Work Text:
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It's not that he's not creative. Or something. He can make stuff, with command line prompts and javascript frames. That's easy, really.
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But he doesn't dream. And he doesn't like poetry, unless it's Virgil in the Latin, or maybe Lewis Carroll.
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Those Phoenix assholes and their Lewis Carroll references.
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Those fucking guys. How painfully obvious.
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He watches lacrosse practice and he goes to the gym and he lets himself look.
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It's a free country, he can look at whatever the fuck he wants to.
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And he can look at shit online. You can find fucking anything online. Sick stuff, substantially worse that the stuff you see on 4chan, or South Korean streaming sites.
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Mark always clears his browser history.
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He is not going to get caught.
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In the old days you would have to get your hands dirty, but now you can look at anything, see fucking anything, ass in chair, hand down your pants.
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So he looks.
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Whatever, fuck it. It's all cool.
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But he cannot imagine. He does not write music, and he does not like poetry, and he does not dream at night.
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He has to see it first to replay it in his head.
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He's too scared to do any of it, himself.
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He doesn't actually really want the things he thinks about, he thinks.
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Or he does, but no way in hell is he stripping off in front of a room full of strangers in the South End.
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There are parties, houses. He's read the message boards.
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It sounds gross.
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It's probably full of nasty fat old men from Quincy with graying hair and beer guts. Wives and kids in college. Classmates of his.
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Or, you know.
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Classmates of Erica's.
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That is about the furthest thing from sexy he can imagine.
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He's not going to go to any of those parties.
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Nor is he going to ask Hunter to nail him while he gives Charlie a blow job.
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Although he does kind of wish one of them would find the other out.
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Because that he could probably do.
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Like, on the couch or whatever.
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He likes the idea.
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Of buffeting between them.
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Hunter would be mean, like he is.
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Charlie is not mean.
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Not one bit.
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He does have a huge penis.
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He really loves blowing him.
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It's so fucking good.
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He is good at it.
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And he really fucking likes it.
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It's nice to be good at the thing you like, right?
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Like, there is not a time that Charlie's hips do not push up six inches off the couch.
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He always throws his head back.
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He never comes too soon.
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His dick is excellent.
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So he imagines Hunter fucking him from behind, even though he has never actually done that with Hunter.
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He doesn't know how to ask.
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He does think he would like it, though.
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He lets Charlie come on his face.
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Or he asks him to.
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Sometimes he does not catch all of it and it runs down his chin and soaks his shirt collar.
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He never does his laundry, really, so sometimes there are crusty patches that are there until he remembers to change his shirt. They chafe. No one asks what they are.
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Charlie smells nice, and he is strong, and he cups Mark's face and his ears smoosh down, red and flaming.
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He likes that so much.
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But he would like to have more.
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So he goes down to the lacrosse field and he drinks Slurpees, not every day but a couple of times a week and he looks and he fits the people he looks at into the porn he watches.
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Dustin works a 10-1 shift in the CS lab and Chris usually goes with him, for whatever reason.
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Chris' shift is 5-8. Dustin usually goes with him.
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He is never quite sure about Chris and Dustin.
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So they leave him in his room, and a couple of days a week he Xs out of his program and pulls up an .avi file -- because he has stuff he looks at, now, more often, than when he first started looking, or whatever -- and he imagines that maybe he is part of the things he watches.
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There are clips in hotel rooms, and bars, and bathrooms, and dungeons. He wonders about the people who let themselves be filmed. He wonders, really, what their parents must think.
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The ones in locker rooms are his favorite.
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Harvard colors are white and crimson.
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It does not matter so much when everyone has their pants off, though.
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So he watches clips with his hand down his pants, squeezing himself until he sees stars, and then he wipes his hand on his t-shirt and goes back to coding until everyone comes back.
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And he goes down to the lacrosse field a few days a week and he tries to memorize everyone's face and who might stand where.
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There is a team roster on the website, so he looks at that, and tries to match the names to the faces.
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Because these guys are pretty much totally attractive.
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Unlike the gross old swinger dudes.
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And he watches them and then he goes back to the dorm and jerks off in the shower.
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He fits the pieces together.
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There is him and then there is them.
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Not always all of them.
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But sometimes.
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When he's the most angry.
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When he hates everything.
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Those are the times he could rub himself raw in the shower three times running, biting the inside of his cheek until a wedge of skin comes loose.
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The dorm shower almost never runs out of hot water.
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And people come and go but he imagines that they cannot hear the noise over the water of the shower.
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He tugs on himself.
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He presses his face up against the sweaty tile and he tugs on his dick until it is pressing up swollen against his stomach and he laminates things on top of one another.
