Fanfic: Welcome To New York (Mark/Roger)
Okay. So I wasn't going to post this until I had a few more done, but I figure now is as good a time as any. ^^ Alright, so I'm just to excited to wait any longer.
Anyway... I own Mark Cohen!
At least in the eyes of fanfic100. And, when you think about it, isn't that all that really matters?
As wickedwitchy would say "My fandom is like Mark... It likes to be tied up and spanked".
In case you are wondering, that has *nothing* to do with the rest of this post. I just wanted to quote it.
Author: Stephanie (gildedmuse)
Fandom, Pairing: RENT, Mark/Roger
Title: Welcome To New York
Prompt: 1. Beginning
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 7,900
Summary: Mark is new to this New York scene, and he wants to try and bask in it's glow while he can.
Author's Note: If this sounds familair, it is because it's a companion to "Only In New York", which I might link later, when I'm not as lazy. Thanks to braveeyes for betaing.
Welcome To New York
Zoom in on a club just off NYU's campus. Just like every other club under yellow and blue lights, it smells like alcohol and people and smoke. The floor is like one body of flesh, grinding so close together that the lines between individuals are blurred. Dancing is all about physical contact and loosing yourself to become part of a single rhythm, about touch and feeling and out of mind experiences. Pull back to the bar where one boy is sitting separate from the frantic group party, apparently unaffected by the primal urge for connection.
Mark is scribbling on a pile of napkins, trying to plan out the speech he's going to give his parents. The one where he admits to dropping out of yet another college, and this time he's not going back. He needs to stay here in New York without school to distract him so that he can dedicate more of his time to his film.
Each time he gets to the part of the speech where he swears he's not going back to Scarsdale he imagines his mother passing out, giving Mark about five minutes before she starts in on the real guilt trip. He can almost hear her now. What exactly does Mark plan on doing for food and shelter? Would he really just leave his poor, aging mother to worry about her only son like that?
The thing is, Mark has no idea what he's doing. He knows he can't just live on the streets, but he's not willing to just resign himself to what his parents want from him just yet. Mark has a vision and a dream and a script, and all he has to do is find a way to make it work. All he has to do is convinces his parents that he's not like them, not at all. He already has plenty of experience in disappointing his family. First his dad catches him and Ryan in the storage room of the hospital, which Mark still hasn't been able to explain to his mother, then he announces that he wants to major in film after getting kicked out of Brown University. Now he's leaving NYU. It's not like Mark started the semester thinking he was going to drop out. He thought New York would be so much different, so much more him. He had only managed to trade in rich brats for art snobs. Mark is an observer, not a critic, and he isn't willing to play one for the teachers and students at NYU any longer.
Hell, he thinks, tearing up one of his many crossed out napkins. Who is he kidding? He doesn't have a friend in this whole city. It will probably be less than a week before he's calling his parents for money or a ride home.
"House brew." Before Mark even looks up, his stomach drops. He knows that voice. It's the lead singer of The Well Hungarians, the entire reason Mark showed up to this club in the first place. He'd been to four of their shows so far, and every time he left in this sort of daze. Their music, their energy, it's amazing. Far better than the trash they play back at the dorms. The bleach blond singer is sitting a few seats down from Mark, leaning over his beer and apparently blind to the dancing and noise and stares.
Mark taps his pen against the bar, eyes going back and forth between the piles of napkins and the musician. He tries not to gawk but this is the closest he's been to anyone close to celebrity status, even if it's just in Mark's small-town, somewhat fan-boyish mind. He looks just like a New York musician should, too. Torn and ratty clothes that fit him perfectly, hugging his hips and sticking against his skin. Bleach blond hair that looks like he just got back from sex. That lean look of too much devotion towards music and partying and not enough time left for food. If he took one step in Scarsdale, Mark's mom would have had them all locked in the house until local news reported that he'd been chased out by torch wielding citizens.
The pen against the bar is going crazy, nearly flying out of Mark's hand. The singer orders another beer, showing no interest to going back to the dance floor or wherever he came from. Mark should go say something. This might be the only time he can talk to the guy without being blocked off by all those high-pitched female groupies that spend the whole show trying to jump on stage. Of course, he'll just tell Mark to fuck off. Guys like that, they have better things to do than talk to boys like Mark.
Mark looks down at his abandoned attempts to convince his parents that he's not a child, that he is capable of living on his own. Hell, Mark has better things to do than hang out with boys like himself. Mark doesn't want to always be some hopeless kid from Scarsdale. He wants to be a New York filmmaker, so its time he grew some balls.
