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Mark is still depressingly sober when someone spills half a pint of beer down his shirt. It’s lukewarm and sticky, and followed by the shrill sound of someone yelling oh my god, sorry into his ear to be heard over the music.
It’s fine, Mark shouts back, but it isn’t, and the girl who spilled her drink doesn’t seem to care either way. She bats her glitter smeared eyes at him and shoves past him to the center of the room, joining the loosely coordinated crowd of people dancing to something with the bass cranked all the way up.
The whole house shakes as Mark moves through it, the walls thrumming with a chorus of a song as Mark leans back to scan the group for someone, anyone he knows. Yuta ditched him at the door to shove his tongue down the throat of his TA and Mark kept walking, because the last thing he wants to do is boost Yuta’s ego by giving him an audience. Again. Mark learned his lesson on knocking the hard way.
He pulls out his phone to feel a little less estranged, and feels worse when the only notification on his lock screen is an automated email from his university. The music fades out and back in, the crowd screaming as another beat takes over and drowns out the sound of beer pong in the next room. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin.
Someone bumps into him for the third time in as many minutes. Mark closes his eyes and tilts his head back as the music swells. He should be in his own empty apartment, adding pages to his research paper. He should not be standing on the outskirts of a frat party he was only invited to tangentially.
“Hey!” Another body rocks into him, shoulder to shoulder. “Hey, Mark!”
Mark opens his eyes. “Hi?” He’s pretty sure he knows at least some of the people here, or at least he should, but he can barely make out his own hand in the dark, lit up by intermittent flashes of blue and green from cheap concert lights.
“Hey, man! Glad you made it!” Someone blurry pushes a warm can into his hand and Mark thinks balefully back to his glasses on the nightstand. He thinks he might recognize the voice as someone from his senior history class, but maybe not.
“Yeah, me too,” Mark lies, prying his thumb under the tab and popping it open. It’s been badly shaken, spilling over the top of the can and down his hand, and Mark sighs as more beer splatters on his shirt. He drinks it anyway, the bitterness on his tongue better than continued sobriety.
“Wanna play beer pong with me?” History class guy slurs, leaning heavily against him.
“Uh,” Mark says, because he really, really doesn't want to do that. And also because he’s pretty sure they’d lose, and Mark would end up drinking more shitty beer than he actually wants to. “Actually, I’m looking for the kitchen. Someone spilled their drink on me earlier.” He gestures to the state of his shirt, which almost definitely can’t be seen in this lighting at this proximity.
“Oh, that sucks,” history guy says, nodding empathetically. “Kitchen’s that way.” He points unsteadily towards a wall.
“Awesome. Thanks. See you around.” Mark shrugs the guy off of him, heading towards the wall because he needs an excuse to get out of the room anyway, and because that wall looks significantly less populated by drunk college students than the one he was just standing in front of.
He follows the wall to a hallway to another wall to another hallway, and wonders how anyone can navigate this house sober, let alone half drunk. The alcohol is just barely hitting his system, but Mark feels good- fuzzy, a little off-balance, and tipsy enough that he no longer feels the edge of being alone at a party.
And even though he isn’t really looking for it, he finds the kitchen after a few minutes of wandering around the first floor. It’s blissfully calm when he walks in, music muffled by a slatted wooden door he closes behind him. There are a couple of people slumped on the floor, arms and legs that Mark steps carefully over as he moves towards the sink. He abandons his drink on one of the counters, because he needs both hands to rub the alcohol from his shirt and because it tastes like the floor of a frat house.
“Excuse me,” he says, reaching around a stranger for a roll of paper towels. Maybe if he’s thorough enough he can keep his shirt from staining, or at least from crusting over in some awful combination of sweat and stale alcohol. He turns on the tap, blotting at his shirt the best he can.
“Oh shit, dude. That looks pretty gross.”
