fic: blood fever (Mark/Eduardo, TSN)
Title: blood fever
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eudardo
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2300
Warning(s): Pon farr-related consent issues.
Summary: "I should have known that you'd be nobly suffering just so you can be self-righteous about it later," Mark says, shoving his way past Eduardo.
Notes: Written for a prompt the mark_eduardo prompt-fest. Is there shame involved in writing pon farr fic in this fandom? Yes. Do I care? Not enough to stop myself from writing it.
The hotel room is quiet except for the sound of Eduardo’s breathing, but even that is excruciating. It's like there's a fire inside him, burning him up, and he can't put it out.
He’s been hard for the past five hours, and that’s fine, that’s normal. He lived through this freshman year, too awkward and gawky to ask anyone else to help him out with his problem. It's not something you really say to people you're into ("Did you know that I have this weird medical condition where I go into heat every year? Would you like to help me with that?"). That year, it had been bad. It had hurt.
All Eduardo wants to do is put his hand on his cock, jerk himself off and then fall asleep, but he knows that won't work. It'll feel good for a bit, but after a while it won't, and Eduardo will still be hard, still be too turned on to think straight. The bed is comfortable, soft, but that's small comfort to him right now.
He pulls off the blanket, but the air conditioning feels like too much on his over heated skin. His hips jerk up involuntarily, getting the tiniest bit of friction, but it's not enough. It's never going to be enough.
The second time he went through this at Harvard--
No, thinking of sex only makes it worse, and thinking of Mark's hands, steady and surprisingly strong, Mark's mouth, wet and hot-- no, Eduardo isn't going to go there.
He closes his eyes again, turns over so that he's on his side. He wants to sleep through it, close off his mind so he won't think about how much he wants to fuck or be fucked or have someone else's hands on his cock or anything else. He thinks he could come if someone touched him. Just the barest brush of fingers on his nipples, a press of lips against his own.
He thinks he remembers the bliss of passing out, that first year at Harvard, the way it felt when his mind had just given out for a while, shut down so he wouldn't have to endure the torture of it any longer. When he woke up, his body chemistry had righted himself, and he'd taken a shower, and he'd gone to classes, and it had been fine. Perfectly fine.
There's a knock on his door, and Eduardo imagines tearing someone's head off, ripping the neck clean off the shoulders. He takes a deep breath and gets out of bed, pulls on a bathrobe and tries to arrange it so that it's not entirely embarrassing.
When he opens the door, Mark is standing there, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his hoodie. His presence hits Eduardo like brick in the face after so long without any other people around, after he's been craving human contact for hours and hours on end. Fuck. He can smell Mark's skin.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Eduardo snarls. He can't deal with Mark right now, Mark and his fucking Facebook shares and his blank fucking face and his NDAs.
Mark stares at him, and his face doesn't move. "You don't have anyone else here, do you?" he says, though it's barely even a question.
"That's really none of your business anymore," Eduardo says. Mark gave that up a long time ago, right around the time he moved out to Palo Alto and decided that Eduardo was supposed to be left behind.
"I should have known that you'd be nobly suffering just so you can be self-righteous about it later," Mark says, shoving his way past Eduardo. The door swings closed behind him.
"What the fuck, Mark?" Eduardo says. He feels naked, even in his robe, completely exposed. It hadn't been this humiliating the last few times, because Mark had been his friend, and Mark hadn't really reacted like Eduardo was this disgusting freak who needed to be pitied. He seemed to like how much Eduardo needed it, how much Eduardo couldn't help himself.
Mark kisses him, hands warm and a little rough on Eduardo's neck, and Eduardo shudders, a spike of heat low in his belly. It's all he can do not to lean into it, to taste the inside of Mark's mouth and sink his fingers into Mark's curls and--
Eduardo yanks away. "We're not doing this," he says. He's breathing too hard, his lungs struggling to get enough air. It feels like almost a physical ache to not be touching Mark right now.
"Don't be stupid," Mark says. "I know what this is doing to you." His eyes are dark, lips pulled into a tight, straight line. He flexes his fingers, like he wants to be touching Eduardo, too.
"You don't care," Eduardo says. "You never cared. Why are you really here?" He's trying to not to stare at Mark's neck, trying not to remember the taste of Mark's skin, the soft huffed out moans Mark makes when he's getting fucked.
"That's not-- I meant it when I said you were my best friend, Wardo," Mark says. There's a softness to his voice, but maybe Eduardo's imagining that. Maybe Eduardo is just hearing what he wants to hear. "People die from this."
