They both groaned and cried, stiffening, quivering, eagerly seeking each other. Mouths. Tongues. Hands. Arms. They were a tangled mess of fading orgasms and the most pornographic groans.
As they slowed down, with his cock still buried deep in Marc’s rear, Chris lay atop him. He was struggling to breathe like a normal person, and his vision wasn’t completely clear yet, but he didn’t want the shivers sparking every nerve in his being to end. It was fucking ecstasy.
“Marc?” Chris whispered, slowly moving in and out of him, stuffing his cum as deep as possible.
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m in love with your asshole.”
Marc vibrated with silent laughter as he turned his head and looked at Chris out of the corner of his eye. “It’s just a hole, dude.”
“No, no… it’s not just a hole. It’s the Holy Grail of Holes. So fucking tight, and warm…” Chris bit the crook of his neck. He didn’t know what he was saying, and somewhere in a recondite part of his brain, he was already hating himself for blurting so much nonsense. But he was dizzy, drunk on this man’s intoxicating scent, and all he wanted was to melt into his skin. What a wild contradiction of emotions. “Trust me.”
“Okay.” Marc chuckled. “Here for you whenever you wanna repeat.”
Chris placed a soft kiss on the corner of his lips and stopped moving.
“I’m gonna pull out,” he said, as if he needed to talk himself through the process. As if that would help him cope with all of it better.
There was this constant battle happening inside of him that he was sick of. While it had felt amazing every time he’d gotten dirty with Marc—even with the latent fear of messing up their friendship in the background—he couldn’t get rid of the guilt that always followed the pleasure like a fucking shadow.
It was pathetic. Just because his girlfriend back when he was a teen was insecure, it didn’t mean he enjoyed hurting others or would ever be the cheating manwhore type. Just because his friends mocked each other when they got hard for no reason in the dressing room, it didn’t mean that feeling attracted to a man turned you into a walking joke of a human. Just because his father had turned into a fake and homophobic jerk as time had gone by, it didn’t mean there was something wrong with Chris for not being cut by the patterns society had designed for him.
“You okay?” Marc asked when he rolled over on the mattress and sat up, reclining back on his elbows with one knee bent.
“Yeah.” Chris stared down at the mess of lube and semen they had left on the sheets, and the cum dribbling out of the bassist’s ass. A part of his brain felt extremely aroused at the sight. For the other, it was immediate rejection.
“You sure?” Marc outstretched a hand, probably to touch him, but stopped mid-way. It was great that, even without voicing his turmoil, he always read the guitarist like an open book and knew how to handle the situation even better than himself. “You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is.”
And back to the incredibly supportive and kind man that he was.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Chris leaned in and pecked his lips, not wanting him to feel bad for something that was a him problem. “I’m fine. Just tired and in need of a shower.” He patted his friend’s knee before he stood up.
Marc offered a warm smile and didn’t push it any further, though he was probably still concerned. Those dark eyes and expressive brows said as much. “You know where the bathroom is.” He gestured with his palm up.
“Yeah.”
“By the way, what do you want for dinner? ‘Cause you’re staying, right?”
“Didn’t you see my backpack?” Chris countered as he walked into the bathroom. “With Søren in town, I’m not planning to go back home till Sunday night, at least.”
“Right.”
“Just order whatever,” he said. “I could eat a horse right now.”
“Okay.”
Chris locked the door and let out a hefty sigh. Unsure of where this was going but certain that things between him and Marc were shifting, he was glad the bassist didn’t take his weird behavior personally. That he was understanding enough to give him space and time to process all this shit.
How Chris wished he could just restart his brain and erase the prejudices tarnishing these moments with Marc—or whoever came afterward—with guilt and other ugly emotions he couldn’t decipher.
As he reached for the faucet, Chris wondered why the past still affected him so much. He hadn’t thought about any of it in a long while. Not his ex, not his wannabe friends in high school, or his dad. Sure, his father still sprinkled his mind here and there, but not the spiteful comments he used to make. Like, until that first night he and Marc had touched, he didn’t even remember having heard those things.
A selective memory was a gift but also a curse. It swallowed whatever you didn’t want to recall, spitting it out at the most inappropriate moments.
Once the water was running at the temperature he liked, Chris stepped into the shower and slid the glass door closed. With another deep exhale, he stood there for several minutes after he’d lathered his body. The sexual haze pinching his skin slowly faded, replaced by a headache as he tried to rearrange the morals he’d unconsciously soaked in when he was younger. How could he be fine with others breaking them but not himself?
Chris ruffled his hair with both hands and put his head under the water, as if that would clean the smeared mess hammering in his temples and chest.
