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Bone Machine

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They meet in Reno now and then, same bar, same scene, but they never speak otherwise. He's sitting on the end of the bar, looking the same as ever and dourly sucking on the same cigarette as last time, sipping at the same glass of whiskey.



Because they never call one another by their first names. It would add too much commitment to the deal they've worked out. Although the hard on chafing in his jeans tells Tom that they might already be too committed.

He orders a Bud and proceeds to peel the label off the bottle with his thick, rough fingers, drinks it down in three swallows and orders another. By his fifth, Mark is looking at him, face schooled into a carefully amused smirk. It's their hi sign and Tom takes his time, just because it takes Mark a little longer to get his engine going doesn't mean Tom's going to get cheated out of his last beer.

Even as Mark's casual glance puts Tom in the red.

When they leave, not even the bartender notices because it's that kind of place. Mark always arrives first and always picks the dirtiest hotel he can find, one that, in any other place, would have hourly rates and whores and drug dealers and pimps. But there are brothels in Reno and no one stays in these hotels.

The locks still take metal keys that stick in the cheap, aluminum doorknobs.

"Hurry the fuck up, Lanegan." Tom's fingers flex with need for nicotine and other much less healthy addictions. He gives no other indication of how much he wants this, but he surely must be radiating it in waves because Mark smirks again and takes his time.

Mark opens up and they pass calmly through, but once through, Tom grabs Mark and slams him against the flimsy fiberboard door almost hard enough to splinter it. He sinks sharp teeth into Mark's neck, branding him; he'd know what motherfucker did this to him tomorrow morning.

And at first Mark struggles a little, pushing against Tom's shoulders in a futile, half assed sort of way, trying to reclaim his upper hand. He wouldn't. He never did and as Tom snakes one hand down Mark's body to fondle roughly at the hard-on he'd been hiding all along, Mark lets his voice drop and tumble out in a bone shaking groan that almost makes Tom cream his jeans right there.

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk right, Lanegan." Tom promises, dragging open buttons and zips with near violence, groping for hard flesh and raking it over with hot, jagged hands.

Tom blinks the sweat out of his eyes and notes that Mark is sweating too, dark stains on his shirt already and they've barely begun. He wraps his fist around Mark's cock and uses it to pull his across the room.

Mark follows, oddly quiet and almost demure, going where the leash leads and Tom pushes him down on the bed.

"Get naked."

And Mark's lips curl in a half smile, but he drags his jeans off, lazy and easy, peeling sticky fabric away from slick skin. He's soaking with sweat and glistening, shirt open, smiling smugly on the cheap comforter, stretched out like a porn star.

Tom watches him for a moment before licking his own finger and kneeling on the bed.

"Spread your legs."

And Mark does, easy as pie, pulling his knees up and tilting his hips in invitation.

"Fuck yeah." Tom lets it slip from his lips without thinking about it, pressing his wet finger against Mark's asshole. Mark lets loose a groan that makes Tom's hair prick at the back of his neck.

And speaking of pricks...

He growls softly, groping himself through his jeans, fumbling the buttons open; dragging his cock out; digging frantically for a rubber.

"No." Mark gasps. "Raw, I want it raw." His hips roll sinuously, screwing himself down on Tom's finger. "Fucking put your dick in me."

Tom's mind, usually honed to a flesh rending point, dulls down to his cock and aiming his cock and Mark open and hot and inviting and the next thing Tom knows he's pushing inside. Jeans pushed only low enough to do the job, and they're kissing desperately and fucking mindlessly.

Mark's hands clutch at Tom's ass, fingers probing inside; he bites Tom's ear and snarls. His orgasm is like violence, raggedy fingernails on the back of Tom's neck, every muscle snapped tight and his voice a black curl of smoke.

"Come in me."

"Oh yes." Tom closes his eyes and comes, spending brains and blood and semen into Mark's body. They sag together on the thin mattress, come and sweat sticking them together.

It's always good like this. Always. But Tom pulls out and heads to the bathroom before he can elaborate too far on thoughts like these. He uses most of the towels for his shower and Mark is already gone when he finishes.

The room key glitters almost lewdly on the chipped bedside table, and there is a note written on the cheap looking stationary that came with the room. A phone number and an address in LA.

Tom folds the note and shoves it in his pocket. Maybe he'll go, but he won't think about what it means.