Eduardo grits his teeth. Mark is drifting closer, the way he almost never does. Most days it's Eduardo who's leaning in towards Mark, trying to get more, get whatever Mark is willing to give. "I haven't," he says. "I've survived this before." His skin feels too tight, and Mark is right here, and it would be so easy, so fucking simple. Mark is offering, and Eduardo wants to take and take and take.
He hates that Mark can see him like this, torn to shreds by his own body, especially now that he knows who Mark is behind the hooded eyes and cold smiles. Mark will take your weaknesses and cut you open with them. "Don't be stupid," Mark says. "You're torturing yourself for the most idiotic reasons imaginable."
Eduardo closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to look at Mark, so that he doesn't have to see Mark standing there looking like everything Eduardo has ever wanted. It doesn't help. He can still smell Mark, all of his senses heightened and sharpened. Mark is standing close enough that Eduardo can feel Mark's breath on his neck. It makes him shiver.
Mark swallows. Eduardo can hear it echo in his ears. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want to do," Mark says, "but I just want to say for the record that this self-sacrificing bullshit is not as attractive as you think it is."
"Mark," Eduardo says. His voice sounds broken, desperate and needy, but Eduardo can't help it.
Mark's hand is on the back of Eduardo's neck, surprisingly gentle. His thumb traces the curve of Eduardo's jaw. His touch is light, careful, but Eduardo has been so hungry for it all day that he comes as soon as Mark's thumb presses down on his pulse point. The orgasm shudders all the way through his body, leaving sticky trails on his stomach.
Eduardo opens his eyes. He's still hard -- of course he's still hard -- but the edge has been taken off, and he feels slightly more sane.
"Fuck," Mark says. "Just from that." Mark's eyes are wide and round, staring straight at Eduardo's face. He looked at Sean like that, sometimes, like Sean was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. Eduardo wants to devour that look on Mark's face, wants to make it his. Not Erica's, not Sean's, not anyone else's. Mark continues, "So are we doing this or are we not?"
Eduardo's throat feels dry. "Yes," he says, even though he fucking knows better than to let Mark do this to him all over again.
Mark smiles, warm and pleased, and Eduardo's chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with biological processes. But then Mark's kissing him again, fiercer this time, with teeth and tongue and his body pressed up against Eduardo's. His hands are undoing the belt of Eduardo's robe, and when it falls open, Eduardo's breath hitches when the cotton of Mark's hoodie brushes against his skin.
"C'mon," Mark says, tugging Eduardo towards the bed. Eduardo stumbles after him, feeling sex-drunk and uncoordinated. He's always like this when it's his time. Mark pulls off his t-shirt and hoodie in one motion and kicks off his shoes, jeans and boxers. It's hard for Eduardo to stop kissing him, unwilling to break contact for even a short moment.
Mark's still skinny, small-looking without his clothes. Eduardo still wants to fold him up, to take him apart, wants Mark's rough, clumsy touches and precise fucking words. They fall onto the bed together, and when they're like this, Eduardo can pretend that the past year has been some bizarre nightmare, far away, unable to touch them here. Mark crawls on top of him straddling Eduardo's thighs, and Eduardo knows he must looks stupid, a blush crawling all the way up his chest and neck and face, still hard. Mark's hard too, but his face is impassive, like he doesn't even notice.
Mark bites down on one of Eduardo's nipples, hard enough to hurt, but the burn is so perfect Eduardo groans, hips jerking up. He comes again.
Somehow Mark ends up between Eduardo's knees, smirking because he is a smug asshole, the smuggest asshole Eduardo has ever known, and Eduardo was an econ major. "So," Mark says, "in theory, if I were to blow you right now, how many times could I make you come?"
The last time they went through this together, Mark managed ten, and he was a prick about it for days afterwards in a way that mostly just confused everyone else. Eduardo really was not going to explain to everyone why he was blushing all the time and why Mark kept bringing up the number ten when it was only tangentially related their conversation. "You know I hate you, right?" Eduardo says, which is true, but he can't sound like he means it. It feels too good for him to be bitter about anything right now.
"A hundred bucks says I can beat my old record," Mark says.
"Stop being a fucking pricktease, Zuckerberg," Eduardo manages to say. Mark is just sitting there, unruffled, like he could wait Eduardo out forever. Mark's mouth is right there, breathing against the oversensitive skin of his cock, and Eduardo just wants to moan and let his eyes fall closed.
"Okay," Mark says, and then he takes Eduardo into his mouth, swallowing around Eduardo's cock. It's just hot and tight and wet, and it's the best thing Eduardo has ever felt.
