Chapter 65: Throat Claim
The morning sun sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and the two tangled bodies within them. Alexis’s phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand, a persistent fly against the quiet. She groaned, burrowing deeper into Mark’s side, her leg thrown possessively over his hips.
“Your public awaits,” he mumbled into her hair, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“It’s just Twitter. They’ll live.”
But the digital world had spilled into the physical one. The picture from Bar 808 had done its work. Overnight, the narrative had solidified: #CoupleGoals, #RelationshipDoneRight, a neat, satisfying bow tied around their messy, complicated reality. Mark’s manager had texted three times about capitalizing on the “positive PR swing.” A local convention, Anime Edge Austin, had slid into his DMs offering two VIP passes and a behind-the-scenes lounge access if they’d just “make an appearance.”
“We should go,” Mark said later, over coffee. He scrolled through the convention lineup on his tablet. “It’s a good look. And,” he looked up, a flicker of the old, passionate fanboy in his eyes, “the voice actor for Spike Spiegel is doing a panel.”
Alexis peered over his shoulder. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious. It’s a sign.”
It felt less like a sign and more like a strategic maneuver, but she agreed. The convention hall, when they arrived that afternoon, was a cathedral of controlled chaos. The air was a thick soup of popcorn, body spray, and the hot-plastic smell of new merchandise. A cacophony of game trailers, J-pop openings, and thousands of overlapping conversations created a wall of sound. Cosplayers moved in brilliant, intricate flocks—a Rey Mysterio masks, towering Titans, a stunningly accurate Lady Dimitrescu drawing a crowd of phones.
Mark, in a simple RDCWORLD hoodie and jeans, was still recognized instantly. The approach was different here, though. Softer. Shyer. Fans, many of them Black kids wearing RDC merch, would tap their friends and point, their eyes wide with a kind of reverent excitement. They asked for pictures, not paparazzi shots. They quoted old skits. They told him his work made them feel seen. Alexis watched him in these moments, the way his professional ease melted into genuine warmth, the way he listened.
She felt it too, the energy. It was infectious. She bought a ridiculously overpriced Gunpla model from a vendor, argued passionately with a stranger about the best arc in Hunter x Hunter, and lost to Mark in a Street Fighter 6 exhibition match on the main stage to the roar of a gleeful crowd.
It was fun. It was also performative. Every time he slung an arm around her shoulder, every time she laughed and leaned into him, she was aware of the phones, the livestreams, the subtle nod from his manager who lurked near the industry booths. They were building the story, brick by brick.
The pressure built in her chest, a tight, hot coil. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was a need to break the narrative, to reclaim something raw and untranslatable amidst all this curated joy.
He felt it. As they pushed through a packed aisle near the autograph area, his hand found the small of her back. “You okay?”
She looked up at him. The noise of the crowd faded into a dull roar. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. A current passed between them, silent and understanding.
“I need air,” she said, but her voice was low, thick.
“The lounge is up ahead. It’s supposed to be for guests and press. Quiet.”
The lounge was a relative oasis. A cordoned-off section behind a black curtain, with a few plush couches, a cooler of water bottles, and a door marked ‘Private’ leading to a small, dedicated restroom. It was empty. Mark nodded to the convention staffer at the curtain, who let them pass with a knowing smile.
Inside, the hum of the convention was muffled. A single, neon-purple light strip buzzed overhead. The restroom was clean but cramped, all cold metal and glossy black tile. Before the door even clicked shut, Alexis turned.
She pushed him back against it, the sound of his body thudding against the steel loud in the small space. She kissed him, not with tenderness, but with a consuming hunger. It was all teeth and searching tongue, a release of the day’s accumulated performance. He met her force for force, his hands coming up to cradle her face, then sliding down to grip her hips, grinding her against the hard line of his erection straining against his jeans.
“All day,” he growled against her lips, his breath hot. “Watching you smile for them.Talk to them. I’ve been going fucking insane.”
“Then stop talking,” she breathed, her fingers fumbling with his belt buckle.
He helped her, his own hands clumsier than usual. The belt clattered to the floor. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just past his hips. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, thick and dusky against the stark black of his clothes.
