Fandom: Peep Show
Word Count: 2,642
Prompt: Peep Show, Mark/Jeremy When Jeremy spikes Mark's lemsip and puts him to bed so he won't interrupt his mushroom party, he thinks "It's alright, it's not like I'm going to rape him. I could rape him... no, I'm not going to rape him." He doesn't, but there's stuff he could do while Mark's asleep and justify to himself it wasn't really rape...
Summary: See above :)
Notes: Written for dark_fest.
When Big Suze had left, and Johnson and even Super Hans, Jeremy was left with the lingering scent of shit and the toilet door lying in the hallway. He couldn't bear to go through to the living room, where the remains of the mushroom tea still sat on the floor, tepid and forlorn. It would be too much like staring at the ruin of all his hopes, his hopes for a good mushroom party, yeah, but still, more than that, the ruins of his hopes and dreams as a man, as a human being with a right to prove himself a hero or a god. All right - it was actually the ruination of his chance to shag Big Suze, but wasn't that the same thing?
It was all Mark's fault. Things were regularly Mark's fault, obviously, so Jeremy wasn't at all sure what made things different this time, but somehow the fact remained that they were. Perhaps it was something to do with the way the stink of Mark's shit was - unusually - curling through the air in a particularly virulent shade of green. (Why green? Why not brown? Or red? Or paisley, for that matter?) Or maybe it was something to do with the way that his anger with Mark earlier had faded away into some kind of weird despair centred in his chest, which was manly existential angst, Jeremy assumed - and also happened to smell of day old curry discovered in your shoe just that one minute too late.
Of course, it was probably more likely to be the fact that Jeremy was still high on mushrooms, although the curry flavoured despair might indicate to the connoisseur that he was coming down. Perhaps it didn't matter in the end - the fact remained that as his current shag-less state was Mark's fault, then Mark should be the one to pay in some way. It was the conclusion of champions and as Jeremy wandered through into the kitchen with some vague notion that he probably ought to supplement that decision with the breakfast of champions - it was morning after all, or post-midnight at least - he cogitated on what he could do to Mark. On what it was precisely that Mark deserved.
In between stuffing handfuls of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes into his mouth to satisfy his munchies, Jeremy pondered. He frowned a lot too, because thinking was hard work, before stopping that quite suddenly. He wasn't getting any younger, and he didn't need frown lines on top of everything else. Anyway, he didn't usually think, so why change the habit of a lifetime - it wasn't a hard decision anyway. Mark had brought all this onto himself, so he only had himself to blame for the consequences. Right? Right. Stupid gastric flu.
Jeremy picked up the empty bottle of Night Nurse and squinted at the label. He ignored the few tendrils of chemical magenta that appeared to be wafting from the bottle, he had bigger fish to fry. He wondered which of the many annoying and complicated-sounding ingredients was responsible for knocking somebody out for the night. He read the directions and realised that the one dose you were meant to take was tiny, barely even a capful, so he'd done Mark a favour, really, when he'd fed him the lot. There was no way that Mark would have got better on one tiny capful - in vodka terms that barely wetted the back of the throat.
Which reminded Jeremy - there was actually a bottle of vodka here in the kitchen, wasn't there? His emergency 'oh-my-god the landlord's come round and Mark isn't here' bottle of vodka. He rummaged behind the bread bin, eyed the back of fridge suspiciously and eventually found it in a cupboard behind the industrial bag of Value pasta that Mark claimed he never touched. Jeremy took a swig, and enjoyed the burn in his throat, it lit up his limbs with an attractive shriek of mixed trombones.
Sod it. Mark was his friend. He should help his friend, and Mark liked the sound of trombones in brass bands. He liked trumpets and cornets and horns too. He'd like the sound this vodka made when it slid down your throat, and who was Jeremy to deny him? He poured a generous shot into a mug, squeezed in some lemon juice, a spoonful of honey, and poured in the hot water.
Holding the mug, Jeremy wandered through to the hallway, and stood outside Mark's room. It was an apology, that's what this was. A liquid, never-to-be-repeated admission of remorse. Mark just better bloody appreciate it, hadn't he, the great useless shitty lump.
