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Mark’s cheek looks even worse under the bright white lights of Peter’s bathroom than he’d expected when the man had tumbled through his bedroom window like a drunk teenager trying to be sneaky, then abruptly fell back on his ass and stayed there, head bowed, until Peter had grabbed him under the armpits like a stubborn toddler and dragged him back to his feet.
The wound is still oozing a slow stream of blood and clear plasma, old blood smeared thick and tacky from just below Mark’s right eye to the collar of his shirt and beyond, the skin beneath it washed out and pallid, an uncomfortable departure from the usual golden hue. He’s sweating and shivering at the same time.
A clean towel from the cupboard behind him, a bar of unscented soap that they make for babies and recommend before surgeries, the oft-used suture kit from the otherwise neglected first aid box. Peter soaks the towel under water hotter than he can tolerate and wrings it out, only enough that it drips steadily on his floor and his foot as he turns back and cups the left side of Mark’s face gently, thumb firm up under his chin.
He starts at the top, wiping a corner of the towel carefully over the fragile skin beneath the eye, then into the crease of the nostril, across the cheekbone to the dip of the jaw; Mark’s ear is caked with blood too, but he’ll take care of that later. Peter rinses the towel one-handed, reluctant to break contact now that Mark seems to be breathing easier, a little more steady. He brings the towel back to dab as gently as he can manage at the hanging folds of skin, then more firmly along chin and jaw.
The towel is tossed away in the direction of the laundry basket and a fresh one snatched out of the cupboard, and this time Peter has to pull his hand away from the other man’s face to wet and lather soap into the fabric.
“This is gonna sting.” He warns, a murmur. Mark leans happily into his hand as he reapplies it to the unmarred side of his face. Peter cleans the ragged edges of the wound with slow swipes of the soapy towel, rinses it, his own skin tight and screaming at the heat of the water, and balls up the sodden fabric, squeezing it between his palm and Mark’s cheekbone.
Most of the blood-pink bubbles flow into Mark’s mouth, wetting the dried blood covering his teeth, but he doesn’t complain, simply blinks slowly up at Peter. And then swallows.
“Spitters are quitters even when it’s soap, I see.” Peter drops the towel into the sink and opens the suture kit. “I don’t have any gloves, so cross your fingers or pray or whatever.”
He lathers up his hands, digging up under his nails, scratching the soap into every line and crease from his fingers to halfway up his forearms. It takes some effort not to yowl like a furious tomcat when he shoves his hands under the unbearably hot water again, then dries his hands with yet another fresh towel and finally switches off the tap. He grabs the last suture packet from his kit - makes a mental note to get more - and tears it open. If he had more options he might try to figure out what size needle you’re supposed to use for a wound like this, but since he doesn’t and since the answer is probably go to a fucking hospital, are you insane, they’ll both just have to deal.
Mark gives his first sign of feeling the pain he should rightfully be in when Peter presses the index and middle fingers of his right hand into the gap left by his wound, knuckles to his teeth, and uses the unoccupied fingers of the hand holding the delicate curved needle to push the loose skin up into place. He uses his right thumb to hold it there, around the midpoint, and the pressure makes Mark flinch.
“I don’t have anything for the pain, so you’ll have to endure it until morning.” Peter punctuates this statement with the first pass of the needle, in through the bottom and out through the top. His long-gone childhood interest in coin tricks comes in handy now as he maneuvers the needle around to make a loop and then through the loop into the first knot, and the second knot, and the third, all one-handed.
He regrets not making Mark wash his hands and hold his face together himself, but he didn’t think of it earlier and it’s too late now, so he continues, left to right, leaving enough thread loose between each so he can cut them later to make true interrupted stitches.
By the time Peter has made enough evenly-spaced stitches that he has to move his thumb, Mark’s mouth is bone dry and he’s started wiggling his tongue around to try to trigger his salivary glands. Peter’s fingers stick to his teeth when he carefully pulls them away and spins around to grab the bottle of water he’d brought in, holds it steady while Mark unscrews the cap with shaking hands.
“Small sips, try to keep it on your good side.”
Peter takes a step back to stretch his neck and shoulders, left hand still holding the needle and thread safely away from Mark’s cheek. Once he’s drained half the bottle Mark holds it up to him and Peter takes a quick sip for himself before setting it back on the counter.
“So’s your dick hard from the blood or from havin’ your fingers in my mouth?” Mark asks, words slurring together a bit from pain and blood loss and trying to open his mouth as little as possible.
“Fuck you,” Peter says and then, when Mark tries to dodge his hand and takes a quick breath like he wants to speak again, “if you ask me to put my dick in your mouth right now I think I’m going to kill you.”
Mark’s shoulders slump, lips twitching like he wants to pout but can’t quite manage it, but he doesn’t protest Peter’s fingers sliding back into the space between his teeth and the soft mucosa of his inner cheek, both newly wetted. Peter lines the wounds’ edges back up and makes the next stitch, then pauses before he can make another, brows furrowing.