Eduardo comes again, gasping and moaning, fingers tightening involuntarily in Mark's hair. Mark swallows it all down, and then he pulls back, licking his lips in a way that's so utterly filthy, Eduardo's cock twitches.
"One," Mark says, smirking.
And then he leans forward and does it ten more times.
---
It sort of becomes a blur after that, just a mixture of the heat of Mark's mouth, the sound of Mark saying, "you can fuck me harder than that," the slippery-slick feel of the lube on his fingers, in his ass, sliding down his cock, the salty taste of semen on his tongue.
Eduardo remembers the way Mark had looked when he'd finally come that first time, eyes fixed on Eduardo's face, the way he'd moaned out a, "Fuck, Wardo," the way it had made Eduardo's heart feel too big inside his ribs, cutting through the fog of lust and desire just for a moment.
It's dangerous, remembering.
---
Later, when Eduardo is fucked out, his body heavy with exhaustion and satiation, he looks over at Mark, whose eyes have been closed since the last time he came. After that, he'd lazily jerked Eduardo off with his hands, still slick with sweat, yawning as he did it, his grip tight and a little rough. It had dragged the last of Eduardo's orgasms from him, slow and easy compared to the frantic rush of the beginning.
Mark looks pretty much the same as he always does in sleep. The only difference is that his eyes are closed, and sometimes his mouth hangs open. Eduardo can't look at him and not see his ex-best-friend and sometimes fuckbuddy, the one who decided that his fucking website was more important to him than Eduardo was.
Mark blinks awake, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. "'m sorry, you know," he mumbles.
Eduardo can't breathe for an entire minute. "What?" he says, his voice hoarse.
"About the dilution," Mark says. "They say you should say it with flowers, but you don't like flowers, so I tried sex instead." Mark's expression is as blank as usual, and his voice spits out the words with his usual lack of inflection, but Eduardo thinks he means it. Mark, for all the backstabbing, rarely says anything he doesn't mean. It's what gets him in trouble most of the time.
"Okay," Eduardo says. That pain in his chest is back again, crowding everything out, but it doesn't hurt the way it used to, like it could tear him apart
"Get some sleep," Mark says, his voice taking on a fuzzy, sleepy edge. "You can fuck me again tomorrow morning."
"Okay," Eduardo says again. His cock twitches, but even with the muted burn underneath his skin, he knows he's not up for another round tonight.
Tomorrow morning, then.
FIN.
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eudardo
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2300
Warning(s): Pon farr-related consent issues.
Summary: "I should have known that you'd be nobly suffering just so you can be self-righteous about it later," Mark says, shoving his way past Eduardo.
Notes: Written for a prompt the mark_eduardo prompt-fest. Is there shame involved in writing pon farr fic in this fandom? Yes. Do I care? Not enough to stop myself from writing it.
The hotel room is quiet except for the sound of Eduardo’s breathing, but even that is excruciating. It's like there's a fire inside him, burning him up, and he can't put it out.
He’s been hard for the past five hours, and that’s fine, that’s normal. He lived through this freshman year, too awkward and gawky to ask anyone else to help him out with his problem. It's not something you really say to people you're into ("Did you know that I have this weird medical condition where I go into heat every year? Would you like to help me with that?"). That year, it had been bad. It had hurt.
All Eduardo wants to do is put his hand on his cock, jerk himself off and then fall asleep, but he knows that won't work. It'll feel good for a bit, but after a while it won't, and Eduardo will still be hard, still be too turned on to think straight. The bed is comfortable, soft, but that's small comfort to him right now.
He pulls off the blanket, but the air conditioning feels like too much on his over heated skin. His hips jerk up involuntarily, getting the tiniest bit of friction, but it's not enough. It's never going to be enough.
The second time he went through this at Harvard--
No, thinking of sex only makes it worse, and thinking of Mark's hands, steady and surprisingly strong, Mark's mouth, wet and hot-- no, Eduardo isn't going to go there.
He closes his eyes again, turns over so that he's on his side. He wants to sleep through it, close off his mind so he won't think about how much he wants to fuck or be fucked or have someone else's hands on his cock or anything else. He thinks he could come if someone touched him. Just the barest brush of fingers on his nipples, a press of lips against his own.
He thinks he remembers the bliss of passing out, that first year at Harvard, the way it felt when his mind had just given out for a while, shut down so he wouldn't have to endure the torture of it any longer. When he woke up, his body chemistry had righted himself, and he'd taken a shower, and he'd gone to classes, and it had been fine. Perfectly fine.
There's a knock on his door, and Eduardo imagines tearing someone's head off, ripping the neck clean off the shoulders. He takes a deep breath and gets out of bed, pulls on a bathrobe and tries to arrange it so that it's not entirely embarrassing.