God, he wishes he had a fake ID. In place of liquid courage Mark can only take a deep breath and get this over with as soon as possible. He moves over two stools, almost tripping over one in his rush to get there before the girls descend. "Hey." Mark smiles, trying not to act like some crazed fan.
The musician doesn't look up at first, just leans over his beer with his eyes closed and fingers twisted in his short, bleached hair. Mark nervously licks at his lips and pushes his glasses up his nose, all the things he does when he doesn't want his fidgeting to be too obvious. Maybe the guy didn't hear him, or maybe this is his way of telling Mark to fuck off.
Before Mark can figure out if he should try again or back away as quickly as possible the singer glances up, looking over Mark for all of a second before going back to his drink. "Hey."
Mark's smile slips to way-too-excited before he catches himself. "I liked the show." It isn't the most charming or funny or seductive way to start off a conversation, but Mark isn't really any of those things anyway. Besides, he does love the band. There is something about the way they play, some passion flowing through their music. It's not about the money or fame or sex. To Mark, they sound like all they care about is the music. So unlike all the people up at NYU.
The guy is shifting in his seat and keeps glancing over his shoulder, probably trying to work out the quickest escape route. "Thanks."
Mark sticks out his hand, everything short of waving it in front of the other boy's face to get his attention. It took a lot to come and sit by this guy and Lord knows this is probably the last time he'll have the courage to do something like this. He's not ready to be dismissed just yet. "I'm Mark," he says, trying to sound like he's not just some high school loser with big glasses and a movie obsession. No, he's Mark Cohen, future winner of a Sundance award.
The guy finally looks at him, not just a quick glance but actually looks at Mark. "Roger," he says, taking Mark's hand. His fingers are rough and callused, probably from playing guitar. Mark, being a teenage boy with a pulse, his mind instantly wonders how those hands would feel on his skin, sliding up his thighs, wrapped around his cock.
Mark shifts in his seat. Bad thoughts. He's just here to talk. Guys like Roger, they're not into boys like Mark. Guys like Roger aren't into boys at all. "You have a great voice," Mark says, and what he means is that he will most definitely be thinking of that low, rough sound Roger growls into the microphone when he jerks off tonight. "That one song, the third one in the set?"
"Constance," Roger says, and Mark loves how his voice turns possessive when he says that word.
"That's the one." Mark doesn't care if that's the one he's thinking about anymore. "That one, it makes me... It's really you." Mark is waving and grabbing at air, struggling to find something to say that is interesting or impressive or at least doesn't make him sound like some hopeless, wide-eyed fan. He must be doing something right, because Roger is smiling. God, he has a great smile. Like his voice, a little rough around the edges but gorgeous and very close to driving Mark insane. "It's not like some music you hear. It's really... You. Personal."
Roger looks down at his drink, trying to hide a smile and Mark can't tell if he's being laughed at or not. It looks like Roger is embarrassed, but Mark's sure that can't be right. He seems so confident on stage but one terribly worded compliment and suddenly he's self-conscious? Maybe Mark is right about his band. Maybe Roger really is in it for the music, but that doesn't seem right. No one should be that hot, that talented, and not a total asshole. "Thanks," Roger mutters. God, he has gorgeous eyes. Half-hooded and dark and so serious. Wonderful lips, too, a little cracked and dry but that doesn't stop Mark from imagining them wet and bruised and stretched around his cock.
Roger coughs, bringing Mark crashing back to reality a little more uncomfortable than before. "You don't sound like you're from around here."
Mark tries to smile and ignore the new snugness of his jeans. "I'm not," he admits. "I came here for college. Was in college. Dropped out, actually. But I'm staying here," he adds quickly, as if telling someone else will make it any more true. "I mean, in the city, still." Mark tries to laugh off his pathetic rambling. He only manages to sound even more pitiful. "I'm from Scarsdale." He couldn't just answer Roger's question to begin with? He sounded like a fan-boy. Any second now, Roger is going to catch on to Mark's little crush and get out of here as soon as possible.
Roger doesn't start yelling at him. At least not yet. "Haven't heard of it," he says, and even if he doesn't sound extremely interested he's at least sticking around.
Mark can't help but laugh again, relieved Roger isn't sick of him yet. "No one has."
Roger pushes his beer out of the way, leaning forward against the counter so that he and Mark are even more closed off from the rest of the wild party, a breath away from touching. Roger is smiling again, one corner of his lips turned up and those gorgeous eyes even darker under the bad lighting. There's a flutter a little lower than Mark's stomach. "One of those places, huh?"