“Your stupid face isn’t lining up right here.” He grouses, indicating the spot with a brush of his thumb. Mark hums at him, unconcerned. Peter clicks his tongue. “Get a scalpel out of the kit and hand it to me.”
Mark’s eyes snap up from where he was probably staring at Peter’s lips or the puckered scar under his Adam’s apple and his nose wrinkles as if he can sniff out Peter’s intent. When he realizes the other man is being completely serious, Mark scoots forward a bit on the toilets’ lid and reaches around to the unspooled leather kit on the counter, tugging it over far enough to identify and grab one of the sterile packaged scalpel blades. He uses his teeth to tear the edge of the wrapper and holds it out.
Peter pulls the blade from the wrapper with the same fingers holding the suture needle.
“Good boy. Try not to move.”
Holding the lower part of the wound taut with his thumb, Peter quickly slices a line across the flesh that doesn’t line up. One of Mark’s hands shoots up to grab onto his sweatpants and the hip beneath them, all bruising strength, and he hisses through his teeth as Peter pulls the new wound open further to cut through to the other side.
The severed chunk of flesh clings to the scalpel blade as Peter pulls it away. Peter stares at it for a long moment. Mark stares at Peter.
Peter leans down to meet his hand halfway, licks the blood and the piece of his lover off the flat side of the blade.
“What the fuck!” Mark yelps, grip tightening on Peter’s hip. Peter rolls the chunk of skin across his taste buds, sweat-blood-soap, back and forth, back and forth, and then swallows it, opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue like a child proving he took his medicine. Mark traces the smears of blood with his eyes.
“An’ you call me a freak.” Mark sneers, his usual mocking tone falling a bit flat, muffled as it is by Peter’s fingers still jammed in the side of his mouth. He deflates like a kicked puppy when Peter retracts his tongue and drops the scalpel blade into the bagless little trash can sitting between their feet and doesn’t react to his goading.
The next stitch isn’t as easy as the others, the sharp needle tip slipping in the fresh line of blood creeping its way downwards before Peter corrects the angle and passes it through and up and out in one smooth motion. He tugs on the thread maybe more than he needs to as he ties the knots.
Three more stitches, evenly spaced, entry and exit holes in near-perfect parallel lines.
The last stitch is smaller, right where Mark’s lips meet at the corner of his mouth, and he finally withdraws his fingers to tie the knots more carefully, tighter. He makes quick work of snipping away the excess thread between each stitch and drops the used needle into the trash can.
Peter raises his arms towards the ceiling to stretch, hands-forearms-shoulders-back, then starts to pivot on one foot to clean up the mess on the counter. Mark’s hand squeezes tighter still on his hip, fingertips digging hard into the fresh bruise he’s left during Peter’s efforts to salvage his stupidly handsome face. Peter breathes out sharply through his nose, turning a narrow-eyed glare on the other man.
“C’mon, baby,” Mark’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, desire adding a bit of color back to his face. His tongue flicks out, wets his plump lower lip, prods at the thread in the corner of his mouth. He leans forward, lifts his other hand to mirror his grip on either side of Peter’s narrow hips, tugs him a step closer. “How ‘bout just the tip? If you don’t wanna ruin your hard work.”
He doesn’t give Peter the chance to respond, just buries his nose in his groin and moans, deep in his throat. Peter fists a hand in Mark’s hair, still damp with fear-sweat, and yanks his head back.
“If you pop a stitch you get to fix it yourself, and if you die of the infection this’ll probably give you I won’t attend your funeral.” He gives his head a shake. “Pull my pants down.”
The sweatpants are pooled around his feet before he’s finished the command; Mark brushes a lilac-colored fuzz ball from the thick hair on Peter’s thigh without comment, holding his tongue only because he desperately wants this to continue and knows he’ll be banished to the couch if he laughs. He settles his hands back on Peter’s hips, gently now, stroking his thumb back and forth over the hot purpling bruise.
Peter takes himself in hand, strokes from base to tip, considers making Mark watch him fuck his own dry fist. It doesn’t take much to get him fully hard; he was most of the way there already, the sight and smell and taste of Mark’s blood and pain and desire urging him on like always. He gentles his grip on Mark’s hair, tugs so that he’ll tilt his head back and relax his neck.
Mark’s tongue darts out at the first press to his lips, whining like an over-excited dog being offered a treat as he licks away the precome dribbling from the slit. He loves how wet Peter gets for him, how he can soak through his briefs and pants within minutes when Mark gets him riled up. He gets impatient after a few licks, opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, feels his own cock twitch in his ruined jeans at the dangerous tug in his cheek.
