Glee RPS: I Hear Texas When You Talk Pt. 2

[alicebluegown16]

Title: I Hear Texas When You Talk
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Chris Colfer/Mark Salling, Kristen Chenoweth, various Glee cast member cameos.
Summary: You can take the man out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the man.
AN: For the puckurt prompt: Mark has a Texas accent that becomes more pronounced when he's tired/drunk/homesick/emotional. He's embarrassed by it, but Chris loves it. Especially in bed. Songs quoted My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys, On the Road Again, Pride and Joy, and Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other.  (Which with the exception of Pride and Joy are all Willie Nelson since he's The Man.) Also, the Palo Duro Canyons are pretty.
Warnings: RPS. Shameless accent!kink.
Word Count: 4,020 for Part Two 6,780 overall.
Genre: RPS, Romance, Smut

**


They don’t talk about it the next time they see each other.

They don’t talk about it at all in fact.

Mark is apparently the sort of good Southern gentleman that is willing to ignore his male costar making pathetic drunken passes at him.

It’s like it never happened.

Except for Chris being over at Mark’s place sitting ramrod straight on the couch and staring at the movie they’re supposed to be watching as if it’s a documentary on flatworms dubbed in Sanskrit for all he’s getting out of it.

He makes it about halfway through before he finally gives up and asks if he can take a rain check because he’s really tired.

Mark walks him to the door and gives him a one armed hug. He allows himself to lean his head briefly against Mark’s shoulder.

“You’re not taking care of yourself, Chris. You’re all wore out.”

Chris smiles into Mark’s t-shirt.

“Really? Who wore me? Where’d we go and did I look good?”

“Don’t try to distract me. I worry about you, man. You stretch yourself too thin.”

And then...god, Mark fucking ruffles his hair.

Instantly, Chris shoves him away and crosses his arms defensively.

“Fuck you, Mark.” He spits out. “Maybe I should just have them halt filming every day so you can give me a juice box and graham crackers and tuck me in for my afternoon nap.”

Chris is frustrated and turned on and pissed off and he’s probably not helping himself at all with trying to maintain a thin veneer of maturity when all he wants to do is start crying at how confused Mark looks at his outburst.

“You don’t get to…you don’t get to do this, okay? Be perfect and sexy and amazing and-and make me want things I can’t have. Not while you’re patting me on the head and mother-henning me like I’m your favorite kid brother.”

Chris has never been one for violence, but he seriously considers punching Mark in the face when the older man laughs at him.

“Is that-is that what you think? That I don’t want you?”

“I’d like to know what other conclusion I’m supposed to draw from you shooting me down!”

“Uh, that I wouldn’t take advantage of a friend when he’s so drunk he couldn’t walk straight? And then the next day you didn’t say anything to me, so I figured it was best to let things lie.”

Chris takes a moment to process the totally bullshit cliché sitcom misunderstanding they’ve apparently stumbled into.

“So what…are you saying you’re interested?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m interested. I’m sayin’ I’ve had a full on wall o’ crazy in my basement level crush on you for ages. I’m sayin’ I want you, wanted you since we first met. I wanna suck your cock, wanna fuck you hard and fast here up against this door and then I wanna drag you to bed and do it all over again fer hours ‘n hours. I really, really wanna kiss you. Is that alright with you, darlin’?”

Mark has one arm resting above Chris’s head on the door and the other near his shoulder, effectively boxing him in.

And it might be intimidating but then Mark reaches out and cups his jaw, thumb tracing at Chris’s bottom lip and Chris is grateful for him being so close, something to lean against when he goes lightheaded from all the blood in his body instantly rushing south because holy fucking mother of god, Mark’s voice is slow sin, like chocolate covered gravel, and his eyes are at half mast, darker than Chris has ever seen them as he stares at Chris’ mouth like he wants to devour him.

Mark kisses him, tentatively at first, and then it’s frantic teeth and tongue and when Chris’ hand eases under Mark’s shirt and touches the small of his back, Mark makes this noise, this part moan, part growl, completely sexy noise and licks at his throat, grabbing Chris’ hips and grinding against him. Chris can feel the heat of Mark’s body through their clothes (he’s so warm, he’s like a furnace, like a freaking human space heater) his arousal pressing against Chris’ belly and there’s a white hot wave of excitement and also, bleeding slightly at the edges, a moment of panic because this is Mark, his perfect, sexy, amazing, until a few minutes ago completely unobtainable friend and costar and that should have bad idea written all over it.

