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Afternoon in Cairo is sultry, the sun red and hanging low like a ripe fruit on a branch, the heat like a blanket settling tangibly over the shoulders. The room is in shambles in the wake of Marc’s breakdown (“Everything you touch you ruin!” but Steven doesn’t even know how right he is), but he wishes he were dynamite, or a wrecking ball, he wishes he could ruin more than this small corner of the world. Steven huddles miserably in the cracked mirror, eyes glistening red, expression full of grief and blame, he’s falling apart and Marc can’t exactly help him. He’s falling apart and it’s all Marc’s fault. Marc takes another swig of whiskey, hisses as it goes down. He feels wound tight enough to snap, there’s a storm brewing in him.
And there’s Steven, uncomfortable with their nakedness, draped in the sheet and bloodied, as dramatic as a baroque painting, utterly surreal and a little erotic, like the aftermath of a party. Like the last sour taste of drugs on the back of the tongue and someone else’s lipstick a messy smear on his throat. Made to be broken.
“So you think I’m handsome.” Marc broaches, and lets his mouth curl into a smirk. It feels more like a snarl. Something pricks his palm when he moves his hand, shattered glass, a shard of the mirror pierces his knuckles. He doesn't pick it out.
Steven flinches back and averts his eyes. “That’s — I'm not— We don't have to talk about that.” He settles on at last, cheeks flushing, curling in on himself. And oh that's pretty. And cute. And pretty cute. Marc eases himself up onto the bed so they’re sitting opposite each other in the mirror, watching Steven intensely, and waits. He watches him squirm in embarrassment. “It’s not like you even need to ask. You know what you look like! You narcissistic prick!” Steven bursts out, waving his hand up and down at the sprawl of Marc’s limbs.
“What do I look like?” Marc presses, laying one hand against the tensing muscle of his thigh, glistening with a light sheen of sweat, shorts riding up a little. Steven’s eyes go dark and hungry before he pulls them away, tugging the sheet tighter over his shoulders, like he can cover up that abyss of want. There’s no point pretending. “Come on. What do I look like? Tell me, I wanna know.”
“I— I'm not playing your games Marc. You’re drunk and—!”
“I think you wanna play my games.” Marc says lowly. He's burning whiskey hot, breathing flames, all he needs now is gasoline. He licks his lips to say, “I think you wanna watch me get nice and hard, put on a show just for you.” (“Everything you touch you ruin!” Yeah, Marc thinks, and wishes he could wrap his hand around Steven’s throat, feel his trembling pulse through delicate skin and squeeze. Yeah.) “I think you wanna hear me moan your name when I come. Steven.”
Steven gulps audibly, and his eyes track the swipe of Marc’s tongue over his lips and his fingers skimming his belly, he bites his lip, such an unknowing tease, clenches his fingers on the last shred of his restraint and shakes his head. He looks so pretty and he wants it so bad, all he needs is a push.
“You think I'm handsome. What? Do you like my face? My voice? My body?” He tugs the waistband of his shorts a little lower, revealing the cut lines of his adonis belt, neatly trimmed black hair growing denser. Steven’s eyes are fixed, like he’s watching a porn through cracks in his fingers. “You can tell me, I won't judge. What do you think is handsome?”
“We really don’t have to—?” Steven tries, voice a little rushed and breathless. He squirms in the mirror, but his eyes are so hot and that’s good. Marc knows this dance, knows every step by heart. This is easy, a blissful distraction. He wants to ruin everything. (If Steven’s gonna hate him, god he’ll give him a reason to hate him—)
“I want to though. Just for you. I’ll let you watch.” He doesn't know which of them moans louder when Marc finally pulls his shorts away, revealing the full length of his hard cock. He hisses, just brushing his fingertips up and down, watching Steven watching him, tracking his fingers as they circle his cock loosely, tugging the foreskin back to reveal the head. “You wanna touch me? You think about me fucking you?” He laughs lowly, spreads his thighs. Steven was right, he knows exactly what he looks like. “Maybe you think about fucking me?”
Steven squeaks, utterly abashed. But he doesn’t say no. He presses his fingers to his mouth, and his stupid sheet slips tantalizingly over one smooth brown shoulder. Marc imagines digging his teeth in hard enough to mark him, pretty red rings of teeth painting a picture of violence, ruining him. “I would you know. Fuck you.” Marc groans out, and imagines it, Steven on his knees, bent over and begging for his cock, the soft wet way he’d cry out deeper harder fuck Marc please—! A swoop of lust settles in his belly, and he wonders what Steven would say if he could read Marc’s mind. He palms his cock fully, it throbs in his grasp, smears a drop of precum over velvety skin, and hisses in pleasure, watches Steven’s eyes widen. “I’d let you suck me first. Get it all down your throat, watch you choke on it. Think you’d like that?” Steven shakes his head no, Marc nods his head yes. “I think you’d like that. You’d let me fuck your mouth, wouldn't you? Let me put you on your knees?”