“Uh,” Mark looks up at the stranger, a six-foot-something guy with blonde hair tucked behind his ears. He looks like he belongs on the hockey team, arms and chest straining in his tight black t-shirt. Mark is suddenly glad to be covered in beer. Or, well, not glad- but at least it’s giving him an in with the tall hot guy. “It’s, like, not ideal.”
The stranger laughs and Mark likes the sound of it- likes even more that he caused it, loud and bright in the dimly lit kitchen. “Have you had anything to drink? Well, besides-” the stranger gestures to the front of his shirt and Mark flushes.
“I didn’t- It wasn’t-” Mark huffs. “Some girl spilled her drink on me when I walked in.”
“Uh huh,” the stranger says, unconvinced. “You sure she didn’t throw it at you?” He winks.
“Yo,” Mark laughs, and feels enough drunk confidence to step out of his comfort zone, nudging the guy. He doesn’t move an inch. “I swear she didn’t.”
“Right.” He smiles. “I’m Johnny, by the way.” Mark smiles back, delighted that the tall, hot stranger is interested enough in talking to him to offer his name.
“Mark.”
“Well, Mark,” Johnny starts, reaching for a stack of plastic solo cups. He dunks one into a tub on the kitchen counter and holds it out. Part of it sloshes over and back into the rest of the mix, splashing. “Here. Authentic tub juice.”
Mark eyes the drink wearily, but there are almost certainly worse things he’s put into his body in a frat house (appendages included). It smells like sugar and vodka, and Mark makes a face as he drinks it, emptying the cup in one long sip.
Johnny raises an eyebrow at him. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Mark grimaces through the aftertaste. “Just wish I wasn’t totally covered in alcohol.”
“I think I probably have something you can change into, if you want?” Johnny offers, and Mark perks up.
“Is this your place?”
“Eh, kinda?” Johnny shrugs. “I split rent with like, five different guys, so technically yes. This is one-fifth my place.”
Mark laughs, even though nothing Johnny just said was funny. He just really wants Johnny to like him. And to give him a change of shirt. And to maybe take off his own shirt, if he’s being honest.
“Come on,” Johnny says, pushing up off the counter, and Mark lets Johnny lead him back through the party and up a set of stairs tucked into the back of the house. Johnny puts a hand on the small of his back when Mark trips, and Mark leans into it, large and warm through his thin t-shirt.
“This one’s mine,” Johnny says, hooking his fingers through Mark’s belt loop when he walks too far past it and pulling him back. God, Johnny is so strong- which may or may not be amplified by Mark’s current inability to stand upright.
Johnny reaches up to grab a key from the top of the door frame and unlocks the door, ushering Mark inside. “I’ve had seriously way too many people throw up in here,” Johnny says, replacing the key. Mark is paying more attention to the sliver of Johnny’s stomach than the explanation he gives. “I’ve also been locked out of my own room, like, four times this semester, so.”
Mark nods without really processing any of that and sits on the bed. Which he wasn’t invited to do, but the room is spinning so much he thinks Johnny won’t really mind as long as it doesn’t end in Mark puking everywhere. He curls his hand into a deep blue cotton blanket, grounding himself.
“Hey, uh, are you okay?” Mark squints when he looks at Johnny, trying to see one of him instead of three.
“Yeah.” Mark grimaces. “Just probably should have eaten something earlier. The juice is going right to my head.”
“I have a granola bar?” Johnny offers, and Mark nods gratefully.
Johnny digs through a box in his closet and comes up with a handful of protein bars, tossing one towards the bed. Mark doesn’t catch it. He unwraps it clumsily, shoving half of it into his mouth and swallowing a clump of something that tastes distinctly like dirt and mint chocolate, but it’s better than the vodka lingering on his tongue.
“Thanks,” Mark says, biting into the other half.
Johnny sits on the bed next to him, and Mark burns where their knees brush. “Better?”
“Um,” Mark swallows. “Yeah. Definitely.” If he’s being honest, the proximity to Johnny has made every cell in his body freak out, hyper-attentive to where Johnny’s skin might touch his next. The alcohol pales in comparison.
