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It’s a packed auditorium, a constant barrage of excited voices from the audience keeping the noise level at an unvarying roar. The convention staff is already prepping the stage for them when Mark and Jack arrive.
They’re the first ones to show up behind the curtain; both Wade and Bob are likely just caught up in signings that ran over their scheduled time. It’s fine, if they’re late then Mark and Jack will just roll with it until everyone else arrives. In the meantime, Mark can send them passive aggressive texts to rile them up like the troll that he is.
Jack lays his head on Mark’s shoulder as they lean against the wall behind the curtain, out of the audience’s sight. Jack’s been groggy behind the scenes for most of the con, reserving all his energy for his fans and their panels. It’s grossly adorable seeing his little rabbit running on low batteries, and Mark can’t help but grin and fondly kiss the top of Jack’s head.
“M'horny,” Jack slurs into the sleeve of Mark’s t-shirt.
And that… was not what Mark was expecting to hear.
The words go straight to his dick, and Mark shifts slightly. “Oh yeah?” he asks, stowing his phone in his back pocket. He watches Jack with interest.
Jack scrubs his face against Mark’s arm like a cat chin-scenting its owner. “Keep thinkin’ about you blowin’ me in th'hotel th’s mornin’,” he admits, muffled, and then squawks when Mark whirls around and crowds him up against the wall. “Jesus, Mark,” he grunts, face flushing.
Mark crams their mouths together, teeth clacking before he gets control of the kiss and soothes the awkwardness with his tongue, licking into Jack’s mouth like he wants to taste whatever Jack’s thinking instead of just hearing it. Which is pretty accurate, if Mark’s being honest.
“You drive me crazy,” he growls when he stops long enough to pant against Jack’s lips.
Jack laughs, sliding an arm around Mark’s neck to keep him close. “I barely said anythin’,” he points out, giggling as Mark tucks a hand under his thigh and hoists him up to straddle Mark’s hips. “Yer a horny bastard, Mr. Iplier,” he adds, teasing, as Mark groans and starts mouthing at his neck instead.
“I want your dick in my mouth,” Mark mumbles practically under his breath, and starts sucking at the hickey he’d left where Jack’s neck and shoulder meet, easily covered by his hooded jacket. Jack keens, getting his hands in Mark’s hair and making a fucking mess of it.
“Got a few minutes,” Jack says breathlessly.
“Not enough time to do everything I want to,” says Mark, rocking his hips into Jack, and pretty quickly they’re both so hard it’s going to be awkward shuffling out on stage. He can already see his social media feeds exploding with gifs and theories.
His dick is going right back to memesville.
He’ll care later.
Maybe.
Struck by sudden inspiration, Mark says, “Give me your phone.”
“Takin’ a picture?” Jack asks, chuckling, but he sits himself more firmly on Mark’s hips and digs around in his jacket pocket as directed.
They’ve never played with pictures or videos when they were actually in the same country, reserving those exchanges for the long months they spend apart. Mark has hundreds of pictures of Jack intended for his eyes only, but none that he’s taken himself.
Mark straightens his back and takes the phone when Jack offers it to him.
Jack is wedged between the wall and being perched on Mark’s hips, not much smaller than Mark but small enough that the position isn’t all that difficult. Biting his own lower lip, Mark shoves Jack’s jacket and shirt up over his chest in one push, exposing his pale, sparsely haired chest and stomach. He spreads his stance to keep from fumbling Jack as he leans down, catching a nipple between his teeth and sucking.
Jack whines, high and reedy in the back of his throat, and grinds himself against Mark’s crotch even though their jeans prevent the right kinds of friction.
“Maark,” Jack exhales, nails briefly skimming Mark’s scalp.
“I can’t wait to get you back to the hotel,” Mark growls, biting his way over to Jack’s other nipple, his voice low and almost angry with how much he wants the other man. “I’m going to fuck you until you cry, Jackaboy.”
“Not all that difficult'a task,” Jack admits, laughing breathlessly. The laugh hiccups into a muffled moan as Mark sucks a fresh hickey on his chest. “Babe,” he croons, a purr starting up in his throat, “Babe. Ya gotta stop. Panel’s ‘bout ta start.”
