#fic.damocles

[vroombeams]

damocles

mark/oscar | 3k words | au (no drivers) | explicit

The boy isn’t Mark’s usual type. Not the kind he picks out in the crowd, here, not his go-to starry-eyed twink in a tank top and low-cut jeans. He’s unobtrusive; black tee, black jeans, floppy mess of dirty blond hair. He’s too unremarkable in a place like this to be anything but remarkable.

➛read on ao3 🔒

[vroombeams]

hello :) could i trouble you for a ↻FLIP FLOP for damocles? perhaps???

fic asks 💕

↻flip flop / alt character’s pov / damocles

-

Oscar’s vibing. He’s a viber; he chills. It’s what he’s known for.

He’s slightly less known for going out drinking, or folding to peer pressure and popping half a bickie at a punk club just to stand in the crowd alone, swaying in the most vague way possible to the beat. He’s not all that sure if he’s swaying in time to it but he really can’t be bothered about it.

So he’s vibing. Straight chilling and smiling like a bit of an idiot in a dark room full of people that he doesn’t know, which is not at all his scene but he’s a supportive friend and Lando had really, really wanted him to come watch his shitty little band play.

(The band’s not all that shitty, Oscar thinks. But that could be the molly.)

The guy who sidles up to him at first glance looks a bit like Rob Swire. Maybe it’s the lights, or the way the room looks a little smeared with serotonin, but that’s the first thought Oscar has.

The guy asks Oscar if he likes the music. Oscar says, “What?” because he knows that the guy doesn’t actually care about his opinions on music.

Guy gets close. Extremely close, mouth against Oscar’s ear. He’s scruffy around the jaw. Rubs like velcro against Oscar’s earlobe.

“I said, you like this shit?”

Oscar doesn’t, really. But he knows the drummer, so that’s what he says. And then he introduces himself.

Guy says, “Mark.” Guy says, “You wanna come with me?”

Oscar does.

So he ends up in the bathroom with Mark, who under the fluorescent lighting doesn’t look nearly as much like Rob Swire as he’d thought, but it’s not a bad thing. Oscar’s uncharacteristically giggly, and Mark doesn’t look that impressed with it when he laughs and jokes, but Mark also pushes him down to his knees. Has him kneel on the sticky floor. Has him undo his belt. Has him suck his dick.

Oscar’s sucked maybe two dicks ever. Liam once called him a temporarily embarrassed homo, when he was dating his long term girlfriend, and this feels like making up for lost time.

It’s easy with how high he is, sucking dick. Sucking some stranger’s dick. Mark still doesn’t look all that impressed, but he’s got a bit of resting bitch face, Oscar’s figuring out. Still, it makes it better when his mouth falls open; when Oscar does something different with his mouth he exhales, just sharp enough that it cuts through the bassline vibrating the mirrors.

He doesn’t even think about it when Mark gets him up, turns him around, tells him to drop-trou and lean over the sink. He doesn’t think about anything except that it actually feels pretty good, Mark working a lubed up, latex-covered set of fingers into his arsehole. He’s never done this bit with anyone else before, but he thinks he might actually like it.

It’s a bit more to cope with when Mark actually starts to fuck him. This part is entirely new to him.

It’s still manageable; the feeling wobbles between too-much and too-good, and Oscar’s stomach is tight but his dick is hard which he figures is a good sign. And Mark seems like he’s having a good enough time.

Mark only checks in with him once. Perfunctory, a spat-out alright? like he would really prefer not to have to check at all.

Oscar says, “Yeah.” Oscar says, “Yeah, don’t fucking stop.”

Mark doesn’t fucking stop.

He fucks Oscar so hard his brains feel like they’re in a blender. A little nauseous from liquor, a lot doofy-cozy-euphoric from the molly, even more absolutely blissed-and-fucked out from the, well. Fucking. It’s a combination of things that probably shouldn’t work all that well, but Oscar’s adaptable. Oscar’s vibing.

When Mark comes, Oscar’s almost disappointed it’s over. He hasn’t come yet, but he’s hard as fuck which isn’t exactly typical for a night out off a pill, so he wanks himself off when Mark pulls out and tosses the condom in the toilet.

Oscar makes as little mess as possible. Comes into his palm and then washes his hands when he recovers while Mark lingers, watching him pull his pants back up. His resting-bitch-face has layers, Oscar thinks; he’s trying to keep it impassive while also managing to look satisfied and anxious all at once. So he’s not exactly good at the impassive part.

”You go on out first,” Mark says.

Oscar thanks him. Oscar waddles back out, and he’s honestly pretty damn pleased with himself. Not at all on brand, but hey, he tried something new. Lando will never be able to accuse him of being boring ever again.

[vroombeams]

And ✄ for damocles my beloved 🧚🏼‍♀️

fic asks 💕

✄ DVD BONUS / deleted scene / damocles

-

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Alex says, very, very loudly.

“If you could bring down the volume,” Oscar says, head in hands, “That would be really great. For me.”

“You chose this path,” George says. And, well. He’s not wrong.