Mark nods, trying not to be over eager. "New York is about a million times bigger and at least a billion times more exciting. Lots of interesting people." Okay, maybe Mark doesn't do flirting so well. Roger swerves around to search the dance floor. Mark bites back a moan. Could he be any more obvious? Interesting people? What the hell was that? Why didn't he just pull down Roger's pants and go right to the blowjob? That would have been a little subtler and a lot less B-romance movie cheesy. Is that really the best he could think up? He deservers to be dragged out back, shot, stripped, beaten, hung in Times Square, and shot again.
"Want to go?" Mark nearly jumps out of his seat, and probably would have if his body hadn't frozen up in shock. Roger couldn't be talking to him. Not after that little gem. But the musician is looking right at him all serious and dark and Mark would follow him anywhere. "I need some fresh air."
"Sure." Somehow, Mark manages not to stutter but he can't hold back a stupid smile he knows makes him look like a dork. Roger almost smiles back, pulling on his coat and grabbing Mark's hand. He manages to get them through the thick crowd and out the front door before Mark has time to process what is happening.
The cold February wind slaps him in the face, but Mark still feels dizzy. All he wanted to do was talk to Roger, maybe get invited to the next show. This isn't even close to what he had planned.
He's so dazed he nearly trips over Roger when the other boy stops to lean over, apparently choking to death. Mark winces, patting him on the back in show of support or something. All he can think is that Roger better not throw up or pass out. "You alright?" Wouldn't it be just his luck if Roger is so wasted he doesn't even know what he's doing? Sure, that seems to be how a lot of groupies get sex out of their favorite idols, but Roger had seemed so clear minded at the bar. Like he had actually been interested in Mark.
Thinking back, Mark is surprised the idea that the singer is high didn't occur to him before.
"I'm fine," Roger answers, standing back up. He coughs a few more times into his hand, but no longer looks ready to be sick. "Fine."
"You sure?" Mark asks, walking backwards towards his dorms. "Need a cigarette?" It's a goofy thing his uncle use to say whenever Mark would cough too much, but he's so relieved that Roger is actually following him that he's stopped thinking.
"No, I've got-" Roger grunts, shaking his head and smiling, like he just caught on to something. "No, I'm fine."
Now Mark is definitely beaming like some sort of idiot. "Can you make it all the way to NYU?"
"I think so," Roger answers, smiling back. He doesn't sound too out of it, which is good enough for Mark.
"Perfect. My dorm is just over there." He points towards the old, slowly collapsing building where NYU sticks all the freshmen.
Roger frowns, not following Mark as he starts off towards his dorm. "Your place?"
Mark shrugs, chuckling at the look on Roger's face before he can stop himself. He just looks so young out from under the bad lighting of the club. Almost as lost as Mark. "Yeah, my place. Unless you want to go back to yours?"
"Oh," Roger says, coming to a completely halt. "But, I..." Mark waits for him to say something else, but he just stands there staring. Mark can't help but laugh, trying to hide his embarrassment. Had he screwed this up already? Outside of his element, Roger looks a lot less like some sort of New York god, but Mark still feels like a dork in comparison.
"I'm horrible at these things," he admits, staring at the ground and hoping he isn't blushing. It's so humiliating when he starts blushing like some kind of girl. It's true, though. Mark has never been good with people he likes. He's always awkward or smiling too much or acting like a complete idiot. So far, he's managed to do every single one of those with Roger, and yet the musician is still here. That has to mean something.
"Me, too," Roger says, and Mark almost laughs, but in the streetlight Roger does look kind of nervous, young, vulnerable. Hot, rocker Roger, Mark wanted him because he was confident and passionate and everything a New York artist should be, and Mark just wanted part of that to rub off on him. Now he has Roger staring at his shoes, shy and quiet and all Mark wants to do is kiss him.
"This could be awkward." Then Mark kisses him, because that's what a New York filmmaker would do.
Roger's mouth tastes like warm alcohol and smoke. He's kissing Mark back, gently sucking on Mark's tongue and giving him full control. Mark clings to Roger's jacket, pulling and tugging until there isn't an inch between them and Mark is exploring every corner of Roger's hot mouth. He can't remember the last time he needed something like he needs to kiss Roger.
When they pull apart, Roger moans, low and throaty and Mark nearly whimpers, only now noticing Roger's hands twisted into the back of his hair, that they're still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, that life actually went on while they were kissing. "Wow." It's the one thought Mark can manage at the moment.