“Pretty sure our fans’d enjoy watching me tear you apart on stage,” Mark says roughly, palming Jack’s ass.
“Most’ve 'em,” Jack agrees, a smile in his tone. “Bob an’ Wade’d probably have a lot less fun though.”
“They’re late,” says Mark, lifting his face before he loses his mind a little too much. His mouth is wet, so he licks it as he watches Jack looking at him, Jack looking as flushed and wrecked as Mark feels. “They lost their say.”
Jack lowers his lashes. “Take yer picture.”
Mark swipes Jack’s phone open and does just that. Like some kind of spell is broken, Mark starts to hear the assembled crowd beyond the curtain again, their anticipatory roar crashing back over Mark and Jack’s little hideaway like a wave breaking on shore. Mark’s eyes settle on Jack’s, all heat mixed with breathy anticipation for the stage.
“I love you,” Mark says, swallowing.
Jack’s smile is huge and happy as he pulls his shirt back down, heedless of the spit that Mark left behind. “Love ya too, ya great big fuckin’ pervert.”
Mark flashes a grin to match. “Pervert, huh?” he asks, lips contorting in an arrogant sort of pout. He lets Jack slide down off his hips again but immediately puts a hand on his chest to keep him from moving away, tucking Jack’s phone into the front of his pants.
“Mark,” Jack laughs, trying to shove him off, “Th’ fuck are you doin’, dude?”
Mark fiddles with the phone’s positioning for a long moment. “Making the panel more interesting,” he says, smirking when he’s satisfied the device is wedged firmly against Jack’s dick between his underwear and his jeans.
Jack turns red. “Yer not serious.” He starts to reach for his pants, but Mark snags his wrists easily, yanking them upward and pressing them into the wall. “Mark,” Jack grunts, but Mark kisses him hard to lick away his complaints.
“Consider it. I’ll can call you every time I’m thinking about how tight your ass is,” Mark growls, teeth scraping Jack’s jawline, the rasp of Jack’s beard on his tongue. “And you can suffer with me, you fucking tease.”
Jack moans and smiles at the same time. “Doesn’t take much ta tease ya,” he notes, “Might as well be flashin’ my ankles 'er some shit.”
“They do look pretty good in leather restraints…”
“Jesus,” Jack says, grinning almost nervously, “Now who’s bein’ a tease.”
A convention staffer pops behind the curtain to let them know the stage is set, and Mark keeps his hands on Jack’s wrists as he cheerfully thanks her for the heads-up. Mark can feel Jack wriggling in embarrassment at being seen pinned to the wall, but the woman seems to assume they’re just horsing around because she wishes them luck and leaves.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Mark says, giving Jack’s wrists a squeeze before letting them go. He slaps Jack’s ass for good measure as the other male wobbles out of his shadow, trying to find a pace that doesn’t make his crotch accessory obvious. “Here, let me,” Mark croons, slipping Jack’s jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, his mouth on Jack’s ear again as he ties it firmly around his waist from behind. “There we go.”
“God, you are such an ass,” Jack mumbles petulantly, but he shivers when Mark kisses his ear. “Don’t fuckin’ call me too much, the mics’ll pic it up an’ then everybody’s gonna wanna know why my dick’s vibratin’.”
Mark chuckles, moving towards the curtain with a spring in his step. He loves how easy it is to rile up his little Irishman. “No promises!” he says delightedly, and heads out to absolutely thunderous applause.
*
Bob and Wade show up a little less than ten minutes late, their sudden appearance saving Jack from having to launch into another random college story to occupy the audience while they wait. Mark gets up to hug them but Jack stays in his seat, forcing a calm, friendly grin as Bob and Wade clap his shoulders on their way to their chairs.
Because he’s a fucking douchebag, Mark hasn’t tried calling Jack’s phone yet, and it has Jack on edge. He keeps glancing at his boyfriend, eyebrows furrowed against the urge to scowl, but Mark’s totally engaged with the crowd; he doesn’t even look at Jack once.
