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Second Fill: Cracks in the Reservoir (3/?) {NSFW just to be safe}

[slasher48]

It tantalizes them both too far, and after too short to leave him sane, he backs off again. He has to take a break, breathe through the magnetic pull all Mark’s movement has on his orgasm, and in the meantime, he realizes the image in his brain won’t be dispelled. There’s no one to see it, but that’s not the appeal for Eduardo anyway, not fully.

What appeals to him is the thought of Mark’s bare back against cold glass while Eduardo is all sweaty warmth against his front. What appeals to him is how he’ll be able to close his eyes and they’ll be back at Kirkland the night of Facemash, Mark’s thin shoulders rubbing over the algorithm, or in that last stoic deposition, before he left to go for steak, the room just like this one, of all glass with all the sunny weather of outside spilling into the storm within. What appeals to him is that when it’s too much, when Mark can’t look at him anymore for everything he feels and his cheek flattens against the glass, his breath will fan across the clear panes in a way that will leave a mark even as they’re both dressing and making awkward excuses later.

“Come here,” he says, shaking his head and taking a step back as Mark sits up onto his elbows, looking far too fuckable in his baggy jeans and flip-flops where he lies on the table still. He’s not going to go over, no matter how hard his body protests the distance, because this is his game, even if Mark can play some parts better than he. And in his game, Mark submits.

In his game, Mark gets up the way he’s doing now, tilting his ankles so his flip-flops hit the floor, and stalks toward him in the abrupt, arousing way Mark does next, his hair a little of everywhere, his mouth bitten, swollen, wet. And Mark surrenders.

“I’m here, Wardo. What do you want to do with me now?”

It takes a second for it to actually penetrate that Eduardo’s winning his game in a reality not virtual, that Mark is giving in in both universes, and then his blood drains south as that question of Mark’s hits him full force. But he says nothing - not to throw Mark off as he’d like, but because he foregoes words to grab Mark by the hips, whirling around on the ball of his foot to slam Mark against the glass hard enough to break through if it were flimsier. Mark actually looks dazed for a second, before his eyes narrow and he licks his lips, a momentary flick of tongue almost snake-like, especially when paired with the calculating stare. Eduardo should not find that as attractive as he does.

They fall closed fast anyway, when Eduardo’s fingers jab beneath the threadbare waistband of Mark’s jeans without a single bit of warning and cup and squeeze the bulge he finds there.

Mark’s breath stutters and he moans, “Wardo,” gone entirely into the pleasure for as long as Eduardo’s hand is on him. Eduardo clutches a little tighter and Mark goes up onto his toes to push his hips up into Eduardo’s grasp, his head smacking the glass with a thunk as he struggles to inhale properly. It’s probably the best thing Eduardo’s ever seen, and he tests it a long while longer, just teasing, pulling and stroking and just holding, while Mark writhes and glares through the nearly touching fringe of his eyelashes, when his eyes aren’t back in his head. He wishes he could touch skin for real, pull on it, slip his fingertips over the parts most nerve-filled and torture Mark further, but he’s not stupid enough to do it dry and Mark seems to be suffering enough for his taste.

“Fuck Wardo, come on. I never knew you to be a tease when somebody wanted you,” Mark finally groans, and it’s the admission, not the jeering insult, nor the following,

“You let a girl give you head in the filthy bathroom of a club in Boston - this -this’ll be simple in comparison.”

That gets his hand out of Mark’s jeans and into Mark’s panting mouth. He rubs his fingertips -stained with ink from his earlier reports and probably with a hint of the taste of the honey dressing he kept dipping into on his salad for dinner - over Mark’s tongue until saliva coats them, free from caring for once about if Mark will choke or dislike the taste, free to go for what he wants without a fucking thought to the consequences.