Roger's cheeks are a dark red, his lips gleaming and Mark thinks he might have kissed him again if Roger didn't take a step back. Mark can't blame him. Mark sounds like some small town virgin. He stares at the ground, licking his lips and laughing at his own pathetic attempt at seduction. "I mean... I didn't think you were going to kiss me back like that." Now he'd probably be lucky if Roger tried kissing him ever again.
"Oh," Roger mutters. Mark chances a sneak glance. He looks just as nervous as Mark, blushing under the soft yellow street lamp.
If he were being completely honest with himself, Mark is probably going to be back in Scarsdale by the end of the week. He screwed up being a volunteer at the hospital and going to Brown and being a film major. This is his last chance to act out, then it's back home to become the business major and family man his parents expect him to be. He could make this last week in New York memorable with Roger sexy and blushing and not even out of Mark's reach just yet.
So he takes Roger's hand, pulling it free from his pocket and linking their fingers together. "Come on, it's getting cold out here," he says, giving Roger a gently tug towards his dorm. Mark needs to learn how to take chances before they're all gone.
*
They make it to Mark's dorm purely by miracle.
It would have been quicker if Mark hadn't had to stop to kiss Roger every now and then to make sure the musician was still following along. It's not his fault that every time he kissed Roger, Mark ended up backed against a wall with Roger pressed against him and thoughts of moving towards the dorm room very, very forgotten.
Mark is acting like a teenager in heat, and if he weren't so desperate to get Roger out of his clothes he would probably be embarrassed. It's hard to be shy when Roger is pushing him backwards into bed, tongue pressing into Mark's mouth all eager and greedy and possessive.
"Owe." Maybe Mark should have been paying a little more attention. He winces, arching off the bed to relieve the pressure in his already bruising backside. He should have warned Roger that the beds at NYU were not made for rough sex. Mark has his doubts to whether the beds were made for sleeping. Prisoner of war camps seem more the style the designers were going for.
That hazy confidences of sex that Roger had fades. "Sorry," the singer says, taking a seat next to Mark. After a moment of hesitation he starts massaging the sore spot on the small of Mark's back. "You okay?"
Roger's rough fingers are surprisingly gentle, just brushing across Mark's skin. He feels like a cat, arching back into the petting. Soft touches that send knots to Mark's stomach. "Yes," he moans, and he shouldn't sound so damn easy but Roger has seriously just discovered one of his zones or something, the way each brush against his skin goes straight to his cock.
Mark has to try to hold back a groan when Roger stops. The musician looks so unsure of this, and Mark just wants to kiss him again. "I'm really-"
"It's okay," Mark says, scooting across the bed so that he's pressed against Roger. His hand wraps around the back of Roger's neck, desperate to touch skin to skin. "I don't mind." Please don't stop.
"Didn't mean to hurt you," Roger says, and Mark can't help but chuckle. How is it Roger looks so hot even when he's being all shy and nervous?
Mark bounces just a bit, but the entire bed creaks and shakes like some sort of medieval torture rack. "It's these damn beds. This mattress, it's been used some million times already." Roger makes a face like a child, and Mark is laughing again. Shit. He probably shouldn't think Roger is so cute on top of being so hot. That's not a healthy one-night-stand mentality.
Mark's hand tightens in Roger's hair, tugging until the other boy looks up from the bed and meets his eyes. Yeah. He definitely needs to steer clear of any unhealthy obsessions. "It's really okay," Mark mutters, trying to fight back a smile so that he doesn't look like some shy virgin. "I don't mind if you push a little."
Mark isn't sure if he manages to get his point across, so he does the next best thing. He kisses Roger again, hard and controlling and fervent. His fingers curl around the messy locks of Roger's bleached hair, steadying himself when Roger pulls him down and both boys hit the mattress with a loud protest from the bed. It feels natural to have Roger under him like this, bodies pressed as close as they can be with all these layers in between.
Mark's fingers get greedy, sliding out of Roger's hair and under his shirt, grazing across hot skin. He pulls away from Roger long enough to get that damn shirt off him. The second the shirt is over his head, Roger is leaning back up, grabbing Mark by the shoulders and pulling him back down for another frantic kiss. It feels like they're in high school, desperate and messy and unstoppable.
Roger's leg slips between Mark's thighs, pressing up against his already straining erection. Mark pulls away, moaning into Roger's neck as he tries to catch his breath. His hips rock against Roger's strong thigh, the pressure building up until Mark is trembling, fingers digging into Roger's skin. A little too much like high school. He's going to come before he even gets out of his clothes.
