grow like a riot [mark/eduardo, r]
So, uh! I started writing this for gigantic on Friday night after I got back from seeing The Social Network, showed her part of it, and then it sort of exploded. Ceej, this is for you, still. As usual.
Completely unbetaed, because I am impatient and also sleepy. Title stolen from the genius that is Phoenix.
Grow Like A Riot (Mark/Eduardo), R, 1500 words
It's Mark's fault.
It's Mark's fault. Eduardo pulls back enough to say it, breaths coming out harsh and fast. "This is," he says, but there's not space enough between them to indicate. "This is you."
Mark turns his head, eyes wide as ever, but he nods, even though he doesn't speak.
Eduardo closes his eyes, teeth sinking into his lip. "Just say it, Mark," he breathes, but Mark doesn't, taking the words from his mouth instead, pressing closer and fitting them together again. Wardo kisses him back, hands still pressed to either of Mark's shoulders, waiting for the right moment to push him away but not quite managing it.
His fingers curl in, just holding on and against his mouth, Mark says, "I just needed you to be here," and then sinks his own teeth into Wardo's lip, plumping it.
"Jesus," Eduardo says. "Jesus, Jesus," and then, laughing shakily, "This what they teaching you out here?" They're alone in the hallway, alone for the moment, and his clothes are still damp from the rain. His head is spinning, and from his pocket, his phone buzzes. Christy.
"Don't answer," Mark says, as if Edurardo would, slipping his hand under Eduardo's sodden shirt, fingers freezing like icicles. "Don't," he repeats, pressing in closer, tighter, like there are any spaces he hasn't already filled.
"I," Eduardo says, their hips angled together, his phone still buzzing against their thighs. "I won't," he says, but the words are more breath than sound as Mark drops his head and mouths against his jaw, his sternum, leaving raw, open-mouthed marks on his skin instead of kisses.
Mark doesn't sink to his knees, but Eduardo thinks wildly that he could, he could, and he probably wouldn't last more than a minute. "I didn't mean to leave you waiting," Mark says, voice muffled, but still clear. It's probably the closest thing to an apology Eduardo's ever going to get, so he ignores it in favor of drawing his hand against Mark's cheek, tilting his head up enough to look at his face.
This time he leans in, despite all the protests in his head, despite all the reasons that this is a spectacularly stupid idea. Their lips touch, mouths both cold from the rain and the damp, and it's not electric, but Eduardo doesn't need it to be. He kisses Mark, kisses him hard and tight, and Mark kisses back, on his tiptoes again as he pushes Wardo against the door, grappling, as always, to be in control.
Eduardo's conscious of it when he speaks, when he says, "I want you," and Mark hums against his mouth and says, "Me too," as if that's enough.
Eduardo wants to say, "Won't you say that either? Can't you even say that to me?" But he doesn't. He doesn't, and Mark's nails curl down, scratching against his belly, making him grunt at the sensation. "What the hell?" is what he does say, and Mark laughs a little, but doesn't stop touching him, pressing Wardo against one of the doors, sliding a knee between his spread legs.
Mark doesn't say, "Relax," like Eduardo would. He doesn't say, "I'm here." He says, "I wanted to see what it would feel like," and they kiss again, mouths making quiet noises as they breathe and press together at as many angles as they can manage.
Blame isn't something that can be squarely put anywhere. Mark's the one who curls his hand against Eduardo's belt buckle, but Wardo's the one who leans back against the wall, head thunking against the plaster and says, "Jesus, yeah," and doesn't recoil when his friend's hand drops down to unzip his pants and cup his balls through his shorts.
"You're hard," Mark says, like he's surprised, his voice cool and detached, such a far cry from the warm breaths he's puffing out against Eduardo's throat. For his part, Wardo can't breathe much, doesn't have the higher brain function at the moment; barely even notices it when his phone starts to buzz again, as insistent as the last time. "She really wants to talk to you," Mark says, but he doesn't stop his fingers' assault, keeps his wrist tucked close, working Eduardo like he's trying to piece together lines of code, brow furrowed.