He could push Mark away. Say that he changed his mind, that all of this was a mistake.

And Mark would let him.

It’s the sure knowledge of this that has him pulling Mark’s head down and kissing him again, tracing his hands across Mark’s back, along his spine and the expanse of his shoulders.

When Mark simultaneously gropes his ass and sucks on his tongue, Chris pulls away, desperately gasping for oxygen.

“Bedroom. Big fan of the up against the door idea at some later date. But bedroom first. Since that’s where the bed lives.”

It’s a desperate stumble walk down the hall, Mark pausing at one point to slam him up into the wall, thread his fingers in Chris’ hair, straddle his thigh and rock against him. In a Most. Deliberate. Fashion.

“Thought about this all the time, mussin’ you up. Save it up to imagine on special occasions, like when we’d be doin’ interviews and they’d all ask us the same stupid questions, or when we’d be sittin’ around on set, or if it was a day endin’ in Y.”

At this, Chris just clutches at Mark’s shoulders and groans loud enough to possibly wake the neighbors.

They back into the bedroom, mouths still fused together and there’s a truly awe inspiring moment of sex fail when Chris trips on the edge of the carpet and brings them both down on the bed with a yelp of surprise and a huff of air as the wind is knocked out of him.

Instantly Mark is up on his elbows looking terrified.

“Nothing important damaged, right? I didn’t knee you, did I?”

His legs move to either side of him and Chris feels the muscles in Mark’s stomach tighten each time he shifts against the other man.

“You’re a selfish bastard, Mark Salling. Going to claim you’re only concerned with my health and well being? You’re just worried that if anything important is out of commission that it’ll ruin your plans for the evening.”

“Yeah, but you forgive me, right?”

Mark leans down and kisses him again, pushing his mouth open with his tongue, one hand behind  Chris’ head for a better angle while the other grips his thigh and slowly moves upward. For his part, Chris is intent on going for skin, he’s under Mark’s shirt and there are inner victory arms when he works his way inside of Mark’s jeans. There’s not enough room to do more than sort of vaguely flutter his hand open and closed, but even with that, Mark let’s out another growling moan and presses him deeper into the mattress.

Mark makes quick work of the buttons on Chris’ shirt and Chris can’t help laughing at his little groan of frustration when underneath that he finds another shirt.

“For the love of fucking God, how many layers are you wearing? This isn’t going to be like one of those Russian nesting dolls is it?”

Chris’ laugh becomes the snorting wheezy sort that threatens to turn into a full scale giggle fit. When Mark flings the second shirt blindly over his shoulder and it catches on the lamp, he almost loses it completely. Because even though it feels as if he just wandered into one of his x-rated fantasies, this is still Mark.

“I do it just to drive you insane. And are you implying that you’re going to get all my clothes off and find that I barely fit in the palm of your hand? I’m so offended, I think I might leave.”

“Oh no, you don’t.”

Mark pins Chris’ arms above his head (and he’s able to hold both of his wrists with one hand as he undoes Chris’ fly with the other.)

He’s muttering under his breath about the inherent evil of button flies when suddenly he sucks in a breath and his eyes bug out. Chris merely raises an eyebrow and pretends he doesn’t know exactly what caused that particular reaction.

“Lemme get this straight-uh so to speak. You wear about fifteen layers of shirts, but all this time you’ve been sittin’ on my couch and you were going commando?”

“Well, underwear tend to mess up the lines on skinny jeans and as a rule the upper body doesn’t retain heat as much and I’ve found that---“

The rest of this extremely enlightening lecture is lost in a yelp when Mark takes him in hand and strokes him from root to tip.

“As a rule, darlin’, if I’m aware of the fact that you aren’t wearin’ underwear, I can’t make any promises I won’t do this, even in public.”

“Why Mark, you hopeless romantic, you. Please, whisper more sweet nothings in my ear.”

Chris’ voice goes gaspy and strangled when Mark eases down his body and begins raining hot open mouth kisses along his chest and torso.

