[ DRESS ]: receiver is supposed to help sender into their costume but they end up taking it off instead.
the babies 👉👈
Their timing had been more than perfect, deciding to be a vampire and a thrall from one of the various novels Oliver had picked up. ‘Dracula’ had just been turned into a film, days before the production company Marc worked at had their Halloween party. Despite the films changes, Oliver had insisted on staying accurate to the book with his costume. His partner had gone to the costuming department, less than keen of being an ancient demon with the face of a rotten onion. A corset was tied tightly around his dress shirt, the fake fangs discarded so he can continue talking a mile a minute.
“..and then there’s Mr. Peterson, he’s the one looking like a polished boot. Do not mention the inaccuracies, he nearly shot Susan when she mentioned that Harker was the main character through the letters.” Starting to button up Oliver’s outfit, another wicked thought goes through his mind. It wasn’t a traditionally sexy outfit with three layers of clothing that better fit Oliver’s class than Marc’s. It’s because it’s him wearing it, slightly disheveled because they weren’t finished yet. “Wait, this isn’t the right coat. I’ll find you the actual overcoat. Can you just hold..just hold still?”
With the patience of saint, Oliver doesn’t question it as he steps back, still as a mannequin for his partner to dress up. “We’ll be late if we keep changing out my outfits. Sweetheart, I’m sure no one will..” Marc’s moved to his knees, hands now grasping the loops of his belt and starting to whine. “You’re too pretty Ollie, can I please?” Playing as dirty as possible, he pushes his mouth along the outside of his pants. Kissing and starting to drool so Oliver has to start undressing to save his clothes.
“Someone has to scream tonight, right?” He gleefully chimes, watching Oliver undress in front of him.
[ dressing room ] our muses have some fun in a dressing room together
they so would’ve done this before one of his shows 🤭
oops
It’s as if he sold his soul to the devil. Just a year out of university with a degree in fine arts and he had a permanent spot in the city’s theatre. In the summer, he would perform in whatever play they had for the season and sang for the rest of the year. Marcus even had a few spots on the radio if they were missing an act. Every show, he had a free ticket to give. He kept giving it to Oliver, making sure he could always watch the show. But he realizes, there’s an easier way to get him to the show; letting him in through the backstage and inviting him to his dressing room.
Two hours before the show, Marcus starts to get some ideas. Since a beautifully drunken night where’d they confessed and kissed, they’ve been together in secret. A quick bout of affection in their cars before entering an event, walking close enough together so their hands could brush against each other, nights in Marc’s apartment where no one could disturb them. As long as the room had no prying eyes, it was safe.
While he carefully removes the curlers from the back of his hair, he looks over his shoulder to see if he can see Oliver. Buried in a book, another one of those law books that he and Damien were always carrying. Marc’s father wanted him to go into law, but they didn’t speak anymore. Acting was more interesting than the legalese they understood.
While facing the mirror, he starts to pull the few underclothes from under his robes off. Shifting and squirming in his seat as he starts to kick off his boxers and quickly pull off his undershirt. “Darling, eyes up please,” he says with a sing song tone, turning to face him with the robe still closed. “Could you help me get changed? I have to hold my curls in place.” Acting with absolute innocence, he pops the last roller out of place and keeps both of his hands behind his head.
Watching Oliver walk over without any idea is enough to send sparks up his spine, the few years together still makes everything feel brand new. A kiss is like their very first, when he can’t get enough. Humming as he holds his hair in place, he watches as his partner slips his fingers underneath the tied fabric to part the robe. “You’re going to have a whole team of people by the end of the year, the whole state is in love with you. Honestly-,” The illusion drops, leaving Marc naked in front of him. “Is something wrong? I haven’t pulled out a curl have I?”
Lightly swatting his chest, his lover goes from paper white to blood red. “You’re going on stage in a few hours, I am not letting you go up there after..” With the rest of his thoughts feeling too revolutionary in a semi public space, Oliver tries covering his partner back up. Marcus refuses, throwing the robe onto the vanity.
“So? It doesn’t always have to be me getting fucked. And if you’re that worried about me ruining my suit, you could help me get cleaned up. What about my..” Tapping his throat and winking, he happily drops to his knees to wait.
“You’re singing tonight. Marc, sweetheart, I will do whatever you want after the show.”
“But isn’t it exciting? Think about it. I have to put my demeanour back together, perform for everyone while you get to know what you did to me. We’ve never done it in here before, think about how you’ll claim it and me. How I’ll always be yours, that we belong together.” Stretching towards Oliver, both hands reach to grasp both of his shoulders to try and convince him. Clambering into his lap while offering the best puppy eyes money could buy. “Oh my sunshine, please? If we do it now, then I won’t be ruined during the show.” Hopefully, the puppy-esque demeanour can win him over.