“Really?” Johnny leans in, turning Mark to face him. Johnny’s hand is steady on his jaw as he scans Mark’s face for signs of truth.
“No, seriously.” Mark laughs nervously, trying and failing to match Johnny’s earnest stare. “I’m good, I promise.” The room stopped spinning a while ago, the alcohol mellowing out the farther he got from the offending juice.
Johnny nods like he’s convinced, and loosens his grip on Mark’s jaw. But because total sobriety eludes him, and because Mark is spectacularly good at embarrassing himself, he whines when Johnny pulls away.
Johnny freezes. Mark thinks balefully about how he could be playing beer pong with history class guy instead of phasing through the seven stages of grief in Johnny’s bedroom. A car alarm goes off in the distance, and Mark glances up at the open window, sincerely considering the two-story drop as an escape route.
“Mark-”
“Sorry. Oh my god. I’m so sorry-” Mark laughs in a way that sounds painfully awkward, even to him.
“Mark.” Johnny squeezes Mark’s jaw. The spiraling in his head stops when Mark finally drags his gaze from the window back to Johnny. “Dude. Chill. Do you wanna make out?”
Mark’s mouth is dry. There’s no way he can be this lucky. He nods jerkily.
“Okay.” Johnny grins and brushes his thumb across Mark’s cheek. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
Johnny leans in, mouth pink and plush and parted- and Mark melts into it. Johnny mmms in surprise when Mark licks into his mouth, chasing the lingering taste of sour beer and boy. It’s- good. Better than good. Mark gives up on trying to think and tilts his head instead, licking deeper into Johnny’s mouth and running his tongue over his canines.
“Can I take this off?” Johnny asks when they pull apart, breathing heavy against his skin. Mark is briefly distracted by the wet sound of their lips parting, and then Mark nods again, because Johnny is looking at him like that- eyes blown, like Mark is the prettiest thing he’s seen all night.
Mark shivers when Johnny pulls his shirt off- less from the cold, and more from the attention Johnny gives him, running his fingers up across his ribs. Mark squirms.
“You blush so pretty,” Johnny says, pressing his thumb into the hollow of Mark’s throat.
Mark bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s just the alcohol.”
“Oh, is it now?” Johnny leans in, kissing the shell of Mark’s ear. Mark feels the heat spread further across his cheeks. Johnny pulls back to grin at Mark. “It doesn’t look that way to me.”
“Shut up,” Mark mumbles, turning his head. Johnny just laughs and tilts Mark’s face up to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his chin- messy kisses that land anywhere until Mark is laughing with him. Johnny is unexpectedly tender for an incidental hookup, but he doesn’t mind.
He lets Johnny kiss a trail down his chest, stopping to bite at the tender skin on his chest. Mark squirms under him, whining in a way that just makes Johnny more adamant in taking his time.
“You’re sensitive,” Johnny mumbles against his skin. “I like that.”
“Dude-” Mark’s indignities fizzle out when Johnny palms him through the rough denim of his jeans. Mark jerks, his hips chasing the weight of Johnny’s hand.
“Hang on,” Johnny laughs, rubbing warm circles just above his waistband. “Let me take these off for you.”
Mark grabs Johnny’s wrist as he reaches for his zipper. “You first?”
“Oh,” Johnny grins. “Are you shy?”
Mark smacks Johnny’s arm. “No. I just want to look at you.”
“You sure know how to sweet talk a guy,” Johnny says, and Mark can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but then he’s taking off his shirt and Mark doesn’t really care what Johnny’s saying-
He puts his hands on him greedily, running down the length of his torso and pressing on the hard expanse of his stomach before settling on his waist. Mark squeezes, and feels Johnny tense beneath him.
“Looks like you’re sensitive, too,” Mark says. He squeezes again, and Johnny jerks. Mark kind of likes that- having the same sort of power over Johnny. He doesn’t have the muscle that Johnny does, can’t lift him and pin him down the easy way Johnny can- but seeing the blush dust Johnny’s cheeks is just as good.
