A/N: Originally submitted for The Reedus Fapfest 2013. I've always wanted to write Marco. This seemed like a good place to start.

All recognizable material herein belongs to its respective owners. The remaining content is mine.


You can't jerk it in the clink.

Scratch that. You can't jerk it in the clink and enjoy it, take your time with it, let it consume you. The most you have time for is a few quick strokes in the shower if you don't mind doing it with a bunch of other guys, and if you don't mind the whistles and jeers and being called queer or worse.

Marco Vendetti couldn't jerk it in the clink. He didn't have a big enough mirror. So when he said that the first thing he was going to do was have a beer and slice of Sicilian and a piece of ass, he left out the part about what he was really going to do first.

His bathroom smelled the same: damp tile, chlorine, shaving foam. At least it was clean. Or cleaner than the space allotted to him in his cell. He didn't bother spending any time in it beyond taking the first piss by himself in three years. That was a luxury in itself, and he smirked at the lazy stream of urine he emitted, and circumvented the bowl, listening to the soft tinkling, blocking out the rock n' roll spewing from the record player. Shit, he hadn't had records in the joint, either, and the radio had been tuned to some goddamn religious programming in an attempt to rehabilitate the hoods behind bars. Marco cocked his ear at the hard guitar rhythm and found his foot tapping as he finished, zipped up, and flushed.

The hallway between the bathroom and his bedroom was a fucking circus, crawling with his boys, goofy smiles plastered on their faces as they welcomed him back. A beer was shoved into one of his hands, and a lit cigarette into the other, and Marco took both and swigged heavily on the beer before taking a huge lungful of smoke. He smiled, though it felt wooden, and he bobbed his head and laughed as Philly and Jimmy Pockets cracked wise. Being crowded with people was not how he wanted to spend his first few hours of freedom. With a few harsh orders barked, he shoved open his bedroom door and promptly slammed it shut, leaning against it and closing his eyes as he exhaled another lungful of smoke.

Eventually, he opened his eyes, as the party continued on into the kitchen. His bedroom had been untouched, but he knew that the sheets had been changed on the bed and the windows had been opened. It didn't smell stale. And it certainly didn't smell like a bunch of other bodies crammed in behind bars. Fuck, he'd missed his bed, missed sprawling out. He pushed the lock shut, and then shrugged out of his jacket, and toed off his shoes. Then, he crossed to the small closet, and to what he'd missed the most.

"Hey there," he muttered, his eyes raking up and down the long, lean lines before him. Blue eyes smirked back at him, and he slid a hand through his thick, dark hair, frowning at the shorn length. Fucking guards at the prison had barely left him enough to grease up properly. He took another long pull from his beer, and then set the bottle aside. Looking to his hair once more, he fiddled with a stubborn lock of it before sighing and settling his palms on either side of mirror. "Miss me?"

He chuckled at his own private joke and pursed his lips, raking his eyes over his reflection. Prison had certainly taken the rounded corners off of his frame. He hadn't been chubby by any means, but he'd definitely enjoyed indulging in everything he could get his hands on. Behind bars there had been the bare essentials of food, no liquor, only cigarettes, and countless hours spent in the yard, pushing iron. He looked good, and he knew it. Now that he could see everything laid out for him, a slow, sinister smile broke out on his face.

He tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and tendrils of smoke licked up his frame to curl about his shoulders. Craning his head back, he watched fingers slip the buttons on his shirt one by one. The tails were tugged free from his jeans, and then the shirt fell from his shoulders. The beater he wore as an undershirt went next, up and over his head, and flung to one side. Standing in slacks and socked feet, Marco stared once more, his hands coming up to slide fingertips over smooth, taut skin, firm muscles, and smatterings of ink.

He closed his eyes to the sensations, his ears trained for the faintest sound that would bring an end to his reunion with himself. The music still blared, hard, and chugging guitars. Hands wandered back through thick hair, along his neck, and then down his chest, skimming over small, hard nipples and making his hips jerk faintly. Again, this time with thumbs and forefingers tweaking just hard enough to make his eyes snap open as his breath fogged against the mirror. His nostrils flared. With his bottom lip between his teeth, the catch on his slacks was flicked open before the zipper was tugged down.

All the time in the world didn't seem to matter to him. Marco's hand dropped down into his boxers, curling about his thickening length, and he grunted as he squeezed himself roughly. A light curse fell from his lips, and his free hand flattened against the mirror, bracing himself as he fiddled first with the shaft, dragging his fingertips up and down the length, before switching to his balls, cupping, squeezing, tugging, as his hips twined with the pleasure that twisted through him.