When he opens the door, Mark is standing there, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his hoodie. His presence hits Eduardo like brick in the face after so long without any other people around, after he's been craving human contact for hours and hours on end. Fuck. He can smell Mark's skin.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Eduardo snarls. He can't deal with Mark right now, Mark and his fucking Facebook shares and his blank fucking face and his NDAs.
Mark stares at him, and his face doesn't move. "You don't have anyone else here, do you?" he says, though it's barely even a question.
"That's really none of your business anymore," Eduardo says. Mark gave that up a long time ago, right around the time he moved out to Palo Alto and decided that Eduardo was supposed to be left behind.
"I should have known that you'd be nobly suffering just so you can be self-righteous about it later," Mark says, shoving his way past Eduardo. The door swings closed behind him.
"What the fuck, Mark?" Eduardo says. He feels naked, even in his robe, completely exposed. It hadn't been this humiliating the last few times, because Mark had been his friend, and Mark hadn't really reacted like Eduardo was this disgusting freak who needed to be pitied. He seemed to like how much Eduardo needed it, how much Eduardo couldn't help himself.
Mark kisses him, hands warm and a little rough on Eduardo's neck, and Eduardo shudders, a spike of heat low in his belly. It's all he can do not to lean into it, to taste the inside of Mark's mouth and sink his fingers into Mark's curls and--
Eduardo yanks away. "We're not doing this," he says. He's breathing too hard, his lungs struggling to get enough air. It feels like almost a physical ache to not be touching Mark right now.
"Don't be stupid," Mark says. "I know what this is doing to you." His eyes are dark, lips pulled into a tight, straight line. He flexes his fingers, like he wants to be touching Eduardo, too.
"You don't care," Eduardo says. "You never cared. Why are you really here?" He's trying to not to stare at Mark's neck, trying not to remember the taste of Mark's skin, the soft huffed out moans Mark makes when he's getting fucked.
"That's not-- I meant it when I said you were my best friend, Wardo," Mark says. There's a softness to his voice, but maybe Eduardo's imagining that. Maybe Eduardo is just hearing what he wants to hear. "People die from this."
Eduardo grits his teeth. Mark is drifting closer, the way he almost never does. Most days it's Eduardo who's leaning in towards Mark, trying to get more, get whatever Mark is willing to give. "I haven't," he says. "I've survived this before." His skin feels too tight, and Mark is right here, and it would be so easy, so fucking simple. Mark is offering, and Eduardo wants to take and take and take.
He hates that Mark can see him like this, torn to shreds by his own body, especially now that he knows who Mark is behind the hooded eyes and cold smiles. Mark will take your weaknesses and cut you open with them. "Don't be stupid," Mark says. "You're torturing yourself for the most idiotic reasons imaginable."
Eduardo closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to look at Mark, so that he doesn't have to see Mark standing there looking like everything Eduardo has ever wanted. It doesn't help. He can still smell Mark, all of his senses heightened and sharpened. Mark is standing close enough that Eduardo can feel Mark's breath on his neck. It makes him shiver.
Mark swallows. Eduardo can hear it echo in his ears. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want to do," Mark says, "but I just want to say for the record that this self-sacrificing bullshit is not as attractive as you think it is."
"Mark," Eduardo says. His voice sounds broken, desperate and needy, but Eduardo can't help it.
Mark's hand is on the back of Eduardo's neck, surprisingly gentle. His thumb traces the curve of Eduardo's jaw. His touch is light, careful, but Eduardo has been so hungry for it all day that he comes as soon as Mark's thumb presses down on his pulse point. The orgasm shudders all the way through his body, leaving sticky trails on his stomach.
Eduardo opens his eyes. He's still hard -- of course he's still hard -- but the edge has been taken off, and he feels slightly more sane.
"Fuck," Mark says. "Just from that." Mark's eyes are wide and round, staring straight at Eduardo's face. He looked at Sean like that, sometimes, like Sean was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. Eduardo wants to devour that look on Mark's face, wants to make it his. Not Erica's, not Sean's, not anyone else's. Mark continues, "So are we doing this or are we not?"
Eduardo's throat feels dry. "Yes," he says, even though he fucking knows better than to let Mark do this to him all over again.
Mark smiles, warm and pleased, and Eduardo's chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with biological processes. But then Mark's kissing him again, fiercer this time, with teeth and tongue and his body pressed up against Eduardo's. His hands are undoing the belt of Eduardo's robe, and when it falls open, Eduardo's breath hitches when the cotton of Mark's hoodie brushes against his skin.