“Don’t-” Johnny bites, but there’s no real threat to it. “Just- let me take these off of you.”
Johnny helps Mark out of his jeans, lifting his hips and sliding them off. They land somewhere on the floor, but Mark doesn’t really have time to think about it because Johnny is sliding his hands up his thighs and pushing his legs apart.
Mark burns from the attention. Johnny grips his ankles firmly, looking Mark up and down and then up again. Johnny grins when he catches Mark's gaze, and Mark knows that his face is the same cherry red color of Johnny’s lips.
Johnny thumbs at his rim, and it feels good, but-
“Actually- do you mind if I-” Mark gestures vaguely. He hopes Johnny gets it. He hopes Johnny is cool with it, since most of the guys he’s hooked up with have preferred to fuck him, instead of the other way around.
“Uh,” Johnny stares blankly at him, and then his eyes widen. He pushes himself up from the V of Mark’s legs and reaches over him to the nightstand, rummaging for what Mark hopes is lube and a condom. He flops back down next to Mark, grinning when he hands him a more than half-empty bottle of lube. “I don’t mind at all. Do your thing, sweetheart.”
Mark has to bite back a whine at the pet name. He scrambles up to position himself between Johnny’s legs, grabbing onto the taut skin of his thighs and kneading them. God, Johnny is fit.
He looks perfect below him, legs falling open easily when Mark smooths a hand up and around the curve of his hip. It’s hot in Johnny’s room, the humidity of almost-summer drifting in from the window screen. Mark can taste the salt on Johnny’s skin when he presses a sloppy kiss to the inside of his thigh.
He uncaps the lube, drizzling a generous amount on his fingers, and then he’s pressing against Johnny, thumb massaging his entrance before he pushes a finger in.
Johnny is- fuck. Tight. Hot. Loud. Mark mumbles praise against his skin as he stretches him open, coaxing Johnny into longer moans.
Johnny is too tense. Nervous, maybe. Mark feels it in the pulse against his fingers, in the little contractions. Johnny is squeezing, and relaxing, and squeezing again.
“Loosen up, big guy,” Mark murmurs. Johnny sighs in a punched out sort of way, making a concerted effort to relax as Mark adds a second finger. When he curls his hand up, Johnny’s hips jerk.
“Mark- there- that-” Mark smiles against Johnny’s knee. This is what he likes about fucking guys. Stuttered praise, like the pleasure catches them off guard. This is what he likes about fucking strong guys- the easy give when Mark adds a third finger, muscle turning pliant.
He presses his free hand against the stutter of Johnny’s hip, holding him down. Mark is really not that strong- but he is determined. He leans all of his weight on Johnny, and laughs when Johnny throws his head back in desperation, chasing friction.
“Mark.” Mark looks up from where his fingers are working messily, meeting Johnny’s gaze. “Please?”
“Okay- I said okay, hang on.” Mark pulls his fingers out slowly, wiping his hand on the sheets.
“Dude.” Johnny stares up at him, affronted. “On my sheets? Really?” He reaches for a roll of paper towels on the nightstand and throws them squarely at Mark’s chest.
Mark smiles sheepishly. He wipes the sweat and lube from his fingers, and then gently dabs at Johnny’s sheets. Johnny rolls his eyes.
His exasperation is tempered by the sharp gasp he lets out when Mark pushes his thumb back in. Mark drags his thumb down and out, stretching Johnny’s rim.
“Mark, fuck,” he whines. He kicks his legs out, frustrated. “Stop teasing.”
Mark takes the condom Johnny offers him, rolling it on smoothly and trying not to jerk into his own fist. Johnny’s skin is hot where Mark grabs him, hands kneading Johnny’s thighs as he pushes his legs apart.
Johnny looks so good for him- so good below him, chest heaving, mouth open. Johnny knits his brows together in a silent question. Mark kind of likes how- not vulnerable, but malleable Johnny looks, waiting. Like Mark could keep pressing his hands and mouth all over him, drawing out low moans and sharp breaths, and Johnny would let him.