Bob starts talking about school and his post-graduation plans, fans cheering joyously when he mentions wanting to upload more regularly. Jack is actually calming down a little, one elbow on the table and smiling in encouragement at his friend, when his phone starts buzzing.
The phone pulses against his cock in short, hard bursts, the noise thankfully much more muffled than Jack had anticipated. His smile freezes on his face, heat spreading up the back of his neck. It rings until Jack’s voicemail catches it, and Jack’s dick throbs at the abrupt loss.
Mark still isn’t looking at him; instead, he’s watching Bob, nodding along thoughtfully like the good, supportive friend that he is.
Jack swallows.
The calls come periodically over the next twenty minutes, usually vibrating until his voicemail picks up; sometimes, though, it’s only for a buzz or two, and Jack has to swallow down his disappointed whines. The top of the phone is settled just beneath his cock crown, and it’s a constant struggle not to reach down and hold the phone in place so he can rut against it, especially when all the teasing manages to tickle a dribble of precum free.
He has a reputation for being pretty fidgety, which covers his ass at least a little bit. It allows him to bounce his foot and shift around in his seat without catching much attention, and he takes full advantage, wiggling around to disguise how badly he wants to somehow hump the inside of his own pants.
The panel transitions into a Q&A, and Mark takes advantage of the pause – a few staffers descending into the audience to get the line ready – to lean into Jack’s personal space. “Looking a little flushed there, babe,” he purrs into Jack’s ear, posed so casually he looks like he’s just muttering about the stage lights or something equally innocuous.
“Go sit on a cactus,” Jack whispers back, smiling and nodding like he’s carrying on a normal conversation.
Mark’s laughter is a soft exhale on his ear. “That’s fair,” he says. He slides his phone across the table, index finger sweeping over the screen to bring up his recent messages. The picture Mark took on Jack’s phone is sitting as Jack’s last text, because Mark sent it to himself.
Jack stares down at the image, throat suddenly tight. He looks… he looksslutty, for lack of a better word, comfortable and unafraid while he’s perched on his boyfriend’s hips. The angle is reminiscent of myspace, or maybe a sensual black and white pic on a softporn tumblr blog. Embarrassed but also in awe of his own sexuality, Jack feels blood rushing to his face and his dick, leaving him light-headed and dizzy.
Mark taps the picture and saves it to his own gallery.
“Mark,” Jack breathes.
“Mm, I love how you say my name when I’m turning you on,” Mark murmurs.
“Maybe it’s just havin’ a look at myself that’s turnin’ me on,” Jack mumbles, half-joking, and strangles a giggle by clearing his throat.
“It’s a good picture,” Mark concurs, and his breath tickles the air just behind Jack’s ear. “There’s a lot of things I could do with a picture like that, Jackaboy…”
Jack swallows, and it’s audible.
Mark laughs again, hand briefly rubbing over the small of Jack’s back. Jack can hear fans in the front few rows start up an excited chatter, and he can feel dozens of pairs of eyes and phone cameras fixated on them both.
“Yeah?” says Jack, shifting. “Like accidentally tweet it?”
Mark’s chuckle is low and fond. “Exactly like accidentally tweeting it,” he agrees softly.
“What ’m I supposed t’ do ta convince you t’ be more careful with it?” Jack asks, playing into Mark’s scheme on purpose.
Mark’s hand moves away from Jack’s back, picking his phone back up. Jack watches out of the corner of his eye as Mark navigates back to Jack in his contacts, calling him again and letting it ring. Jack hisses through his teeth as the vibrations start up, heels digging into the floor.
“You have to come for me,” Mark murmurs, and his brown eyes are fixed completely on Jack, like the bustling auditorium and ongoing panel don’t exist anymore.
But they do exist. Hundreds and hundreds of people are sitting before them like a teeming ocean, watching their every move and hanging off their every word because that’s what they came here for. There’s probably already dozens of pictures of him biting his lip to hold back moans, posted to every fucking social media platform possible. He’ll be teased mercilessly for it by fans who don’t even realize it doesn’t just accidentally look like a sex face, it is a sex face…
Jesus.
Jack’s trying not to pant when the ringing abruptly stops before it’s reached the end of its cycle.