It wasn't hard to push the door open. The padlock was dangling now, almost as useless as Mark, and then Jeremy was inside, standing in enemy territory. If he wasn't careful he could catch a nasty case of crippling shyness, or efficiency might rub off on him. Mmm. Rub off. Some chance. He stared around at the tidy shelves, at the clean walls, as he put the mug down on the bedside table. So this is how the other half lived - when the other half was boredom personified. His skin prickled in an involuntary shiver. What was that smell? What did Mark call it? Oh yes, laundry detergent. It wasn't shitty in here, now was it? Picky bloody bloke - couldn't he have used the take-away bag, like anybody else? It wasn't as though Jeremy had left him high and dry.
Mark didn't move when the mug hit the table, although it made a tidy thump. Jeremy might have panicked a little about that, except he could see the slow rise and fall of the duvet. Mark was definitely still alive, which meant Jeremy was feeling faintly angry, rather than guilty, but the close call made him clench his hands into fists. Maybe he should punch Mark. Tell him it was male bonding. Mark had never bonded in his life, so he'd never know the difference. Maybe he should…
Jeremy sat on the edge of Mark's bed, and poked him in the shoulder. Mark didn't move, although he did make a kind of snuffling noise. It was a hard poke, but through the duvet, so its force could have been blunted, Jeremy supposed.
"Oi, Mark," he said, in his normal voice. That was his normal voice. He wasn't whispering because he didn't really want Mark to wake up, nope, not him. "I've made you some medicine, home-made by me, and there isn't even any mushrooms in it. Did you hear me? Home-made. That's right, I made you a drink. I used the kettle and everything."
There was no answer, although Jeremy was unsure by this point whether he even wanted one. Sat on the edge of the bed, he'd discovered that Mark's duvet was really, really soft. He dragged his fingers up and down, up and down, and shivered at the contact, gentle lullabies playing on his skin.
Well, Jeremy had already established that Mark owed him, right? Not to mention he was obviously dead to the world. And this fucking synaesthesia was starting to get right on his wick. Maybe a massive sensory overload was what he needed to sort himself out again? That sounded like a great Plan. A sensible Plan. Fantastic.
So Jeremy stood up, took off all his clothes and slipped under that wonderful duvet. He debated with himself for half a second about whether he should leave on his boxers, but since he didn't know how often he'd turned them inside out, and their crispiness might interfere with his Plan, he took them off.
Wow. Beautiful, luxurious, not-crunchy duvet. There weren't even any crumbs. And Mark wondered why Jeremy occasionally brought a shag in here! Well, actually, wonder wasn't always the uppermost emotion in Mark's mind at such times, but really, what did he expect? Jeremy stretched decadently, wriggling his toes with a wonderful arpeggio. He felt like all his skin was being stroked at once. Ok, it was no shag with Big Suze, but it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp badger.
Mark was selfish keeping all this decadent duvet to himself, that's what he was. Jeremy rolled over to tell him so - and froze. Double wow. Beautiful, luxurious, soft skin. Acres of it - or that's what it felt like. Had Mark been holding out on Jeremy all this time? Under the cheap suits and fusty aunt manner, had Mark been hiding this wonderfully sexy body? Well, no. Jeremy wasn't that bloody high. But it couldn't be denied that spooning up against Mark's back was a richly rewarding experience. Mmm - pale, smooth and warm. To Jeremy, it felt like Mark tasted of the creamy apple pie and custard that his Mum made - or at least that had been bought for him in Tesco's and warmed up in the microwave. He wriggled and that lovely apple-pie sensation ran right down his body - christ, that was peculiar. Jeremy vaguely hoped he wasn't going to have inappropriate reactions to fruity desserts later on, but supposed it wouldn't be the worst thing to happen.
Mark had been holding out on him. He was always buttoned up in pyjamas every morning and evening, so Jeremy had no idea he slept naked. Nude. All apple-like. God, he had to stop. He was beginning to get inappropriate reactions now. Or was it really that inappropriate? Jeremy had brought Mark a drink. When Jeremy bought a drink for a girl it was in order to get laid. So obviously, having brought Mark a drink, and especially given that Mark owed Jeremy already, then they should have sex. QED.
What did QED actually mean? People used it to prove an argument and Jeremy realised that he must at least believe his own propaganda because, completely outside of his own volition, he had started thrusting slightly, actually rubbing his completely appropriate erection onto Mark's back. Sod QED, what did he care, it felt fantastic. The man still wasn't moving though - which in other circumstances might have upset Jeremy, given his god-like abilities in the sack - but deep in the recesses of his lizard brain, something was telling him that it would be a bad idea if Mark woke up right now. Although Jeremy could always pretend he was hallucinating Mark was Big Suze, that might work.