Mark likes this part of fucking guys too- the trust. The certainty that Mark will get them off.
Mark pushes in and- fuck. God. Mark has to stop when he’s only buried-half deep, tipping his head back and panting. Johnny is so- so- perfect, hot, tight-
He looks down at Johnny, eyes blown. Johnny nods frantically, urging Mark to keep going, to bottom out. All that comes out of his mouth is a breathy moan, a barely intelligible, Mark, more.
The last few inches feel monumentally slow. Mark is trembling with the urge to fuck Johnny senseless, to grip his waist and hold him down and make him come- but he waits. Johnny shakes beneath him, and then, slowly, he relaxes. He adjusts to the heavy weight of Mark inside him, to the size. His hands are fisted in the sheets, white knuckled, and Mark reaches down and rubs his thumb across the joints until his grip slackens.
Mark brings one of Johnny’s hands up to his lips, murmuring against the tips of his fingers. “Is this okay?”
“Yes-” Johnny’s voice comes out in a low growl. He holds Mark’s hand tighter. “Mark- baby, please fuck me.”
Mark’s hips stutter at that- at being called baby, warmth washing over him. He pulls out, almost all the way, and then rocks back in, setting a rhythm of long, slow strokes that has Johnny keening.
“D’you like that, Johnny?” Of course Johnny likes it. Mark knows Johnny likes it, because he knows he’s good at this. He’s not sure where the confidence comes from; Mark is good, sure, he knows that. But being in bed, towering over guys who are bigger than him and stronger than him- it gives him a rush. It makes him a little mean.
“Mark- ah- yes-”
Johnny is a little too far gone for multi-syllable words. Mark can see it in his gaze, the way his eyes flutter shut and snap open again, like he wants to keep looking at Mark but can’t because Mark is fucking him that good.
He can forgive him for that.
Johnny’s mouth opens and closes, and Mark is struck with the sudden need to push his thumb between his lips.
His mouth is hot and wet and soft, yielding easily when Mark pushes past his lips. His thumb is tacky with whatever chapstick is left over from their kiss, and then Johnny is swirling his tongue across the pad of his finger and scraping his teeth across his knuckle. Mark cradles Johnny’s face, letting him suck on his thumb.
Mark fucks into Johnny, his moans muffled by the fingers in his mouth. The vibration sends shivers up Mark’s arm and across his chest, and Mark tips his head back, eyes rolling.
Even stifled, Johnny is loud. Mark’s heartbeat thrums in his ears, the music from downstairs drifting in and out of the room- but Johnny is louder.
There’s a sort of cadence to his moans, like Johnny is moving up and down a scale. He starts out low and breathy, but when Mark moves his hips just like that it turns high-pitched and stuttered, and Johnny has to swallow around his fingers to breathe. Spit dribbles down his chin, pooling around his collarbones. He licks at Mark’s fingers with a single-minded intensity, like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
Pretty, Mark thinks.
Johnny whines when Mark pulls his hand away. He wipes Johnny’s spit off on one of their t-shirts, or a blanket, or whatever soft cotton thing his fingers find first. He only has eyes for Johnny, sprawled out on the bed and looking up at him through his lashes.
“Mark,” Johnny says, and stops. He looks down and back up, meeting Mark’s gaze and then flicking his eyes away again.
Mark bites back a grin. This is his favorite part- the person he’s fucking getting shy, working up the courage to ask to come. It looks good on Johnny- the shyness. His skin is flushed red, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning brighter.
Mark slows, focusing on long, deep strokes while he waits for Johnny. “Use your words, big guy,” he says, rubbing circles into the meat of Johnny’s thigh.
Johnny swallows, jumping when Mark squeezes his leg, urging him on.
“I want- you,” he pants. “Faster?”
“Yeah?” Mark asks. And that’s good, but it’s not enough. “What else do you want, baby?”