The sight of it, here in this sterile, illicit space, sent a jolt of pure lust through her. She dropped to her knees on the cool tile, not caring about the faint sticky residue she felt through the fabric of her leggings.
“Alexis,” he warned, but it was a plea.
She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, slowly, savoring the salt-and-skin taste of him, the velvety feel of the head against her tongue. She worked him with firm strokes of her hand at his base, her mouth concentrating on the sensitive crown. He groaned, a deep, ragged sound that vibrated in the small room. One of his hands tangled in her curls, not forcing, just holding.
“God, your mouth,” he hissed. “So good.”
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, until she felt him nudge the back of it. A low gag reflex hit her, a thick, obscene sound that made him curse. Spit gathered at the corners of her lips, dripping down her chin onto his balls. The vulgarity of it, the wet, messy reality, thrilled her.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Look at this fucking perfect mouth.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were black with need, his jaw clenched. The sight of his control fraying, here where anyone could walk in, was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known. She let another guttural gag sound tear from her throat as she took him deep again, her eyes watering.
“Fuck it,” he rasped. His hand in her hair tightened, just a fraction. He began to move his hips, shallow at first, then with more insistence. He was fucking her mouth now, each thrust measured but relentless, the head of his cock sliding over her tongue, hitting the back of her throat. The sounds were filthy: wet suction, ragged breathing, the soft slap of his thighs against her chest.
“You take it so well,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming harder, more possessive. “Take my fucking dick. Yeah.Just like that. Gag on it.”
She surrendered to it, to the burn in her jaw, the tears tracking through her mascara, the complete, overwhelming fullness. She was an instrument of his pleasure, and in that, she found her own power. She reached between her own legs, rubbing herself over her leggings, the pressure a bright, sharp counterpoint to the deep, claiming rhythm in her mouth.
He felt the change in her breathing, the muffled moan around his cock. “You getting off on this?” he asked, awe and lust mixing in his tone. “On your knees in a convention shitter, choking on me?”
She moaned an affirmation, the vibration making him shout.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his hips stuttering. “Gonna pump this shit right down your throat. You want it?”
She redoubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks, bobbing her head in time with his brutal strokes. It was all the answer he needed.
With a final, choked cry, he pulled her head flush against him and came. It was hot and sudden, flooding her mouth with his bitter, salty release. She swallowed convulsively, taking every pulse, every last drop, until he was spent and trembling.
He slumped against the door, panting. Gently, he guided her off of him. She knelt there on the floor, catching her breath, her lips swollen and slick. He looked down at her, devastation and adoration in his eyes. He tucked himself away, then sank to his knees in front of her, cupping her face.
“You’re a goddess,” he whispered, his thumb wiping at the mess on her chin. “My fucking goddess.”
He kissed her then, deep and searching, tasting himself on her tongue. The passion was softer now, laced with a staggering tenderness that felt more vulnerable than anything that had come before. When they finally broke apart, the world outside the door came rushing back—the muffled roar of the crowd, the thumping bass of a distant trailer.
They helped each other up, their motions silent. She smoothed her hair. He adjusted his hoodie. In the flickering neon light of the mirror, they looked debauched and real. Her smudged makeup, his flushed skin. A secret, humming in the space between them.
He opened the door a crack, checked that the lounge was still empty, and pulled her out. As they stepped back into the dim lounge, the curtain to the main floor parted.
It was the voice actor for Spike Spiegel, an older man with a kind smile, flanked by a handler. He took in the scene: the two of them, disheveled, emerging from a single-occupancy restroom. His smile didn’t falter, but a knowing glint sparked in his eyes.
“Mark, right? Big fan of your work,” the man said, his voice, that iconic, effortlessly cool baritone, exactly the same.He nodded to Alexis. “Don’t let me interrupt. The best parts of these cons are always backstage.”
He moved past them toward the water cooler. Mark’s hand found Alexis’s, their fingers lacing together tightly. They didn’t speak. They just walked, back through the curtain, into the roaring, blinding world of the convention, carrying the electric, unspoken truth of what they’d done like a live wire in their clasped palms. The performance could resume. But now, underneath it all, thrummed something undeniable and wild.