"She's, uh," Eduardo says, clearing his throat and blinking a few times across the room. His gaze tops Mark's head, bent and focused, curls tousled and damp by sleep and sweat and residual rainwater. "She's crazy, man."
Mark doesn't say anything, and Wardo thinks of all the things he could say to fill up the silence, but nothing comes, just Mark's fingers circling him through fabric and their breaths, harsh and ragged.
"You, uh," Mark's biting on his lip when he looks up, teeth set, and Eduardo finds he can't look in his eyes for long without getting dizzy. Dizzier. "You want me to do you?"
Mark's eyes snap down and then up again, quick, jerky movements that mimic his hand. He clears his throat and for a split-second, Eduardo actually thinks he's blushing. "Yeah," Mark says. "Okay."
He uses his hips to push them back into a bedroom that Wardo's pretty sure isn't his and they land on the bed with a grunt, Eduardo flat on his back with Mark's elbow against his throat, cutting off his breathing for a second. "Shit," Wardo says, his laugh breathy, a little hysterical. "Shit." He's seeing black spots against his eyelids and feels Mark's breath against his neck.
"Didn't mean to do that," Mark says, and then he ducks his head down again, nosing at Eduardo's throat, starting the onslaught again as he figures himself out, knees on either side of Eduardo's hips, working himself down. He's still fully dressed, they both are, mostly, but Eduardo's still closer than he thinks he ought to be. He's not surprised.
"Let me," he says. "Okay?" His voice is rougher than he's heard it before, and he clears his throat too, an almost-perfect mimic. Mark hums, but doesn't respond, and Eduardo doesn't flip them, just shifts until Mark is on his side, mussing the sheets and blankets.
Wardo's hands aren't as quick, not as sure, but Mark hisses out a breath when he does something right, yanking down his jeans with both hands, palms cool against the bare skin of Mark's belly. He ducks his head again, nosing against Mark's shirts and his belly, breathing him in. It's not the first time he's thought: what the fuck are you doing? but it's probably the most prominent, Mark's dick in his line of sight, straining against his y-fronts.
"Shit," Eduardo says, and Mark chokes out something that could be a laugh as he repeats the sentiment. "Shit," they say again, but neither of them move.
He tugs Mark's underwear halfway down, not even clearing his knees in his haste, mouth straining and almost at the head when Mark mumbles, "Didn't know you wanted it this bad," and they both freeze, Eduardo's hands stilling in the air as most of the sound gets sucked out of the room.
Down the hall, he can hear the TV, the girls, Sean on the phone as something tumbles down, another lamp breaking, probably. If he strains his ears, he can hear Dustin's mumbling coming closer, and his skin prickles with awareness and Mark's eyes on him, gaze unwavering.
"Shit," he says to himself, rolling onto his knees and zipping his pants up, even though his dick whines silently in protest. "Shit. Whose room are we even in?"
Mark flicks his tongue out and Wardo stares, not as transfixed, but close. Mark's mouth is plump, and Eduardo gets a rush of instant, gratifying pleasure as he thinks: I did that, me. It doesn't last long, the outside noises popping the atmosphere like a bubble.
"Does it matter?" Mark asks, rolling to sit up. In the watery light from the chinese lanterns outside, Eduardo makes out his face, features tightly drawn. "Nothing happened."
It's like a punch to the gut, but Eduardo shouldn't have expected different. "Nothing happened," he parrots, trying to get the words to make sense, the repetition almost constant in his brain as he slots the pieces together.
Mark sits up, tugging up his jeans and underwear in a movement that's surprisingly graceful. "Yeah," he says, voice louder than it was, making an impact. "Nothing happened." He tumbles to his feet, hand on Eduardo's shoulder for balance. Their gazes skitter and catch, all of Eduardo's breath caught in his throat as Mark bares his teeth in what could pass as a grin. "Yeah," he says again, repeating himself.