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Because he is so lousy at imagination.
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Like that, at least.
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So there are the faces and the voices of the lax team.
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And their shoulders too.
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Jesus, they have amazing fucking arms.
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Those kind of veins that you see in someone's forearm.
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God, those are so fucking hot.
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And they have floppy hair, like movie stars, and white white teeth and they probably are all about as mean as Hunter is.
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And he is closer to being popular, so he doesn't do that anymore, really, because he doesn't have to.
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But he likes thinking about it.
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It's fucking hot.
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Like, he knows it's all fucked up.
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But Jesus, their forearms.
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He leans against the wall and braces himself on his own scrawny forearm and pulls on the end of his cock and thinks about being pushed down on his knees by those fucking arms.
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There's one guy who looks Mexican.
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Only one.
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He's only so-so.
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There's another dude, just fucking huge. He has reddish hair.
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He's really big.
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Almost like a Winklevoss.
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He does like the really big ones.
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He can see even from the sidelines that this guy has enormous fucking hands that he likes to think about pressing down on the top of his head.
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He would really like to blow that guy.
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He flicks his wrist and thinks about being in the locker room, for whatever fucking reason and that big lax guy being there, like, God, in his fucking uniform, smeared with mud and shit.
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Fuck, that's hot.
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God.
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If he feels okay he just imagines sitting, his legs spread apart as he pulls on the other man's shirt and sucks him quick and sloppy. No one else comes in the room. It's just the two of them, and he swallows.
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Those are nice.
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They're quick.
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There are other things.
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Much messier.
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Much dirtier.
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Much much dirtier.
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Not, of course, always. Not all the time.
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Because these things, that seem to be fantasies -- though that sounds like dreaming, which he does not do -- these things don't happen.
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He thinks he would mind less, this semester. Maybe.
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People have to be gay at Harvard, too, probably.
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Even the straight guys do gay stuff.
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He should see.
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Not like he's going to join a club or anything.
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That would be so fucking lame.
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But he does think it would be okay to fuck someone closer to his age, sometimes. That would probably be all right. And at least he wouldn't have to go off campus, which is such a royal fucking pain in the ass.
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So he touches himself in the shower.
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That is the best place to do it, really, because he will always be messy afterward anyways. So when he is in the shower, there is nothing to clean up.
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He detests cleaning up. A lot of the time he does not even bother.
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Plus it feels really fucking good to do it in there.
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His dick is so slippery when he touches it.
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He usually spits in his palm, a great foamy gob of spit and whacks off with that, when he's in his room.
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One time he used the lube.
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That time felt so much better.
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It was really incredible.
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Maybe like fucking another person.
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Which he has still never done.
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Who would he do that with?
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Who would let him do that to them?
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So there's code and masturbation and the usual shit.
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His life is this tiny infinite loop of dorm room, dining hall, lacrosse field, shower.
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Wardo makes the CVS runs for him.
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That is pretty much it, really.
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Until he needs it, he aches for it, he burns for it.
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Then he goes out to find it, whatever it is.
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It's not just someone to blow, he can blow Charlie, like, pretty much whenever.
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They text.
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He loves sucking cock. Charlie loves having his cock sucked. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.
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He would so love to get found out.
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Or caught.
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To hear the door open one evening.
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That's totally how it works in porn.
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Oh, you're getting a blowjob. Can I watch?
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He would like it best if Hunter was mean, pulling on his hair as he fucks him, hard since he's not hung at all, and saying you should come on his stupid fucking face, bro and Charlie, who is so sweet, like a retarded fucking puppy, Charlie would listen, because it is Mark's fantasy and he can make them do what he wants.
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And this, this he wants.
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Does he fucking ever.
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So he would come on Mark's face, waving his cock against his cheek right under his lower eyelid and it would run down the side of his face, slow and tickly.
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And because it is a fantasy -- and therefore no one has to be nice and no one has to wear a condom -- Hunter would say something like should I shoot my load inside of you, you geeky fucking cockslut or God, I should take a picture of you with come dripping off your face and post it on facebook so everyone knows what a faggy little whore you are, Zuckerberg and that would do it, push him, tip him over the edge, tip both of them over the edge, and Hunter would yank out and come on his ass and it would drip all down his leg and then the fantasy stops, because that is where porn stops and real life is not really like that.
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Not at Harvard, anyways.
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Maybe somewhere else.
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Kinkmen.com is in San Francisco.
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He has hacked in and got free access.
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There are a lot of videos.
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So he likes that idea.
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Getting fucked from both ends like that.
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Jesus.
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He comes right away whenever he thinks of it.
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He lets in flash into his mind just for the tiniest moment and his spunk splashes his wrist and then swirls down the drain and he pants, harsh, against the wet tile.