Meanwhile, all the higher functions, what there were of them, were slowly shutting off. Jeremy slipped down into the duvet a bit, which made him moan, until he was resting his dick flush in the crack of Mark's arse. Beautiful, brilliant friction. E=MC² probably. Equal and opposite reactions. Crap - even being in Mark's room was infecting his brain with cleverness. Fuck. But even that horrible thought didn't make much of a difference right now.
Every time Jeremy moved he was getting more delicious sensory overload. Mark might not have gloriously pillowy breasts, but facing this way, Jeremy couldn't even tell. He opened his mouth to tell Mark that, but closed it again in a hurry. It didn't stop his thrusts becoming more urgent, and less subtle, but it bothered him. He couldn't ever tell Mark about this, he realised suddenly - and that was weird. He told Mark everything. Even the really sordid bits that he didn't tell Super Hans - like that blowjob with Pietre, who he'd thought was a girl - he'd had a girl's name, hadn't he? Or eating out that bint who'd just come on. It didn't matter what happened in his life - eventually, Jeremy told Mark about it. And even if Mark made that face of his, like someone was using his mouth for a dog's arse, or he threw his toast at him in disgust, or called him a pervert, it didn't make much difference to their relationship in the end. Dimly though, Jeremy thought that this might make a difference. Maybe. Probably. Bugger.
But Jeremy was rock 'n' roll. People didn't get to be rock 'n' roll by refusing to do the stupid shit. They did the stupid shit all the time and they loved it. Right? He thrust one last time, hovering at the point of no return, and then abruptly he was plunging down the other side, and shooting his load all over Mark's back. That was it. Done. It was done.
Jeremy was sweaty now, and basked in the afterglow for all of, oh, thirty seconds, before something was pricking him in the belly, with a chilli-flavoured pang. It was a little like the manly existential angst he'd experienced earlier, but it didn't feel like that kind of curried despair. Jeremy had a horrible suspicion it might be guilt. But he didn't do guilt, did he, so it couldn't be that. Maybe it was the thought that now he'd have to hide this from Mark for the rest of their lives? That every time Jeremy looked at his best friend, he'd think of this, acres of white skin and how Mark tasted of apples, fresh and sweet? Fuck that shit. That was an almost lyrical description. Mark should not be sharing space in Jeremy's head with anything that could be considered a lyric - although admittedly it would be a ballad of some kind, so maybe the girly imagery was all right. Maybe, in fact, Mark would forgive him if he featured in a top ten hit?
Oh god. Jeremy didn't do secrets. Not for long. It drove him bananas. It sent him nuts. He'd be a whole ice-cream sundae at this rate, and Mark still wouldn't know. He wouldn't find out how much Jeremy had liked it either. He wouldn't be able to shift himself back against Jez, and join in, Mark wouldn't moan his name, or anything. Jeremy shifted against the duvet, but the mushrooms must have worn off. It just felt like cotton, damp and sticking slightly to his skin. He pouted, but no-one was there to see, so he stopped. Well, he'd just have to show him then. Wouldn't he?
Tenderly, Jeremy picked up his t-shirt from the floor - and that's how tender he was, because he didn't even use one of Mark's - and wiped his cum from Mark's back and arse. Nothing kills romance more than early morning crustiness as Jeremy well knew. And then he lay his head down next to Mark's, close enough that his breath was stirring the short dark hairs at the nape of his neck, and carefully, slowly, wound an arm around Mark's middle. Ha. He'd found pillowy-ness even if it wasn't breasts. But what most people didn't know was that Jeremy didn't need breasts, not all the time. He had a funny urge to lie his head down on all that squidginess anyway, which he suppressed for now. Time enough for that tomorrow.
Jeremy didn't do secrets. Certainly not from Mark. But this way he didn't have to. In the morning it would all be utterly obvious, and Mark would shout, and get over it, and maybe they'd have sex again, that would be good, and it would all be ok. Jeremy liked being himself around Mark, he always had been, and Mark had been fine about it. Jeremy didn't see why that had to change just because he'd involved Mark in some pretty good sex. He wasn't selfish, turn and turnabout, he'd suck him off tomorrow, and Mark would love it, because Jeremy was a pretty damn good shag, actually.
After all, even Mark couldn't deny that tonight, Jeremy had really been most truly, and honestly, himself.
Then Jeremy closed his eyes and sighed in satisfaction. He didn't merely sleep the sleep of the just, he slept like a baby.