Eduardo moves first.
Completely unbetaed, because I am impatient and also sleepy. Title stolen from the genius that is Phoenix.
Grow Like A Riot (Mark/Eduardo), R, 1500 words
It's Mark's fault.
It's Mark's fault. Eduardo pulls back enough to say it, breaths coming out harsh and fast. "This is," he says, but there's not space enough between them to indicate. "This is you."
Mark turns his head, eyes wide as ever, but he nods, even though he doesn't speak.
Eduardo closes his eyes, teeth sinking into his lip. "Just say it, Mark," he breathes, but Mark doesn't, taking the words from his mouth instead, pressing closer and fitting them together again. Wardo kisses him back, hands still pressed to either of Mark's shoulders, waiting for the right moment to push him away but not quite managing it.
His fingers curl in, just holding on and against his mouth, Mark says, "I just needed you to be here," and then sinks his own teeth into Wardo's lip, plumping it.
"Jesus," Eduardo says. "Jesus, Jesus," and then, laughing shakily, "This what they teaching you out here?" They're alone in the hallway, alone for the moment, and his clothes are still damp from the rain. His head is spinning, and from his pocket, his phone buzzes. Christy.
"Don't answer," Mark says, as if Edurardo would, slipping his hand under Eduardo's sodden shirt, fingers freezing like icicles. "Don't," he repeats, pressing in closer, tighter, like there are any spaces he hasn't already filled.
"I," Eduardo says, their hips angled together, his phone still buzzing against their thighs. "I won't," he says, but the words are more breath than sound as Mark drops his head and mouths against his jaw, his sternum, leaving raw, open-mouthed marks on his skin instead of kisses.
Mark doesn't sink to his knees, but Eduardo thinks wildly that he could, he could, and he probably wouldn't last more than a minute. "I didn't mean to leave you waiting," Mark says, voice muffled, but still clear. It's probably the closest thing to an apology Eduardo's ever going to get, so he ignores it in favor of drawing his hand against Mark's cheek, tilting his head up enough to look at his face.
This time he leans in, despite all the protests in his head, despite all the reasons that this is a spectacularly stupid idea. Their lips touch, mouths both cold from the rain and the damp, and it's not electric, but Eduardo doesn't need it to be. He kisses Mark, kisses him hard and tight, and Mark kisses back, on his tiptoes again as he pushes Wardo against the door, grappling, as always, to be in control.
Eduardo's conscious of it when he speaks, when he says, "I want you," and Mark hums against his mouth and says, "Me too," as if that's enough.
Eduardo wants to say, "Won't you say that either? Can't you even say that to me?" But he doesn't. He doesn't, and Mark's nails curl down, scratching against his belly, making him grunt at the sensation. "What the hell?" is what he does say, and Mark laughs a little, but doesn't stop touching him, pressing Wardo against one of the doors, sliding a knee between his spread legs.
Mark doesn't say, "Relax," like Eduardo would. He doesn't say, "I'm here." He says, "I wanted to see what it would feel like," and they kiss again, mouths making quiet noises as they breathe and press together at as many angles as they can manage.
Blame isn't something that can be squarely put anywhere. Mark's the one who curls his hand against Eduardo's belt buckle, but Wardo's the one who leans back against the wall, head thunking against the plaster and says, "Jesus, yeah," and doesn't recoil when his friend's hand drops down to unzip his pants and cup his balls through his shorts.
"You're hard," Mark says, like he's surprised, his voice cool and detached, such a far cry from the warm breaths he's puffing out against Eduardo's throat. For his part, Wardo can't breathe much, doesn't have the higher brain function at the moment; barely even notices it when his phone starts to buzz again, as insistent as the last time. "She really wants to talk to you," Mark says, but he doesn't stop his fingers' assault, keeps his wrist tucked close, working Eduardo like he's trying to piece together lines of code, brow furrowed.