Suddenly, Mark’s grinning with such obviously evil intent it makes the alarm bells sound in Chris’ head. It’s his only warning before Mark yanks down his pants in one swoop and then takes as much of him into his mouth as he can manage without choking.

Chris is instantly arching up off the bed and biting his lip to keep from shouting. Mark’s tongue traces a vein on the underside of his cock and Chris clenches his hands by his side, thighs tense as not to give in to the urge to grab the back of Mark’s head and mindlessly thrust into his mouth as he’s been told by many a girl friend that such behavior is terrible blowjob etiquette.

Mark pulls away with a deliciously obscene popping noise.

“You want me to stop and take you out to dinner?”

Mark’s pumping and squeezing at his erection and when he twists his wrist just so, stars explode behind Chris’ eyes.

“If you stop, I’ll kill you and no jury in the world will convict me.” He swears darkly, in what he hopes is an intimidating voice.

Chris thinks he hears Mark muttering, “S’what I thought.” against his thigh and then he’s moving back in sucking mercilessly, simultaneously massaging his balls and swirling his tongue along the head.

One of Chris’ hands moves down to run along the nape of Mark’s neck and trace along his jaw. His thumb brushes the side of Mark’s face and he feels the line of his cock against the inside of Mark’s cheek. For some reason, this seems like the most amazing thing to him--- that this is Mark’s mouth on him, that they’re here on this bed, in this moment.

It’s also what makes him decide they need to get this show on the road. Enough of the scenic route, he wants Mark naked.

When he informs Mark of this, the older man’s pupils go wide, tiniest ring of color at the edges, and he bites out a rough, “Fuck, Chris.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Mark strips in record time and Chris is not at all ashamed of the fact that he whimpers when Mark leans over his body to reach into the nightstand to retrieve a condom and a bottle of lube.

“See how easy that is when you’re not wearin’ fifty layers and pants designed by nuns?”

Chris doesn’t have any comeback for that.

Because hello, Mark’s broad chest and strong arms and edible collarbone and lickable hipbones and gorgeous, gorgeous everything.

Which Chris proceeds to explore with the greatest level of attention and enthusiasm, licking and biting and touching whatever skin he can reach and all the while Mark is moanin’ and groanin’ (very much so without the g’s), things like, “want” and “need” and “Chris” and “your mouth” and “yes, please darlin’” and then his vocabulary just dissolves into a low filthy rumble that Chris feels more than hears, like the best Stevie Ray Vaughan dirty sexy blues guitar riff.

One of Mark’s long fingers trails along the cleft of his ass.

“Can I…I meant I want to…”

That same finger again, this time touching more deliberately and Chris’ breath catches and he can only nod when he sees the intensity of Mark’s gaze.

“How should I…”

“On your back. Wanna see you.”

Again that intense gaze and Chris’ mouth has gone completely dry.

Mark goes slowly, easing one finger in, biting his lip the whole time.

A nod from Chris and he adds a second, methodically working them in a scissoring motion. When he adds a third, his movements become more rushed, the rhythm fast and ruthless and he’s gripping Chris hips hard enough to bruise.

Chris is gasping, thrashing on the bed and fucking himself back on Mark’s fingers

He’s done this before, Chris realizes.

Well, duh. A voice in his head points out. To borrow a Mark phrase, this is so very clearly not his first rodeo and he can’t even be remotely jealous, he idly considers sending a fruit basket to every single person Mark has ever slept with when Mark hits just the right angle and Chris’ eyes roll back in his head and he feels a jolt of pleasure dart from the base of his spine all the way to his hairline.

“Mark-where did you---I thought you’d never---“

“Didn’t you know that cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other?” Mark leans down and bites at the exposed tendons on his neck.

The last working brain cells in Chris’ head instantly melt at the thought of Mark having some sort of Brokebackesque clandestine hookups with one of his friends from back home. Only without the internalized homophobia and Jake Gyllenhaal’s horrific pornstache.

“Mark, now, please.”

Chris’ voice is more than a little desperate and he’d be slightly embarrassed if he were capable of stringing two thoughts together.

Mark wraps his hand around the base of Chris’ cock and strokes once.

“Yeah, I’m thinkin’ now is good. Wouldn’t want you comin’ without me.”