Steven makes a soft noise in his throat. Is it denial? Agreement? Marc doesn’t know. He fists his cock hard, twisting on the up stroke, knuckle nudging at the sensitive spot just under the head. Pleasure washes through his veins, a warm wave. The tip spurts a drop of precum and Marc’s free hand smears it on one finger, and brings it to his mouth to lick it away, gaze fixed on Steven’s in the mirror, precum salty and musky on his tongue.
“Oh, god,” Steven moans, like Marc’s the most salacious thing he’s ever seen (maybe he is, maybe this is another thing Marc is manically ruining), his fingers are tight on the sheet, and Marc wishes he could tear it away. Wishes he could push Steven into the mattress, slide his cock between his thick thighs, up behind his balls, pressed right against the molten heat of him, or get his fingers in Steven’s pretty little mouth or—
Open himself up for Steven, feel him press inside, swallow him up and hold him tight and ruin even that—
“You’re allowed to watch me.” Marc invites, running his free hand over his chest, thumbing his nipple lightly until it pebbles, twisting it. Steven whimpers, like it never occurred to him to touch there, like he wants to explore him totally with his mouth, his teeth, vicious. “Want you to watch me, Steven.”
“Oh fuck, stop saying my name like that.” Steven’s eyes squeeze briefly shut, but snap open again like he can't bear to look away, marc’s a perfect natural disaster, a tidal wave cresting higher.
“Steven.” Marc says again, low and sultry and purring, warm as the egyptian sun, because if he’s going to break something he wants to shatter it absolutely. There will be no fixing Steven after this. He wants the way Steven shivers at just the sound of his voice, like it's something tangible, his fingers on Steven's glistening skin, vulnerable throat, his teeth against the hinge of his jaw.
His paces increases, almost punishing, sighing as pleasure licks against his nerves like flames. Steven watches him just like he asked. Is he imagining his hands on him? His mouth on him? Imagining the taste of sweat and whiskey and skin, hot and velvety, slick head against his own lips, gripped in his own fingers. He pauses to roll his balls in his fingers, slips his fingers down to tease the delicate skin of his taint just behind, shuddering as he presses, watching Steven swallow and lean forward eagerly.
“Like that?” He asks, and wishes he had something to slick himself up with. Steven’s eyes snap away, black and blown out, but they don't wander far. He doesn’t say no. “Next time baby. I’ll let you open me up. Get me fucking wet for you.”
“Oh fuck.” Steven grits out again.
Marc laughs, fists his cock again and pumps, fingers teasing his frenulum or the thick vein throbbing along the length or squeezing the base, jerking himself and enamoured with Steven’s hungry gaze, naked want.
His hand slows as he feels the first crest of orgasm, toes curling in the sheets and groans locked behind his teeth. Steven makes a needy little wanting noise, his hands fists on the edge of the mattress. Marc strokes himself gently, easy, his cock throbs and twitches, thwarted pleasure pooling in his belly, a step away from igniting again, Steven's gaze like a spark.
This is the best kind of torture. He waits until his arousal simmers, shifting on the bed so his muscles remain in high relief, a pretty picture of languid pleasure, cock hard and straining before he touches it again.
He starts slowly, rolls his hips up into his fist, meets Steven’s eyes so he knows this is how he would fuck him, an unbearable tease plowing deeper until Steven begged him to destroy him. He builds, steven’s so tense he looks like he’ll snap, “oh, fuck yeah,” Marc allows himself to moan, toes curling, orgasm sitting right there—
He stops, panting, thighs quivering and lashes fluttering. Steven looks miserable and wanting and desperate. This isn’t how Steven would touch him, he knows, his fingers a little too gentle, a little unsure, exploring and inexperienced, searching eagerly for satisfaction and not the halting pattern of this drawn out game.
“Again?” He asks, and Steven doesn't nod, but they both know he wants to, wants to watch marc pull himself apart completely. “Yeah, you want it again.” He licks his lip, takes himself in hand again. It almost hurts, skin thrumming, arousal winding tight with nowhere to go, so he orgasm feels like something he’s holding back with all his strength.