Mark is still hesitating in Jack’s space, waiting for a response. Jack knows Mark’s giving him time to consider safewording his way out of the situation, the same way Mark had gone on stage first to let Jack fish the phone out of his pants if he didn’t want to play Mark’s little game. Mark is a smarmy bastard… but a considerate, attentive smarmy bastard.
“Don’t do it if a kid’s askin’ me a question,” Jack says under his breath, “That’d be too far.”
Mark nods and straightens up in his seat again, just in time for the first person at the microphone to ask him about Mario Maker. He answers with happy enthusiasm, casually playing with his phone even though he maintains eye contact with the fan, striking up a silly back-and-forth that has the audience in stitches.
Jack’s neck and shoulders tense as the pulses hit him, buzzing in short, steady blips that make him want to slide onto the floor and writhe on his belly. The pressure doesn’t last nearly long enough to get him anywhere.
Frustration coils in the pit of his stomach as he starts fielding questions, clearing his throat to cover the strain in his voice whenever he leans into the mic.
He trades barbs and jokes with Bob, Wade, and Mark easily, the four of them playing with the crowd as the panel dwindles towards its scheduled conclusion. Jack’s sweating now, the dampness on his forehead curling his bangs, and he can smell how much precum he’s been leaking in his shorts. He’s grateful he’s at the far end of the table, Mark beside him and Bob and Wade on Mark’s other side, shielded from Jack’s mounting desperation.
Mark won’t actually post the picture. They’re exhibitionists – to even try denying it at this point would be ludicrous – but they don’t violate each other’s privacy. The closest Jack’s ever come to showing off his sex life is accidentally sending Robin some footage of himself trying to adjust his jacket to hide hickeys from the camera. And he’d been humiliated.
But he lets the fantasy play out in his head between questions, imaging the internet firestorm that would follow if Mark shared the picture without context. It’d be so obvious it was Mark that Jack was straddling, and the bricks behind him would match the auditorium walls perfectly. Everyone would know that Mark had reduced Jack to a mewling mess just seconds before the panel…
Everyone – fans, friends, fellow youtubers – would see him sitting on Mark’s hips, his nipples hard beneath a sheen of Mark’s spit, with new and fading love bites on his skin. They’d see his lashes lowered and lips parted like he couldn’t care less who saw him at his most happy and debauched. He can imagine the avalanche of drama and gossip channels that would cover the story, using his body in their thumbnails. The edits and reposts that would clog his tag on Tumblr. Fans changing their icons and headers to feature it with a hundred different color filters.
The pulses start again, and Jack sits his chin in his palm, covering his mouth with his fingers to remind himself not to whine. He shifts his legs so he can straddle the sides of the chair and tucking his feet around the back chair legs, anchoring himself in.
He thinks about how easy it would be for Mark to stop answering questions and instead get up and put his hand on the back of Jack’s neck, pinning his face down to the table. How Mark could keep calling him over and over, holding the phone up for the cameras to broadcast to the big screen behind them, displaying Jack’s unanswering contact. How Mark could run him ragged in front of hundreds of people. How Jack’s sobbed breaths would crackle on the mic. How Mark could make him come all over himself in front of everyone, and Jack would let him.
Jack takes another question, launching into an animated, rambling reply. He uses his enthusiasm to excuse bouncing in his seat, tipping forward enough that he’s able to grind against the edge. His dick ruts against the phone, vibrations working through him in the perfect, aching tease.
The next inquiry goes to Wade and Mark. Mark keeps calling him, not letting voicemail pick up – instead, he hangs up after the first few rings and immediately calls back, over and over. Jack plants a hand between his legs, gripping the front of his seat like he’s just sitting weird, and rolls his hips into his wrist as much as he can manage subtly. He can feel fresh sweat on his skin, likely glistening in the intense white stage lights.
Does he look as flushed and desperate as he did in that picture? As comfortable in his own skin?
Jack risks a glance at Mark and finds the other man watching him. Mark’s eyes are dark with lust, his lips parted just enough that Jack can see he’s got his tongue between his canines. He’s familiar with the expression, it’s the one Mark wears when Jack is pushing two fingers into him at once: intense, almost angry need.