Like always, his partner is gentle when he touches him. Putting both hands atop his chest, skin completely unmarked. After years on a slightly meager diet, Marc was finally well fed. A slight, wiry and skeleton frame became soft, built with purpose and plush skin. Marcus moves impatiently, rocking his hips against his partners thigh until Oliver pins his hips down. For his “nerd”, he was strong enough to carry both Marc and Damien after drunken nights out. “I can’t say no to you, but you’re not bossing me around this time.” Pulling him onto the couch, the actor is forced to sit still while the removal of clothes is slow. Folding everything up on the side table, locking the door and laying the robe back on the chair.
“You know we can’t do this without any of the..stuff.” Prudish as he was, Oliver keeps on the lower half of his clothes while he searches for anything he can use to make this easier. “Bottom drawer, underneath the magazines. I do keep myself prepared. For you of course.” Rolling his eyes, the small canister of oil is found amidst the prop papers. Moving slowly while Marc somehow sits still, leg bouncing against the couch as his impatience never ends.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Marc? Marc? Opening act couldn’t make it tonight, half the band got the flu. You’ll have to go on, are you good to go in twenty?” Nothing is ever that good. Grimacing as he turns to the door, coughing to fix his voice. “Give me thirty! I’ve got to get myself ready!”
Footsteps fade out into the hallway to finally leave them alone. “Well, we’ve just got to do it a little quicker then.” Laying down on the couch, Marc pushes his legs open and starts patting his thigh. “Pretty please? Sunshine..I can’t go on stage like this.”
Anyone else would’ve cursed him out, made him get dressed and shove him in the bathroom to take care of himself. It’s Oliver, whose soft hands grasp both of his thighs so he can kneel between them. Letting his partners pleads persuade him into pleasing him, well practiced fingers slowly move from the soft pudge of his thighs and press against the ring of muscle. “I did say I was going to do my own thing this time. You don’t have to worry about a thing, just relax. You’re mine, aren’t you?”
An indignant cry to get him moving becomes a weak moan, cold oil dripping down his thighs. His lovers voice feels distant as his breath warms his skin, two slicked fingers push to remind Marc exactly where he is: at his mercy. Someone so sweet and unassuming outside of the bedroom that every night with him was a little shock to his system. Oliver, his sunshine could be anything but gentle? What a dream come true. Slowly pushing both into him as he looms above the flustered actor.
“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” he pants, shifting closer to the edge to push himself further on Oliver’s fingers. “Glad I’m more interesting than those books..” While he was completely content with the idea of a quickie before the performance, his partner always took time to make him happy. A secondary way to hear him debase his voice and fall into line.
Squeezing his eyes shut, the dirty sin of their love creeps into his mind. They were never supposed to be like this, perverting the space around them with hot hands and bodies ever so close. They’d have to accept it, enjoy the buried desires in such secluded places and walk out as friends. Burning shame becomes pleasure, holding back anything louder that would reveal the sin in his performance. Tiny groans, short as they leave in steady pace fill the room. With no sense of time, Marc can only hope Oliver is kind enough to keep his word and get him on stage before they’re heard by a stagehand.
“Eyes open darling, you don’t want to miss the show.” Retracting his fingers from a trembling Marc, he stills just to watch him. Burning feverishly, rosy red from his cheeks down to his chest while he clenches around nothing. Oliver’s palm presses against his lovers heart, both of them unmarked by the cruelty of time. When his lovers eyes blink open, tears in the corners of them. Marc couldn’t help himself from crying during sex, the beautiful agony of his image being destroyed and loving Oliver so much he could almost give it all up. Just a few years, make enough and get the fame. Retire early and live out their ‘bachelor’ lives. Coaxing his lover to respond, the bottle is tipped to drip the cold oil along the length of Marc’s cock. Enough to make him shudder, whining as he squirms to end the sensation. Forever willing to torture him, Oliver barely wraps his fingers around his cock. Spreading the oil along him to watch him shudder and buck his hips like a wild animal.
“You’re only getting this now because there’s twenty minutes until the show, not because you’re begging so poorly.” Marc’s quips and any hint of sarcasm have been saved for when they’re truly alone, muffling the frustrated cries with the back of his hand. Finally, finally he feels Oliver’s cock slowly pushing into him, the stretch he’s finally gotten used to after two years of learning exactly how they can be together.
Still moving slowly as he pushes into Marc, both of his hands grasping his chest to pull him closer. “You’re not going to get off lightly tonight. I can’t wait to have you to myself.” With the continuous frustration beneath him, Oliver’s hips twitch into him with the eternal patience he holds. Hands atop his chest leaving marks in the shape of his glorious piano playing fingers. Built to take him apart. Moving slowly, watching as Marc’s face contort as his cock slowly enters him.
“Sunshine please! I need you, come on..I’m really close..” he beg, clawing at both of Oliver’s shoulders and pulling him up just to move him faster. Panting louder than necessary to coax him closer, finally getting what he wants. Marcus always got what he wanted. His partners hands drag down his chest to reveal blushing palms imprinted into it. Drawing it out until the early hours of the morning would be heaven on earth, but time rules over them.