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That sounds wicked hot.
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So he is kind of maybe looking for that, that sort of thing.
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That, which is this it.
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It's not something inside him.
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He can do that, himself.
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He's done that a few times.
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It's pretty fucking awkward.
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But sometimes, he can wedge a finger or two in there, not thick enough or deep enough but inside enough to tickle and wrap his other hand around his dick and pull and pull and pull and imagine getting fucked.
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He really likes it.
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It's possibly not normal how much he likes it.
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He can't fucking ask anyone.
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Who the hell would he ask about ass-fucking?
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So he imagines it.
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He gets it, sometimes.
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He thinks about it, all the time.
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He thinks about it every time the door latches shut, when Chris and Dustin slip out to the lab together.
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He has to take breaks sometimes, too.
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And he's never tired, after, is the thing.
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He can go go go like he's pounded two Red Bulls right in a row.
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After.
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When he comes against the sheets and bites his moans into his pillow, he lays there only for a second because then he is ready, then he can go again.
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If he has to pee after he comes then he does it in an empty slurpee cup from the Sev.
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Because when he thinks about it it's a distraction from the work. But when he lets it take over he can gain this other burst.
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Energy.
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Entropy?
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First wind.
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Second wind.
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Third wind.
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Fourth wind.
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Like a runner, a member of the track team.
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He's not really interested in the track team.
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The lacrosse team. Or the crew guys.
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Those guys have the same kind of shoulders.
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Arms that could lift him up.
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Hands that they'd put on bare hips and use to work him up and down.
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Fucking Christ.
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Their hands would probably fit all the way around his waist, mostly.
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And they would be big.
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He likes big hands.
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And in fantasies, if that is what these are, no one has to be safe.
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No one has to wear a condom.
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No one has to be nice. Or ask. Or say please.
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He can take and so can they and it's so, so hot.
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Sometimes he is sitting with his legs spread, and is pulling on that redheaded guy's hips and tugging, a hand closing in on the back of his neck and steam wafting from the showers just a few feet away.
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That's one he thinks about a lot.
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Or being fingered, on his back, on the gym bench, legs in the air.
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He would not have his shirt off, because he is too skinny.
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The lax guy could have his shirt off. He probably has freckles on his shoulders, because guys with red hair usually have some of those.
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He likes thinking about being fingered, because he doesn't get to do it as much as he would like.
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He's used to it being over quickly, usually.
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So Mark knows he would love being held up, held open, hands and fingers fucking him slowly, dripping hard, his insides all gooey like sap from a maple tree.
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Fingered until he comes, not even being touched.
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He knows that's possible to do.
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And then being fucked, after.
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Bare but not dry.
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Or nasty shit.
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Using what's on his stomach to fuck him with.
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That's so goddamned dirty.
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He loves the idea of it.
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Of being fingered relentlessly in that humid stinky room, a huge hand gripping his ankles together and being fingered like that, ass cheeks clenched, tight and hot until he spilled.
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And his ass dripping with sweat, but still too much friction to fuck him right.
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That redheaded guy is probably hung.
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He has big feet, too.
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Mark has checked.
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He looks like he has the kind of dick that is big even when it's limp, and all it does is grow harder when you touch it.
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He would be spent, his stomach streaked with come and he would still want to get fucked.
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Leaking hot against his hole and sweat in his ass crack but still not wet enough.
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In the porn they say shit.
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Like
control yourself you dirty little slut
or
turn your ass over so I can fuck you
or
beg for my dick and maybe I'll let you come again later
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Tacky between his fingers, inching in to Mark's ass, smearing him with his own jizz and then fucking him just like that.
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Coming inside him.
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Obviously, you can do that in fantasies.
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Or taking him right to the edge over and over and then backing off.
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Until he would get off again, his dick still sad and limp against his stomach.
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Or maybe people would walk by.
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Maybe there would be other people in the room.
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Locker rooms are always full of people.
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Locker room porn is always full of people.
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They would want to stay and watch Mark take it up the ass, maybe.
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He smacks his open palm against the wet tile wall when he thinks about that.
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Christ.
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He thinks dirty thoughts all of the time, when he has time to have thoughts.
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He's just this side of too busy, and he hates going off campus.
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So he codes and sleeps and codes and jerks off and eats, sometimes. Probably not often enough. He eats too much candy. He thinks he might be getting cavities. He should ask his mom about a dental appointment back home. Maybe over the summer or something.
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He would very much like to have nice teeth.
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He had a retainer. Not braces, which Donna has to fix her ugly buck teeth. Just a retainer.