It’s just that Oscar’s head is throbbing like it’s taken the club home with it; he feels cold and sticky, even after sleeping, even after showering. His body aches and he knows what a pill does to him but goddamn he forgets every damn time how badly it goes for him after.

And still. Here he is, at brunch. Because he’s a good friend or something.

“I didn’t do anything,” Oscar says.

“I saw you,” Lando says accusingly, like he’s an actual war criminal. “You went to the toilets with that old man.”

“He wasn’t old.”

“Man’s been going to The Last Chance since it was The First Chance,” Lando says. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Did Liam give you that one?” Oscar says, rather nastily. Lando wilts, immediately sinking into his chair to sulk spectacularly. Bingo.

“Did he nut dust?” Lando snaps back, arms folded across his chest. He’s a bit red in the face; three or four mimosas deep even though he was even drunker than Oscar last night.

“Can’t believe you sucked Tutankhamen’s dick and I wasn’t there to see it,” Alex says around a mouthful of eggs benedict. Just looking at it is making Oscar queasy.

“Leave off,” George says abruptly. He’s been politely quiet, picking at his egg whites like they’re not actively discussing Oscar’s sex life. “If Oscar wants a Neolithic STI, that’s his business.”

Alex chokes on his eggs. Lando laughs so shrilly that every neighbouring table jerks up like they’ve been shot at.

It’s Oscar’s turn to sulk.

“I wouldn’t have gotten an STI,” he mutters. His plate of toast—with the tiniest sheen of butter, the only thing he could even consider ordering—glistens up at him sympathetically. “There were—he had condoms.”

George’s knife shrieks across the plate, nearly as loud as Lando’s stupid obnoxious laughter. “Oh, you had sex with him.”

Oscar reaches for his toast and shoves half of it in his mouth so he doesn’t have to answer. Normally he’d be more forthcoming about it, but everyone’s really up his arse about it. He gags a little, trying to swallow, and downs his whole cup of—tepid, thank god—tea to get it down.

He feels himself going red around the ears. Genuinely; if he thinks about last night in more than extremely vague detail he’s going to have a problem. He’ll throw up if he thinks about sucking dick for more than a second.

The table is weirdly silent. Like they’re all suddenly taking it seriously, now that they know he’s hit a home run in a punk bar toilet. Everyone is just looking at him.

Alex is the one to break the silence. Clears his throat and pokes at what’s left of his eggs like he’s going to say something terribly serious.

“Lost your arse virginity and your phone,” Alex says solemnly. “What a night.”

Oscar whips a bit of toast at him, and then excuses himself to go throw up.

[vroombeams]

oooo can i go dvd bonus for damocles pls 🤩

fic asks 💕

✄ DVD BONUS / deleted scene / damocles

-

There’s nothing on this earth that Mark would love more than to go to bed. It’s gone two in the morning, he’s drunk and he’s in his fucking forties. He’s just not built for this anymore.

But here he is, running the taps, waiting for the water to heat up for a shower. At 2:30AM.

The water heater in the building is nearly as unreliable as the other house. The other house at least has the excuse of being off the grid and custom-made. The apartment he’s paid out the arse for in Melbourne should really at the very least have consistent hot water, but ‘luxury’ low-rises just aren’t what they used to be.

Anyway. The wait is unfortunate; gives Mark time to have a drunken stare at himself in the mirror, which typically he avoids like the plague after a night like this.

He doesn’t look bad. His body’s still tight, tan, hairy in all the right places. Appropriately masculine. Even going grey in the temples, he’s not ashamed of any part of his body by any means—he’s got no reason to be.

But he’s going grey in other places, too. His pubes are edging into more-salt-than-pepper territory, and the parts of him that used to be all muscle are starting to soften. It’s his own fault. The building has a gym that had been one of the main draws when he bought the place, and he’s only used it once or twice in the year since he moved half of his clothes in.

He’s also noticing he’s got a bit of lube crusting in his bush. This isn’t a new experience. It’s a common one, even, with what he gets into on the regular.

For some reason, though, it sets him off.

He doesn’t go crazy over it; doesn’t start sweeping shit off the counters or smashing the mirrors like a panicked woman in a horror flick. He stays outwardly very calm. He scowls, and he starts to scratch at himself, watches the lube flake off onto the tile.

It takes him twenty minutes to be satisfied, once he’s gone to the kitchen for a sponge and then scrubbed the bathroom floor down. He knows he’s got it all. He’s just trying to be sure he’s not missed a spot. That’s all. A little bit of naked cleaning at 3AM never hurt anybody.

The bathroom’s filled with steam by then, anyway. Shower’s been ready for a long time and now Mark’s even sweatier than he started, beading at his grey, grey temples and running down the trembling line of his spine as he stalks back to the kitchen to throw the sponge in the sink.

He’s fine. He’s going to shower, and then he’s going to go to bed, and he’s not going to think about anything for seven-to-eight hours. He’s earned that much.

Of course, the shower goes cold within a minute of him climbing in.

Probably he does deserve that.