He forced his gaze back up to narrowed blue eyes, and he shuddered violently. The hand on the glass curled into a fist, and he left off himself, pushing his boxers and slacks down his hips until he was fully exposed to the mirror's gaze, and to his own. He snapped the smoke from his lips after a final drag, and he crushed the butt of it out in the tray on the nearby dresser. A groan left his lungs, wanton, and smoky, as he jerked his shaft roughly. "Just like that," he muttered. With his cock gripped tightly in one hand, he brought the palm of his other hand up under the very tip with a hard thwack. A huff and a moan left him, his eyes slipping shut, and he did it again, and then a third time, harder, swifter, until he was tingling along every solid inch. His eyes burst open. Tears of ripe pleasure made them dazzle brightly.

He was efficient in his work, setting a hard rhythm that made sweat bead on pale, smooth skin. The first touch had made him heady, and now he was going full tilt. A wide palm skated over the very tip of his length and he moaned again, as things became harder, and hotter, and slicker. The base of his spine burned, his skin prickling with electricity that buzzed right to his brain. Another long moan was loosed from his throat, and he cursed again. He'd forgotten what this was like, hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

He couldn't help catching that keen gaze with his once more, holding it, as he continued to stroke, to soothe, to work over turgid flesh. The mouth that moaned soon curled and sneered, showing teeth and tongue. "You motherfucker," he chuckled darkly, doubling his effort. Grunts became growls, panting became prose, babbled, whining, howling, as he worked himself over.

"You never let em see ya like this," he murmured before spitting into his palm and adding to the slickness on his skin. His hips wound closer to the mirror's surface, and the swollen, sensitive tip of his cock kissed the cool reflective surface, smearing it with stickiness and making him whimper. "Just for me," he huffed, adding a twist with every other pass of his fist. He thumbed the underside of the head, scoring the nail roughly against the over-sensitive skin until his breath caught in his throat.

His gaze was riveted to the mirror, to where he pushed the head of his cock against the glass, and his hand was a blazing, callused vice, almost punishing as he gripped tighter, and stroked faster. The music still thumped out in the living room, and fuck if he wasn't glad for the noise. He was making enough sounds in here to raise a few eyebrows. Skin met skin met glass, and he pounded the mirror with his fist. Looking down, he spit again when the head of his cock peeked from out of his fist. "Goddamn whore," he muttered, before keening roughly. A string of saliva plunged down from the tip of his tongue and landed in an obscene puddle on the red, swollen meat of his dick. His free hand found his nipples once more and he pulled and tweaked until they ached, purple and pointed.

His forehead connected with the mirror, and a harsh gasp fogged the mirror once more. Reaching up and back, he fisted his own hair at the back of his neck, and his other hand jerked is dick hard and fast. "You're such a fucking tease," he breathed. He whined next, his open mouth pressed to the one in the mirror, tongue flickering out to taste smooth coolness. "You're making me love you," he finally groaned.

Pressure and pleasure shot through his limbs and his veins, until it came to a pinpoint that burst gloriously along his nerves. Marco cried out, hoarsely, and loudly, and cock pulsed twice in his hand before he was coming fast, and streaking his belly, and the mirror's, with it. He whimpered harshly, and his eyes slammed shut for only a second before they opened again and greedily drank in the sight of his dick erupting against the glass. Still he stroked, and still he squeezed, until he was dancing on his toes and he thought he might never get feeling back into his nipples.

But Jesus, fuck, he felt something, something more than he had in the last three years. Carefully constructed defenses, edged in bravado and much posturing gave way to himself, a legend in his own mind, and the only one who would ever see this side of him: wanton, lusty, and willing to do anything, as long as he found this release, and lost control along the way.

Spent, he let his breathing calm, though his muscles shivered and shuddered. Pressing his head to the mirror, he licked his lips at the sight of his spunk splattered on the mirror. He never hesitated, merely reached down with two fingers, dragged them through the mess, and brought it to his lips. He stared himself down as he tasted himself on his tongue, curling the warm muscle around his fingers with a smug smile. The bitter tang sent another wave of arousal roiling through him. When he'd swallowed, he winked, and then shook off the residual pleasure. He had plans to put into motion now. He'd get back to himself soon enough.