"C'mon," Mark says, tugging Eduardo towards the bed. Eduardo stumbles after him, feeling sex-drunk and uncoordinated. He's always like this when it's his time. Mark pulls off his t-shirt and hoodie in one motion and kicks off his shoes, jeans and boxers. It's hard for Eduardo to stop kissing him, unwilling to break contact for even a short moment.
Mark's still skinny, small-looking without his clothes. Eduardo still wants to fold him up, to take him apart, wants Mark's rough, clumsy touches and precise fucking words. They fall onto the bed together, and when they're like this, Eduardo can pretend that the past year has been some bizarre nightmare, far away, unable to touch them here. Mark crawls on top of him straddling Eduardo's thighs, and Eduardo knows he must looks stupid, a blush crawling all the way up his chest and neck and face, still hard. Mark's hard too, but his face is impassive, like he doesn't even notice.
Mark bites down on one of Eduardo's nipples, hard enough to hurt, but the burn is so perfect Eduardo groans, hips jerking up. He comes again.
Somehow Mark ends up between Eduardo's knees, smirking because he is a smug asshole, the smuggest asshole Eduardo has ever known, and Eduardo was an econ major. "So," Mark says, "in theory, if I were to blow you right now, how many times could I make you come?"
The last time they went through this together, Mark managed ten, and he was a prick about it for days afterwards in a way that mostly just confused everyone else. Eduardo really was not going to explain to everyone why he was blushing all the time and why Mark kept bringing up the number ten when it was only tangentially related their conversation. "You know I hate you, right?" Eduardo says, which is true, but he can't sound like he means it. It feels too good for him to be bitter about anything right now.
"A hundred bucks says I can beat my old record," Mark says.
"Stop being a fucking pricktease, Zuckerberg," Eduardo manages to say. Mark is just sitting there, unruffled, like he could wait Eduardo out forever. Mark's mouth is right there, breathing against the oversensitive skin of his cock, and Eduardo just wants to moan and let his eyes fall closed.
"Okay," Mark says, and then he takes Eduardo into his mouth, swallowing around Eduardo's cock. It's just hot and tight and wet, and it's the best thing Eduardo has ever felt.
Eduardo comes again, gasping and moaning, fingers tightening involuntarily in Mark's hair. Mark swallows it all down, and then he pulls back, licking his lips in a way that's so utterly filthy, Eduardo's cock twitches.
"One," Mark says, smirking.
And then he leans forward and does it ten more times.
---
It sort of becomes a blur after that, just a mixture of the heat of Mark's mouth, the sound of Mark saying, "you can fuck me harder than that," the slippery-slick feel of the lube on his fingers, in his ass, sliding down his cock, the salty taste of semen on his tongue.
Eduardo remembers the way Mark had looked when he'd finally come that first time, eyes fixed on Eduardo's face, the way he'd moaned out a, "Fuck, Wardo," the way it had made Eduardo's heart feel too big inside his ribs, cutting through the fog of lust and desire just for a moment.
It's dangerous, remembering.
---
Later, when Eduardo is fucked out, his body heavy with exhaustion and satiation, he looks over at Mark, whose eyes have been closed since the last time he came. After that, he'd lazily jerked Eduardo off with his hands, still slick with sweat, yawning as he did it, his grip tight and a little rough. It had dragged the last of Eduardo's orgasms from him, slow and easy compared to the frantic rush of the beginning.
Mark looks pretty much the same as he always does in sleep. The only difference is that his eyes are closed, and sometimes his mouth hangs open. Eduardo can't look at him and not see his ex-best-friend and sometimes fuckbuddy, the one who decided that his fucking website was more important to him than Eduardo was.
Mark blinks awake, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. "'m sorry, you know," he mumbles.
Eduardo can't breathe for an entire minute. "What?" he says, his voice hoarse.
"About the dilution," Mark says. "They say you should say it with flowers, but you don't like flowers, so I tried sex instead." Mark's expression is as blank as usual, and his voice spits out the words with his usual lack of inflection, but Eduardo thinks he means it. Mark, for all the backstabbing, rarely says anything he doesn't mean. It's what gets him in trouble most of the time.
"Okay," Eduardo says. That pain in his chest is back again, crowding everything out, but it doesn't hurt the way it used to, like it could tear him apart
"Get some sleep," Mark says, his voice taking on a fuzzy, sleepy edge. "You can fuck me again tomorrow morning."
"Okay," Eduardo says again. His cock twitches, but even with the muted burn underneath his skin, he knows he's not up for another round tonight.
Tomorrow morning, then.
FIN.