets himself feel a spark of relief.
“Sean's got connections to VCs. Deep pockets. He's been here before, he knows what he's doing. And he's going to help us get this thing going in the right direction. You knew we needed the money in that account Wardo, and still you just went ahead and froze it?” Mark knows he’s in the right, he does. Why should he go any easier on Eduardo? Eduardo would yell at him for that, too.
“I had to get your attention,” Eduardo mutters, and Mark realizes they've had this exact same conversation before, over the phone.
“Fuck off,” he says. It’s the third time he’s said it since they started this argument, but he can’t think of anything more venomous, nothing that he’d actually mean.
Eduardo doesn’t say anything, just bends forward and kisses Mark on the mouth. It’s not an apology, really, but Mark’s used to Eduardo being a prat, used to the way they bicker, so he just kisses back. He tries to pull a hand out from under Eduardo's, but Eduardo just holds on tighter, keeping Mark from moving.
“No,” Eduardo says, leaning back slightly. Mark can taste Eduardo’s breath against his lips. “Keep your hands there. Don’t move them.”
“Wardo -” he starts, but stops trying to pull his hands away. He isn’t surprised when Eduardo interrupts him.
“No,” Eduardo says again. “Leave them. I’m sick of you ordering me around.” Mark refrains from rolling his eyes - so fucking melodramatic - but Eduardo just leans closer and squeezes Mark’s hands with both of his, teeth nipping at Mark’s jaw. Mark shivers, but doesn’t press closer, even though he wants to.
If Eduardo wants to do all the work, for once, then he’s fucking going to do all the work.
Eduardo’s chest is warm where it touches Mark’s, pressed closer when they both breathe in. Mark’s breath stutters in his chest, Eduardo’s lips still against his jaw. He’s warm, even in just his t-shirt and jeans, so Eduardo’s mouth sticks to his skin, tacky. Eduardo’s fingernails dig into his palms, and it’s almost like holding hands. Almost. Not that they ever get to do that. Not that Mark's sure they would, even if they had the chance.
“Stop thinking,” Eduardo says, by Mark’s ear. “I can hear it.” Mark snorts, but tilts his head to the side.
“Does this mean we’re done fighting?” he asks, instead. “Have we moved on to the makeup sex stage of things?”
“Yeah,” Eduardo says, pushing his knee between Mark’s thighs. “I’d like to think so, anyway.”
“And after less than an hour, too. Dustin will be so proud.” Mark’s voice is breathier than he’d like, and he’s not exactly being sarcastic, but he can feel the way Eduardo’s trying not to laugh when he kisses Mark again on the lips.
“If our argument hasn’t made it into the press again, you mean.” Eduardo presses up with his thigh, and Mark gasps. The sound is half laugh, muffled by Eduardo’s mouth, and he just shakes his head. Eduardo’s clutching his hands hard enough that Mark’s losing circulation in the tips of his fingers, but he doesn’t actually give a fuck. He’d rather stay here, pressed against the sink in the studio bathroom by the weight of Eduardo’s body. Eduardo’s chest is solid and real against his, expanding and contracting with every breath, and Mark doesn’t have it in him to stay mad. They may fight like cats, but they’re good together, he knows they are.
Eduardo smiles, and kisses him again. Mark bites into Eduardo’s bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to smart, and Eduardo tightens his fingers on Mark’s. His thigh is pushing steadily enough to make Mark’s eyes roll up and his hips thrust forward. Eduardo laughs in the back of his throat, in control, and Mark wants to hate him for it.
“Keep your hands still,” Eduardo says, lips pressing just under Mark’s ear, nose in his hair. When he pulls his fingers away, it’s all Mark can do not to wrap his hands in the fabric of Eduardo’s dress shirt and pull him impossibly closer. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t.
Eduardo pushes one hand under the fabric of Mark’s shirt, reaching between their bodies. There’s not much space, but Eduardo doesn’t seem to care, just scratches his fingernails over Mark’s stomach and chest, rucking the cotton up as he goes. Mark shivers; he just wants that hand down the front of his pants, wants those fingers on the zip of his jeans, past the elastic of his boxers, wrapped around his cock. He rolls his hips, impatient, and Eduardo laughs again, his teeth nipping at Mark’s skin.
“We don’t have much time,” Mark says. The edge in his voice isn’t anger, not anymore, and he knows Eduardo can tell the difference. He tightens his fingers on the edge of the sink, and he wants to touch Eduardo's face, wants to slide his hands down the back of Eduardo’s sleek, black designer pants. Wants the leverage to pull Eduardo closer.
“We have enough,” Eduardo says, and licks a stripe down Mark’s neck. Mark shudders, and pushes his hips against Eduardo’s thigh. “You have no idea how sexy it is when you code. It’s like - fucking. I half hate watching you work because I can’t just touch those hands of yours or bite into the tendons in your neck -” he punctuates his words by biting down, his teeth hard and blunt against Mark’s skin. Mark’s mouth gasps open, but no sound comes out. His fingers press into the porcelain with the effort not to move them.
“Fuck,” he says, his voice thin and breathy in a way he almost hates. “Fuck, Wardo, no fucking teasing.” He’s hard, shaking with the strain of holding himself up with his arms, and Eduardo’s teasing him.