Jack licks his lower lip.
*
Mark knows Jack is going to come before Jack does, he can see it in the way that Jack’s shoulders square up and back like he wants to spread wings. He hangs up and calls again, leaning into the microphone as the phone dials.
“Jack,” he says, and it’s an unprecedented accomplishment that his voice doesn’t dip into an outright purr, “Do you have to pee or something? You’re jumping around like a magic bean over there.”
Jack’s eyes fly wide and stick to him, bright with panic. “What?” he blurts, breathless, and the microphone on the table barely picks it up.
Mark laughs and pats him on the shoulder, letting his palm linger a few moments too long. “You’re allowed to take a piss break, dude. I’m sure all of these guys,” and he turns his face towards the crowd, raising an arm to encourage a clattering burst of encouraging yells, “don’t mind.”
Jack hesitates, then manages to plaster a mostly genuine grin on his face. “Well in that case,” he giggles, getting to his feet, and Mark watches with a grin of his own as Jack shuffles back towards the curtain like he’s been sitting on a traffic cone instead of inoffensively average metal chair. The crowd cheers him on, and Jack manages to wave chipperly before disappearing behind the heavy drape of fabric. Mark doesn’t bother calling his phone again.
The Q&A continues, and when one asker admits their question was for Jack, Mark obnoxiously insists on answering on Jack’s behalf in a high-pitched, terribly clumsy Irish accent. Everyone laughs, and Mark sits back in his chair, smirkingly satisfied with his performance.
His phone buzzes once, indicating he has a new text. Mark combs his fingers through his floppy hair, eyes darting between the screen and the next person in line as he clicks to open his messages.
Come is splattered on Jack’s stomach, caught in his treasure trail and dribbling into the dip of his navel. Jack’s hand is still wrapped around his dick, a marbled strand of ejaculate shining from the tip to where it’s dripped across his knuckles. It’s a close up, so the rest of Jack isn’t visible, but Mark’s nostrils flare slightly, intoxicated by the thought of nuzzling into all that mess with Jack moaning above him.
A second picture pops up as Mark’s still staring. Jack’s upper body fills the frame, shirt yanked up just like Mark had it positioned before, Jack’s hand splayed on his sparsley haired chest and his lips curled in a sleepy half-smirk. He’s looking at Mark from beneath his lashes again.
“…not listening because he’s too busy looking at porn on his phone,” Bob says dryly.
Wait.
What.
Mark starts, almost fumbling his phone as he looks up. Wade and Bob are both looking at him with raised eyebrows, and the crowd is laughing in scattered bursts. He flashes an embarrassed smile. “Did I miss a question?” he says into the mic, ducking his shoulders to show an appropriate level of shame.
The fan, flustered, repeats himself, and Mark dives right into apologizing profusely and answering his question. He feels rather than sees Jack come back out on stage while he’s talking. Mark finishes his prattle and turns to look at his boyfriend, and is startled by Jack’s hand coming up to grip his mouth.
“Gotta pay more attention, Mark,” Jack chastises loudly, shaking Mark’s face playfully, “I could hear th’ question all th’ way in th’ back!” His finger slides over Mark’s mouth, and Mark tastes salt – come. There’s come on Jack’s fingers, and he’s just smeared it into Mark’s mouth. Jack laughs and drops his hand away, apparently confident he didn’t leave a noticeable streak on Mark’s face. “Quit watchin’ porn on yer phone!” he says, picking up Bob’s joke and laughing like he’s just as clueless as Bob is about that being exactly what Mark was looking at.
Mark’s so hard he’ll be doing the same awkward crab walk that Jack was when the panel is over.
Mark swallows hard, offering the audience a shy smile. “My bad,” he rasps into the mic, “I’ll keep my ardent porn addiction off the stage next time.”
Jack’s smile is bright and pleased. “Or you could share it wit everybody else,” he suggests sassily, eyebrows raised. The audience erupts in a loud barrage of cheers, completely oblivious to the inside joke.
Mark laughs, cheeks flushed, and tucks his phone into his pocket.
This whole panel is going to memesville, and Mark doesn’t mind one fucking bit.