When he stops again Steven blurts out “no please, please—” eyes wet and hungry, hips twitching forward and rutting against nothing. “Don’t stop, don’t…”
“Wanna come?” Steven shakes his head, so stubbornly, even though he's barely holding on to his control, as flimsy as his sheet. “Yeah you do.” Marc chuckles. “Tell me you want it and I'll let you come. Tell me you wanna fuck my face instead, huh?” Marc smirks, all fangs, razor sharp. “Have me gagging on your cock when you push too hard.” A shudder runs through Steven, Marc's skin is electrified. “Tell me and I'll let you come.”
Marc laughs darkly when Steven whimpers and shakes his head again. “Suit yourself.” He’s buzzing, his own touch zapping him, as he grips his cock and lets his mouth run, filthy things (“you’d be so good for me, fuck, such a little slut for me,”) he can’t filter any more as his mind fills with static, numbed to everything but the rising tide of his orgasm and Steven’s soft moans, steven’s eyes on him.
When he stops this time they both sob, Marc nearly shakes apart, head thrown back and trying to ride out the wave, cock dribbling precum, slicking his strokes so the skin makes obscene noises.
“Please,” Steven begs. “Please, I want to. Please let me—!”
Marc swallows, he feels like a wasteland, he fucks up into his fist and says, “show me. Show me how much you want me.”
Steven, a little bit erotic, made to be ruined, like those pretty Greek statutes in the museums shaped from ideals, shoves the sheet away with the last of his pretenses, grasps his own cock shamelessly and moans out, “Marc,” in a sweet pleading voice. He strokes himself, slick red head peeking between his fingers, precum smearing his palm, thighs wide open and trembling, freehand tangled in the sheet as he leans back on the heel of his palm. He’s a fucking picture, something pure crumbling into temptation, the flash of his bloody knuckles stark and poetic against his full flushed cock. Marc can’t resist touching himself as he watches him.
“Fuck you’re so pretty for me, look at you.” Marc’s lashes flutter, almost shut except he wants to keep watching, stripping his cock hard and fast, pre cum slicking the head as he rolls his hips into his own hand and imagines, “God you’d look so good with my cock in you. Or above me, fucking me, making me shut up—!”
He can hear the echo of Steven’s soft moans, a chant of “Marc Marc Marc—!” so irresistibly sweet, Marc wants to feel him to his bones, “oh Marc please I—“ Steven gasps, twisting his fingers just so, pinching his own nipples, absolutely debauched. His reservations are crumpled with the sheet, like the lighthouse at Alexandria, ruins after an earthquake, and he denies himself nothing now.
“What? Tell me what, sweetheart,” They don’t take their eyes off each other, stroking at the same pace, orgasm edging up on them. Marc wants to draw it out, wants to make Steven beg for it, wants to hear him crying and desperate for it. His muscles tense, his belly tightens, he’s right there, and Steven’s right there with him, whining prettily, and god what will he sound like when Marc gets fingers inside him, gets a cock in him, fucks him until he’s raw and utterly overwhelmed—?
“Can I come, can—can I—?” Maybe a better man wouldn't deny Steven anything when he asks like that. Marc isn’t a better man. He wants this wreck to be unsalvageable.
“Tell me you want it and I'll let you come.” Steven bites his lip, shakes his head, quivering. “All you need to do is say it.”
“You’re so handsome—?" Steven tries.
Marc hisses, pinches his cock cruelly hard, groaning like a beast. “Try again.”
“Wanna fuck you. Wanna… wanna have you in my mouth, want—!” he spits the truth up, and Marc soaks it up like water over sand. He’ll become a flash flood, destructive, too much too fast over parched land, like the rain of Steven’s stuttered praise and desire.
“That’s it, fuck you’re so sweet.” Marc’s touch is brutal, stripping his cock frantically, his orgasm like something chasing him, until it catches him by the throat and he sobs and comes helplessly. Steven’s voice blends in, timid and reluctant, Marc’s name tangled in his whimpers. Marc’s left shaking in the aftermath, belly coated in semen, black curls sticking to his forehead and falling across his eyes. He’s the last smouldering bits of a forest fire, burnt out.
“So you think I'm handsome.” Marc says, voice gruff and sated.
Steven lays spread in his rumbled sheets, a delicate thing used, cheeks still high with colour and lips bitten red and kissable. He’s art, the aftermath of a party, the detritus after a hurricane, beautiful and wasted and ruined. “Fuck you.” he whispers. Marc laughs. But he doesn’t say no.