"She's, uh," Eduardo says, clearing his throat and blinking a few times across the room. His gaze tops Mark's head, bent and focused, curls tousled and damp by sleep and sweat and residual rainwater. "She's crazy, man."
Mark doesn't say anything, and Wardo thinks of all the things he could say to fill up the silence, but nothing comes, just Mark's fingers circling him through fabric and their breaths, harsh and ragged.
"You, uh," Mark's biting on his lip when he looks up, teeth set, and Eduardo finds he can't look in his eyes for long without getting dizzy. Dizzier. "You want me to do you?"
Mark's eyes snap down and then up again, quick, jerky movements that mimic his hand. He clears his throat and for a split-second, Eduardo actually thinks he's blushing. "Yeah," Mark says. "Okay."
He uses his hips to push them back into a bedroom that Wardo's pretty sure isn't his and they land on the bed with a grunt, Eduardo flat on his back with Mark's elbow against his throat, cutting off his breathing for a second. "Shit," Wardo says, his laugh breathy, a little hysterical. "Shit." He's seeing black spots against his eyelids and feels Mark's breath against his neck.
"Didn't mean to do that," Mark says, and then he ducks his head down again, nosing at Eduardo's throat, starting the onslaught again as he figures himself out, knees on either side of Eduardo's hips, working himself down. He's still fully dressed, they both are, mostly, but Eduardo's still closer than he thinks he ought to be. He's not surprised.
"Let me," he says. "Okay?" His voice is rougher than he's heard it before, and he clears his throat too, an almost-perfect mimic. Mark hums, but doesn't respond, and Eduardo doesn't flip them, just shifts until Mark is on his side, mussing the sheets and blankets.
Wardo's hands aren't as quick, not as sure, but Mark hisses out a breath when he does something right, yanking down his jeans with both hands, palms cool against the bare skin of Mark's belly. He ducks his head again, nosing against Mark's shirts and his belly, breathing him in. It's not the first time he's thought: what the fuck are you doing? but it's probably the most prominent, Mark's dick in his line of sight, straining against his y-fronts.
"Shit," Eduardo says, and Mark chokes out something that could be a laugh as he repeats the sentiment. "Shit," they say again, but neither of them move.
He tugs Mark's underwear halfway down, not even clearing his knees in his haste, mouth straining and almost at the head when Mark mumbles, "Didn't know you wanted it this bad," and they both freeze, Eduardo's hands stilling in the air as most of the sound gets sucked out of the room.
Down the hall, he can hear the TV, the girls, Sean on the phone as something tumbles down, another lamp breaking, probably. If he strains his ears, he can hear Dustin's mumbling coming closer, and his skin prickles with awareness and Mark's eyes on him, gaze unwavering.
"Shit," he says to himself, rolling onto his knees and zipping his pants up, even though his dick whines silently in protest. "Shit. Whose room are we even in?"
Mark flicks his tongue out and Wardo stares, not as transfixed, but close. Mark's mouth is plump, and Eduardo gets a rush of instant, gratifying pleasure as he thinks: I did that, me. It doesn't last long, the outside noises popping the atmosphere like a bubble.
"Does it matter?" Mark asks, rolling to sit up. In the watery light from the chinese lanterns outside, Eduardo makes out his face, features tightly drawn. "Nothing happened."
It's like a punch to the gut, but Eduardo shouldn't have expected different. "Nothing happened," he parrots, trying to get the words to make sense, the repetition almost constant in his brain as he slots the pieces together.
Mark sits up, tugging up his jeans and underwear in a movement that's surprisingly graceful. "Yeah," he says, voice louder than it was, making an impact. "Nothing happened." He tumbles to his feet, hand on Eduardo's shoulder for balance. Their gazes skitter and catch, all of Eduardo's breath caught in his throat as Mark bares his teeth in what could pass as a grin. "Yeah," he says again, repeating himself.
Eduardo moves first.