“Mark,” Johnny huffs, but the blush in his face turns deeper. “Come on,” he whines. “I want-” he looks away, and then back at Mark- “I want you to make me come. Please?” he adds, like Mark isn’t already to give Johnny exactly what he wants. He just likes to hear it first.
Mark nods, leaning forward to cup Johnny’s cheek and trailing his hand up into his hair. He feels Johnny spread his legs wider, making more room for Mark to cant his hips against him. He rests his free hand on Johnny’s chest, thumbing at his nipples, and grins when his breathing stutters.
“Dude,” Johnny growls in frustration, “fuck- come on. Fuck me.”
God. Mark wants to give Johnny everything when he says it like that, strung out and desperate and a little selfish.
“Tell me when you’re close.” Mark twists his hand in Johnny’s hair, pushing his head back, bearing his neck. “I want to watch you come. I want to see what you look like when I fuck you right.”
“What the fuck,” Johnny pants. “Fuck, Mark. I didn’t know you- ah- had a mouth like that.”
Mark shrugs. He stopped thinking about the words coming out of his mouth a long time ago. Whatever he’s saying now is just the truth, unfiltered. He wants to watch Johnny fall apart- wants to watch Johnny fall apart because of him, wants to see the shape Johnny’s pretty mouth takes when comes, wants to see how his back arches and his muscles tense.
Mark fucks into Johnny at a brutal pace, and he knows it's exactly what Johnny wants from the way his face goes slack and his mouth opens. Mark leans in to kiss him, licking up the spit that spilling down his chin and pooling in his collarbones.
Mark’s hips are stuttering now, from how tight Johnny is around him and the hot swirl of his tongue in his mouth, and from the hand ghosting up the side of his rib cage, featherlight and trembling.
When Johnny comes, Mark swears to God he’s never seen anything that beautiful. It’s his best look so far, hair matted with sweat and brows pinched in bliss- and the whole time Johnny is looking at him, eyes blown.
Come splatters thick and hot between them, but Mark only registers the tight squeeze of Johnny as he fucks him into oversensitivity.
“‘m, close, okay?” Mark asks, resting a hand on Johnny’s shuddering chest. “Just a little longer.”
Johnny nods, covering Mark’s hand with his own and twisting their fingers together. It’s there that Mark feels tethered, digging his nails into Johnny’s palm when he finally tips over the edge, the vision below him melting into white hot bliss-
Mark’s thighs are shaking when his orgasm settles. He blinks once, twice- and then Johnny is there again, looking at him with that same sort of fondness from the kitchen.
“Good?” Johnny asks. Not that he needs to.
“Yeah,” Mark breathes. “Good is, like, kind of an understatement. Can I-”
“Slow, please.”
Johnny winces when Mark pulls out, drawing his legs together. Mark manages an unsteady walk to the trash can in the corner, tying the condom and dropping it, and makes it back to the bed in time to collapse next to Johnny.
All of his limbs are shaking when Johnny pulls him close, one elbow digging into the space beside Mark’s head. Mark blinks up at him, waiting for Johnny to say- anything?
But Johnny just looks, carding his hand through the sweaty mess of Mark’s hair.
And then finally: “When can I see you again?”
Oh. Oh. Mark’s thoughts spark and fizzle out. “I- uh, whenever? Whenever you want, I guess?” Mark turns his head so he isn’t flustered by the steadiness of Johnny’s gaze. “I mean, I’d like that, too.”
“You are just-” Johnny breaks off, hiding a laugh behind his hand.
“What?” Mark asks. “What?” He can feel the tips of his ears turning red again, his voice cracking over the end of the word.
“Nothing- really,” Johnny says, tucking a strand of hair behind Mark’s ear. “You’re just- cute, I guess. You were just fucking me and now you’re shy again. It’s cute.”
“Whatever, dude,” Mark grumbles, but it’s muffled against Johnny’s skin. He smiles slowly, chapped lips pressed to Johnny’s chest.