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It gave him blisters, so he didn't wear it regularly like he was supposed to and his dad said what the hell did we spend all that money for, then? and his mother went all silent.
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He covers his teeth with his lips when he gives blowjobs. He bites his bottom lip all the way into his mouth and that seems to be a thing people think is cute or hot or whatever so he does that a few times and then he licks his mouth so it's wet and that makes it easy and they seem to like that, too.
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He's looked in the mirror a few times, like after he takes his showers.
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Trying to see why that would matter, why that would make someone huff air in through their mouth like a cough.
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He doesn't fucking get it, not one bit.
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But he knows he gives good head, so he's usually content to just do that and jerk off later, back in the Kirkland shower.
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Dustin and Chris do not ask why he is showering more than usual lately.
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Wardo is all over Christy and the Phoenix so he is not so much around to ask.
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He does make jokes about Mark having BO sometimes, but he has not really been around enough to do that lately.
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Fucking Wardo. Fucking Christy.
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He has to push away from his desk and grip on to the edge of the wood with his fingertips and he is angry, all at once.
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And he cannot write code when he is fucking angry.
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Fucking Eduardo.
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He grabs his soap and a towel that smells like mildew and he starts to leave the room.
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He goes back before he reaches the door to get stuff from his backpack.
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He is so angry.
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Horny and angry.
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Or maybe just horny.
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When he is horny he is less fucking angry.
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And God, even though he is kind of maybe more popular he has all this stuff he can't figure out where to put.
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So he takes showers and he thinks about shit while he strokes his dick with an overhanded pull until he comes against the wall.
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And then he has to angle the shower head against the wall to wash it off.
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Because that is a little gross.
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He stares at it, first, sometimes, before he lets the spray wash it off.
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So when he is angry sometimes he imagines different stuff.
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Like kneeling unsteady on the locker room bench while that redheaded guy fucks him until he loses his balance and ends up face down, ass in the air and then not in the air, his dick pressed up against the wood as he grabs underneath it so as not to slide off.
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He loves that idea.
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Being fucked flat until he can practically feel it in his throat.
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Jesus.
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Things flicker like static, ideas and images flicker like static behind his eyes and he feels it all fast and in a rush and his hand moves faster when the right idea comes into his head.
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He lets his mind skim over all the possibilities.
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There are so many possibilities.
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Being fucked from behind is only one of those.
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He imagines all of them in sequence until one works.
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Blowing him.
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Getting his ass reamed by him from the back.
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Or propped against the locker, face buried in his hands.
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Or the shower.
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Blowing him in the shower.
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People watching him blow that guy in the shower.
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People jerking off watching him blow that guy in the shower.
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Blowing two of them in the shower, head bobbing back and forth on one cock for a while before dipping down for the second, water hitting him in the face.
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Like now.
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Fucking hell.
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So many possibilities.
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Riding him, facing him, his hands pulling the skin away from Mark's asshole so it goes all tight and makes the nerves come alive.
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Someone did that to him once, someone who fucked him in a bar bathroom.
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And it made everything shift just slightly and then the world went white even in that dim dark room.
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He sometimes leans forward against the shower wall and pulls his ass open like that, rutting against the tile.
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It is nothing like getting fucked, though.
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It makes his mind go quieter and it feels nice enough but it is nothing like being fucked and being full and not having to fucking think or worry or care, really.
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Sometimes he brings the lube into the shower with him.
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He tried a couple times with just water but that didn't really work.
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It chafed too damn much.
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He goes to the bathroom and strips off all his clothes and tosses them in a pile on the tiny shelf thing in the little room before the shower stall.
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He turns the water on super hot and breathes in the steam through his nose.
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There are times when he is working so damn hard for so damn long and he thinks to himself that he should remember to breathe, and he tries to concentrate on breathing for a while before remembering, then, that it's pretty much just regulated by the brain and he doesn't have to breathe manually, or whatever.
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He breathes hard and focused when he gets in the shower and he brings the bottle in with him and he fingers himself, reaching under or behind, one foot propped against the tile for balance. He has to kind of crouch because he does not have very long arms.
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It feels pretty good and he thinks about being watched.
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Or having his legs held open by different people.
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Lacrosse guys, of course.
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They take turns.
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One holds his legs while someone else fucks him and then they switch places.
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He has lube here but they do not there and they take turns spitting on his asshole to make it slippery enough.
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They do not ever kiss him in his fantasies.
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They do not come inside of him, not ever.
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Not once.
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Three of them take turns and he puts three fingers in himself and imagines his legs being held open and then them getting off one after another, spilling across his stomach, his chest, hitting his chin.
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Like the water hits his chin in the shower.
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It is still cold outside and his skin is starting to flake from taking so many fucking showers.