Peter obligingly feeds him the first inch of his cock, then withdraws and strokes himself again, spreading his own precome and Mark’s spit down the length. He rubs the underside of the head against Mark’s tongue, watches the flesh at the corner of his mouth start to gape apart when he tries to open up wider, entice him to bury himself inside to the root. Peter slaps his left cheek, as hard as he can with no momentum behind the blow; Mark moans and tries to catch his bobbing cock with lips and tongue.
“You asked for the tip, baby, so that’s all you’re getting.” Peter croons mockingly. He moves his hand from the back to the top of Mark’s head, scratches his fingers through his hair. “If you’re good, I’ll let you hump my leg after. If you’re bad, you don’t get to come at all and I’m going to muzzle you.”
Mark stares up at him with stars in his eyes.
“God I love you.” He sighs, then puckers his lips to kiss the tip of Peter’s cock. He looks ridiculous, still sweaty and pale beneath his horny flush, looking up at Peter through his eyelashes, doe-eyed. Another bead of blood starts to droop where Peter cut him, wobbling, threatening to refresh the red line down Mark’s cheek, jaw, neck.
Peter takes a series of slow, deep breaths through the wave of molten desire that hits him, that urges him to forget the rules he’s just laid out and fuck Mark’s mouth as hard as he wants him to, pop every single stitch with purposeful jabs at his inner cheek, to pin him to the floor and rip the other side of his face open with his teeth.
Mark watches him wrestle the feral beast in his brain into submission with a smug gleam to his eyes. He hums in pleasure at the hot smear of precome against his lips, enough now that it starts to drip towards his chin, and lets his mouth drop open in anticipation. Peter pushes inside quickly enough to meet a scrape of teeth; his fist tightens in Mark’s hair and he hisses, then moans as Mark swirls his tongue around the head.
Peter begins to thrust, small motions that barely move his hips and keep his cockhead within the seal of Mark’s lips, and strokes the rest in a loose fist, gun calluses and dry skin a dizzying contrast to the wet heat of Mark’s mouth as he sucks and licks so hungrily at Peter’s slit. Mark slides one hand away from his hip to the sweaty space between his thighs, palming his balls and rubbing two fingers against his perineum, first teasingly light and then so hard it sends a jolt of pain through his pelvis and Peter nearly howls as he comes so hard he almost loses control of his bladder.
Mark moans, again and again, rising in pitch and delight with every spurt of come over his tongue, fingers still petting Peter’s taint. He doesn’t swallow until Peter pulls out and swats his hand away so the man can watch him spread his come over the inside of his cheek, bitter-hot and stinging along the row of stitches.
“God I fucking hate you,” Peter growls, briefly consumed with a mental image of Mark, just like this, with pink-tinged come spurting from poorly-stitched gaps in his wound, the tip of his tongue peeking out to try to lick it back up. “I should’ve sewed your mouth up instead!”
Mark sighs, blissed out, “You’d have to rip the teeth out first, unless you never wanna fuck my mouth again.”
“Shut the fuck up before I decide to muzzle you anyway!” Peter barks, shoving Mark back with the hand he’d kept in his hair. Mark yelps a petulant ‘ow!’ when his back impacts the toilet tank hard enough that the lid shifts loudly.
Peter slams his left hand down on the counter for balance, kicks his right ankle free of his sweatpants and lifts his foot onto the closed toilet seat. He wiggles his toes into the space between the seat and Mark’s balls and reaches his right hand to grab the man by the hair again. He pulls him forward so he’s curled over the sharp line of Peter’s tibia.
Mark wastes no time in grinding his trapped erection against Peter’s leg, huffing, panting breaths stirring the hair on his thigh. Peter watches, enthralled despite himself; Mark’s face is flushed a deep red now and his eyes look entirely black as he stares up at him intently, mouth hanging open, drool beading at the stitched corner of his lips and then rolling down. Peter strokes his hand down to the back of Mark’s neck and squeezes.
“There he is,” Peter croons. “Doing just what Daddy asked, my good boy.”
Mark whines, drool spattering Peter’s skin as his hips begin to judder wildly, balls tightening, breath catching in his throat. Peter gives him two fingers to bite down on as he comes lest he try to open his mouth wide enough to grab a chunk of his thigh. He shifts his weight slightly and squeezes the back of Mark’s neck rhythmically, not unlike a stress ball, as he pants his way down from orgasm.
When Mark clears his throat, sighs and starts to lean back, Peter releases his neck and drops his foot back to the floor. He pulls his sweatpants into place, rolls the suture kit back up and stuffs it back in the first aid box, stuffs that back in the cupboard, halfheartedly rinses the various fluids off his hands.
“Burn that shirt, take a shower if you can stand long enough and for fuck’s sake rinse your mouth, you psychopath.”
Peter pointedly moves the no-name brand bottle of mouth wash to the corner of the counter nearest Mark before he shuffles back to his bedroom.