Every time Eduardo pushes against him, the edge of the sink hits Mark in the centre of his back - he can already feel the bruise forming there from Eduardo’s stunt earlier, and he bites his bottom lip. The pain isn’t all bad; it makes him gasp louder every time Eduardo’s thigh grinds against his cock, pleasure and pain impulses twining together until he can’t precisely tell them apart. He makes a noise in the back of his throat - a shunted whimper, half-aborted - and Eduardo presses forward like he can get closer. He can’t, not really, and the more he tries, the harder the sink digs into Mark’s spine, but he doesn’t care.
“How do you fucking - expect me to pay attention and do my job,” Eduardo says, fingernails digging into the skin over Mark’s ribs, “when you sound like that? Your voice, it’s - fuck -” Eduardo cuts himself off, voice breathy against the saliva-slick side of Mark’s neck.
Mark doesn’t get any warning, just Eduardo’s free hand sliding past the loose waistband of his jeans, past the elastic of his boxers, wrapping warm and dry around his cock. It’s almost too much - callused palm and strong fingers against his skin - and he can’t help the strained noise that he makes. Eduardo bites into his neck again, and Mark can feel his cock, hard, against the bowl of his hip, but he can’t do anything about it. He has to concentrate on breathing as Eduardo moves his hand, thumb curling up on the down stroke, just the way Eduardo knows he likes; he’s sure he must be bruising his fingers by now, clutching at the sink. His arms are still shaking with the effort, and he lets his head fall back and thunk against the wall, back arched as much as it can with his arms behind him.
“Oh, fuck,” he manages, finally. Eduardo laughs, guttural in the back of his throat.
“Let me,” Eduardo says, “let me -” and grinds against Mark’s hip. Mark can hear their shallow gasps, he can smell sweat and arousal, and he wants Eduardo to kiss him, he wants - he wants everything.
Eduardo’s hand should chafe at him, it should hurt, and maybe it does, but he can’t tell - the stickiness of his own sweat eases the way, and he can’t do anything but thrust into the tight grip of Eduardo’s hand. Eduardo runs a fingernail down the underside of his cock, pressing just hard enough, and Mark can feel the muscles in his back convulse. Eduardo’s lips are sloppy on the side of his neck, hot with exhaled breath.
“Wardo -” he says, and he isn’t expecting to come, not that easily. But he can feel the build up, warmth from the tips of his fingers down, and he bites his lip like Eduardo’s biting his neck. Three more slow, hard strokes and he’s coming into the curve of Eduardo’s palm - his vision goes bright and white, and he can hear the shunted stuttering of his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but he can taste blood on his lips where he’s bitten them ragged. Eduardo’s dress shirt is stuck to his chest with sweat, his own t-shirt pushed up almost to his collarbones; he’s going to have fingernail shaped bruises on one side from where Eduardo is clutching at him.
He’s still riding the crest down when Eduardo steps away, chest rising and falling fast with his breath, and tugs down his shorts. Mark watches the way his mouth opens in an involuntary, inaudible noise, the way his eyes slide shut, eyelashes fanned against his cheekbones, the flat skin of his tan stomach, his hand around his own cock. It’s the same hand he used for Mark. He didn’t bother to wipe it off, and Mark can see the easy slickness of his strokes, where Eduardo’s skin is still wet with Mark's come.
“Fucking hell, Wardo,” Mark says. His knees are shaking, and he might need to sit. He might need to push Eduardo’s hand away and replace it with his mouth.
“Don’t move,” Eduardo says, low and breathy, and Mark only just manages not to groan. “Mark,” he says, and meets Mark’s eyes, thrusting steadily into his hand. How he still has rhythm, Mark isn’t entirely sure, but he can’t take his eyes away. He wants to say, you’re so fucking sexy, or please let me suck you off, or something, anything, but Eduardo’s the big talker. Words spew from Eduardo’s mouth so easily that it still sometimes surprises Mark, but - Mark can barely remember to breathe, watching Eduardo jerk himself off.
“Mark,” Eduardo says, again, urgency in his voice. Mark watches the curl of his fingertips and - he’s stroking himself the way he knows Mark likes it, thumb pressed hard to the underside of his cock. It’s almost like a show, if not for the neediness, the whimpered hunger in Eduardo’s voice.
“C’mon, Wardo,” Mark says, feeling the heat curl in his stomach. “Come,” he says. “Do it.”
He’s not sure how he manages to get the words out, but he stops breathing when Eduardo throws his head back, the column of his throat shiny with sweat, and comes all over his hand. Mark watches him come apart, watches the heaving of his chest and the tense line of his shoulders. He sees the muscles in Eduardo’s thighs shake, the way he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, and he wants to touch him.
Finally, finally, Mark lets go of the sink. He gets two steps, hands coming up to frame Eduardo’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and kisses Eduardo on the lips, tongue sliding messily into Eduardo’s mouth, loose and relaxed. It’s sloppy, sated, and Mark’s just glad to be touching - Eduardo’s warm skin under his palms, hair against his fingertips.
“Always ordering me around,” Eduardo says against Mark’s mouth. His clean hand cups the back of Mark’s neck.
“I stick to my skills,” Mark says, and then, “We should clean up before someone comes in.” He doesn’t pull back yet, though. He knows they’re not going to be able to hide anything from Dustin or Chris - not with the huge hickey probably forming on his neck - so. He lets himself bask, just a little.
“Okay,” Eduardo says agreeably, but doesn’t pull away either.
Mark gives them a few minutes. He figures that they’ve earned it.