Oh my God, it’s only through sheer willpower that Chris hasn’t simply come from Mark’s voice alone and then he goes and says things like that.

Those last brain cells momentarily revive themselves only to quickly commit suicide again at Mark’s ability to put on the condom one handed without even looking.

Mark takes shameless advantage of the way Chris’ mouth hangs open at this to kiss him, tongue mimicking the slow steady slide as he enters Chris.

Chris’ senses narrow entirely to the pleasant burn and he clenches around Mark, enjoying the full body shudder this inspires in the other man.

Mark (about fucking goddamned time) finally begins to move, a shallow achingly slow pace that barely separates their skin. There’s a gradual speeding up, the thrusts becoming longer and faster, but never with quite the right rhythm to get them both off. Chris lets out a high whine of frustration, because he’s remembering Mark’s words earlier about taking hours and hours and at the time it had sounded incredible, but now that he’s actually here, with every nerve ending in his body vibrating and Mark’s hand still holding his wrists above his head so he can’t touch himself, the evil bastard, he has a sudden horrible vision of Mark torturing him like this the entire evening, not letting him come and he needs to come Right. Now.

He tightens his legs around Mark’s waist, shifts hard and sharp against him and feels Mark’s cock hit him square at his prostate.

“Stop teasing me and fuck me, Mark. I’m not going to break.”

Mark growls in the vicinity of his ear and Chris finds himself on his stomach so fast his head spins slightly.

“Hands right here.”

It’s said in a voice guaranteed to get the listener to obey and when Mark gestures at the headboard, Chris rushes to comply. Mark places his own larger hand over his, his other spanning across Chris’ ribs as his arm wraps around his waist, holding him still. The warm presence  of him at his back, Mark’s breath on his neck, the promise of what’s sure to come next has Chris moaning before anything has even happened.

And then Mark’s slamming his hips forward, all of the earlier teasing gone. He’s moving with purpose, and all the while whispering just the absolute sweetest nasty things into the spot where Chris’ neck and shoulder meet.

Mark’s hand moves down from the headboard to wrap (thank you, yes please, I thought you never would) around Chris, huge and hot and callused, the perfect slow burn.

It’s a double whammy of kink nirvana when Mark drawls in Chris’ ear “C’mon, Chris, come for me, darlin’” and then leans down to suck a bruise right above his collarbone (much, much later he’ll try to pretend he cares about wardrobe and makeup’s reaction.)

Chris comes so hard his vision slightly dims at the edges and Mark’s hands, his wonderful, wonderful hands that Chris might very well possibly want to live in, clamp down on his hips for a moment, before he too is climaxing with a hoarse shout.

Mark twitches inside of him, Chris feels it from his eyelashes to his toes and it’s too much, he slithers down into the mattress, his bones seemingly having melted.

Mark slides out of him, briefly moving away to dispose of the condom and then immediately tugging Chris forward to settle on top of him.

He tips Chris’ face up and kisses his nose, chin, and eyebrows before cupping his jaw and capping it off with a kiss on the mouth.

“You okay? You look a little bit dazed.”

With supreme effort, Chris manages to work up the energy to lightly smack Mark on the chest for his smug expression (the effect is slightly ruined when this action ends up turning into him absently tracing his hand along Mark’s chest and sides.)

“I think…I think you just wore me out.”

Another long, slow kiss, Mark nipping slightly at his bottom lip.

“Naw. That was more than just wore out. That’s what we call bein’ rode hard and put away wet.”

“Well, yeehaw.”

Chris’ tone is utterly deadpan and there’s a brief moment of silence before they’re both laughing. The two of them giggle for several minutes like children. Each time they start to calm down, a glance at the other begins the fit again. Eventually it dies out to just the odd chuckle and snort. When they finally fall asleep (Mark with one arm slung across Chris’ hip, thigh wedged between his legs and his nose buried in the back of Chris’s neck) they’re both smiling.

**

Chris has a momentary panic attack when he wakes up alone the next morning until he remembers this is Mark’s house and therefore it’s highly unlikely the man snuck out at the crack of dawn.

Chris gets out of bed, smiling to himself as he is deliciously sore in all sorts of new places. He starts to pull on his pants, and then pauses with a better idea, throwing on Mark’s shirt from the night before and a pair of his boxers from the dresser.