If he was so determined to have him now, then Oliver couldn’t deny him. Never. Their hips connect without warning, before he pulls back and starts a backbreaking pace. Quick, risky, and fun; just as requested. Marc is ever surprised by the change in his sweethearts demeanour, shock leaving him unable to struggle against the harsh snap of their hips together. Thinking for two, Oliver’s hand wraps around his cock to move at the same speed of his hips and constantly fighting the tense muscles of his partners body.
Fifteen minutes since their initial warning and Marc dimly thinks if he’s bitten off more than he could chew. Stuck in a falsetto chorus of “uh, ah”’s, he cums over his partners hand hard, biting his tongue when the urge to scream hits him. Then, nothing. Surrounded by the weightlessness of his orgasm, he only registers two things. Oliver pulling out from him and a tongue across his stomach. Weakly shivering at the sensation, he leans to see if anything else needs cleaning up.
“You..you haven’t cum yet, it’s alright, you could’ve..”
“If I started cleaning you after that, you wouldn’t be leaving this dressing room for another hour.” Hands gently redressing him, he finds himself sat upright on the couch while his clothes are perfected and he’s made stage-ready. Immediately running the ironed seam of his pants by kneeling, tapping Oliver’s thighs and winking.
“People love my mouth, so why don’t you indulge a little extra? Please? Pretty please?” As convincing as he is, Marc knows he can always win over his partner just by looking. It had been that way for years. Marc makes a scheme and Oliver would always go along one way or another. Earning a pat on the head and the meticulous fixing of his hair, he’s given permission.
Wrapping his lips around his cock, Marc hums the opening note to the show. Despite his far fetched ideas, he knows he can’t be so reckless. One wrong note and he’ll be moving in between the alley way and a friendly raccoon. Dragging his tongue along the underside of his cock, watching Oliver with the same excitement from when he gets to hold his hand. Sucking along the tip and moaning as loudly as he can. Feeling a hand grip the back of his head, he greedily pushes his lips up to the base of Oliver’s cock. Sinking up and down until he feels his partner trying to pull away entirely. Cum hits the back of the throat, swallowing until his partner steps away.
“Are you alright? Darling, we’ve..” panting, he gently lifts Marc back up from his knees. Holding him close to his chest and swaying in the afterglow. They would have to be separated again, but soon they’ll be together forever. They have the rest of their lives together.
and there’s no need to ask who i’m referring to. you know perfectly well.
Married. Everyone always said Marc was never the marrying type. Living a bachelors life as a performer, revered around the country. Rumours of him seeing girls late at night, just like anyone in the spotlight. Marrying Celine was his way of proving he could settle down. He did love her, once.
Where could they have married? He and Oliver were recognizable now, and no church or registry would marry them. Could Celine with her occult statues or Damien with his power as mayor married them? Would they have even been ok with it?
The people you hurt, they were your friends at some point. Did Damien and Celine really deserve the fate you forced onto them? Did Abe deserve to be plagued with the guilt of losing more friends? Did William deserve to go crazy the way he did?
To add onto all this, the DA did nothing except get caught in it all.
And you left Oliver heartbroken after leaving him in the ditch for another woman without even hesitating.
You don’t deserve what you have.
“Regret? No, of course I fucking don’t! Does no one realize that I was the victim? Celine cheated on me with that bastard William, and Damien knew! He knew and didn’t say anything to me! Abe was a bit of collateral damage, but I never really cared for him. Barely knew him, not enough for him to be invited to that party, but none of them were.” Most of it was distorted truth. Malice added into his words as the entity changed the meanings. Over 100 years made it feel like his own thoughts. Hatred from what used to be a simmering anger.
Oliver. He’d fallen in love with Oliver. He’d been slightly ostracized after Marc proposed to Celine, but still invited in to the party. He never came. Marc never bothered to find him. “It wasn’t..it wasn’t a good time. How could I spend my life with another man without suspicion? I liked Celine, but she had to go and fucking..I deserve what I have, because I worked for it.”
Spending the weekend at his mothers house, he’s left alone to explore the empty cottage. All ten books have already been read more times than there were books, and the radio could only pick up an awful jazz channel this far out. Since the divorce, Marc’s mother had picked up a job in the city. Shuffled between his fathers overcrowded offices and the emptiness of his mothers home, the loneliness has slowly etched into him. Summertime means all of his friends are back in town, too far for him to walk.
The notebooks forced into his bag by his father still hold all the drawings and doodles from his friends. Pink flowers scrawled between the margins, piano keys drawn overtop math equations, unknown letters underneath his English homework in some translation. Marc’s practices of cursive consisting entirely of their names. Celine, Damien, William, Oliver, Merrick.
All the walls of the house are bare, stripped down to the bare drywall and concrete. Half wallpapered, another one of his mothers projects to pass time. A pen isn’t enough to keep it permanent, so a pair of scissors is stolen from his mothers sewing kit. A strip of paper is cut away and the wallpaper paste on standby. Much more jagged and unnatural than his handwriting, but it’s deep enough into the wall that he can see the beams through the curved letters. Celine, Damien, William, Mark, Oliver, Merrick,