He wanders into the kitchen and stops to stare for several moments, greedily taking in the glorious sight in front of him.

Mark with a spatula in his hand stirring at a pan of bacon, looking like sex personified in nothing but his blue jeans.

And singing. About gay cowboys.

Well, there's many a strange impulse out on the plains of West Texas.
There's many a young boy who feels things he can't comprehend.
And a small town don't like it when somebody falls between sexes.
No, a small town don't like it when a cowboy has feelings for men.

And I believe to my soul that inside every man there's the feminine.
And inside every lady there's a deep manly voice loud and clear.
Well, a cowboy may brag about things that he's done with his women.
But the ones who brag loudest are the ones that are most likely queer.

Cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other.
Say, what do you think all them saddles and boots was about?
And there's many a cowboy who don't understand the way that he feels for his brother.
And inside every cowboy there's a lady that'd love to slip out.

It’s weird and endearing and quirky and so very Mark and all ridiculously effortlessly sexy that Chris doesn’t even think about, he walks over and hooks his fingers into Mark’s belt loops and kisses him.

When they break apart, Mark gives him a half smile and an up and down glance that makes Chris feel as if he’s not wearing anything at all. Because he can now, Chris leans up and presses his lips to that upturned corner of Mark’s mouth.

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’. Didn’t think you’d be up already…I made breakfast.”

Chris lets out a slightly giddy laugh.

“Yes. I can see that.”

They eat Mark’s breakfast standing up at the counter, pressed hip to hip. Besides bacon there is good strong coffee, crisp hash browns, and scrambled eggs, absolutely heavenly eggs cooked in the bacon grease and smothered in cheese and tomatoes and onions and bell peppers (and following Mark’s example, a large helping of hot sauce that has Chris’ lips tingling slightly.) It’s so fantastic that Chris closes his eyes and has a total foodgasm, moaning and licking his fork as Mark jokingly asking him if he and the eggs need some alone time.

It’s not remotely healthy and Chris doesn’t care at all.

While they eat, Mark tells him stories about Texas. Tailgating at football games, going to state fairs and eating truly atrociously bad for you things like deep fried Oreos, shitty bars and clubs he played, road tripping across the state one summer and tubing in the Guadalupe River and hiking the Palo Duro Canyon, his voice a lazy sleep roughened drawl he makes no effort to cover up and that almost feels more intimate than the sex.

Chris isn’t sure if it’s a horrible morning after faux pas brought on by a cholesterol overdose, but he ends up asking Mark about the song he was singing earlier, if it was slightly autobiographical.

It takes awhile for Mark to answer, and when he does, he absently twists his coffee mug over and over.

“A little. It’s messed up because Texas is like this crazy testosterone drenched football and cowboys macho boys club but no one’s ever allowed to state the obvious, ‘Hey, this all seems pretty fuckin’ gay to me.’ I mean, it wasn’t horrible; there are definitely worse places in Texas to grow up queer than Dallas. I didn’t have some sort of traumatic movie of the week experience, but it still kind of eats at you after awhile. So, when I decided ‘Go west, young man’ it was about fifty-fifty on whether I was doin’ it for my career or because I got tired of my mama askin’ if I’d ever tried not bein’ bisexual. I still love it, still miss it, still consider it my home partly…but California has its perks.”

The way Mark looks at him, Chris suspects he’s not just talking about the weather and it has him feeling warm all over.

Mark watches him finish off the last slice of bacon with a very thoughtful expression.

“You know, I get that I seem like somethin’ different to you, but most everybody sounds like me out there…if I took you home with me, what’s to stop you from runnin’ off with the first cowboy you meet?”

And despite the light tone, Chris is shocked to note that Mark’s eyes are deadly serious.

Mark is worried.

Sweet, funny, sexy, gorgeous, quirky Mark is actually insinuating that he might possibly get bored, that after the man fucked his brains out the night before and then slept wrapped around him as if he’d kill anyone who dared touch him, Chris would be crazy or stupid enough not to want to do it again for oh, the next fifty or sixty years or so.

There is really only one response to this.

He presses him mouth to Mark’s and smiles when he discovers he tastes like hot sauce.

“Darlin’ I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”