Roger is on the same page. "Get out of these," he mutters, messing with the buttons of Mark's jeans. God, that voice all low and scratchy and every time Roger sings now Mark is going to be thinking about this. He can barely nod, pushing away from Roger so that he can strip off his clothes as quickly as possible.
Roger manages to slip out of his own pants in no time. Mark is having a little more trouble. He's shaking too bad to get his belt unbuckled. Fuck, what had he been thinking wearing a belt anyway? He sucks in his stomach, shimming out of the black jeans with the belt still in place. Some help it is for keeping his pants up.
Roger smiles, reaching forward to snap the band of Mark's underwear. "Tighty-Whities?"
Mark's already hot skin heats up, and he just knows he's turning bright pink. "They're cheap," he explains, which sounds better than his mother sent them and Mark doesn't really do his own shopping.
There are better things Mark could be doing right now than thinking about his mom. He pulls off his underwear, climbing onto Roger's lap before his thoughts catch up with him. Roger is moaning into the kiss, hands tangling in Mark's hair so tight that he can't help but whimper, but that doesn't stop him from pressing as close to Roger as he can, skin sliding against skin. His hips are rocking forward, begging for release. He drags their cocks together, and Roger is moaning and letting Mark kiss him hot and slow and thrusting until he's sure he's going to hit the edge.
He's not sure how he manages to pull back, but both he and Roger groan when he tears their lips apart. He reaches over towards his desk, feeling around for the lube. He knows it's there. He used it last night, and unless his roommate borrowed it it should still be here. He looks back to Roger and temporarily forgets what he's doing. Roger looks like he's just spent hours on stage, flushed and wet and hair sticking up in chunks. His green eyes are almost completely black, staring back at Mark with a glazed expression. "Have you ever done this before?" He's not sure what brings on the question. Of course Roger has done this before. Look at him, he's probably had sex with half of New York. After all, who in their right mind would say no?
Roger's goes from a daze to an almost lost look. "Ummm..." He shifts, rubbing Mark's erection against his stomach. Mark's fingers convolute, a lot more eager to find the lube again. "Have you?"
Not a question Mark had been hoping would come up. He can't help but avoid Roger's eyes, playing with his bottom lip while he figures out how best to admit his almost-virgin status. Sure, there has been that time at Nanette's 16th birthday party and a few times that he and Ryan had helped each other out, but none of those seem to qualify. "I've seen films." Come on now. There had to be some better way to put it than that.
Roger tries to smile, his lips almost managing to twitch into place. He still looks a little nervous. That little revelation by Mark surely couldn't have helped. "I don't thinking watching movies is quite the same as doing something in real life."
Mark laughs, trying to cover up the fact that he knows he must be blushing by now. "I think we can manage." His hand finally manages to run into a small, sticky bottle. "Here." He dangles the small, half used bottle in front of Roger. "Will this do?"
"Um... Yeah," Roger answers, looking over the bottle like Mark has no idea what he's doing. Far from true, Mark thinks. He knows a few things about this. He picks up Roger's hand, pouring some of the cold oil over his fingers.
"This might hurt a little," Roger warns, pushing himself up against the wall with Mark still straddling his hips.
Mark places a shaky kiss on Roger's cheek. Maybe intimacy is a no in these types of situations, but suddenly he feels the urge to show Roger that he trusts him. Maybe just to convince himself that he feels safe doing this. "That's all right," he says, not quite working out the trembling in his voice. Roger offers a half smile, one hand running down Mark's side and resting against his hip. Mark's shudder turns into a cringe when Roger's fingers wrap around his skin hard enough to bruise. He closes his eyes, telling his body to relax. Unfortunately, his body stopped listening to him a while ago.
Expecting it only makes it worse. Roger circles around his entrance, gently prodding and warning before he starts to slide in. This doesn't stop Mark from yelping and pulling back. "Keep going," he says, not even thinking about it. Relax. Relax. Relax.
He's kissing Roger again, mostly to distract himself. He bites down on Roger's lower lip, kneading the hot flesh with his teeth. He bites, following the rough action with licks and kisses. His hands trace their way down Roger's chest, brushing against his hard nipples. "Roger, I'm fine," he mutters against the other boy's mouth before sucking the singer's swollen lip between his teeth, giving a gentle tug.
Roger doesn't say anything, just starts pressing back into Mark. Mark bites down on Roger's lip, distracting himself, forcing himself to relax. Under him, Roger jumps a little. Before he can change his mind, Mark mutters, "It's okay." He leaves a tail of bite marks and cat-like licks across his jaw. "Don't stop." Mark nibbles at Roger's earlobe and the other boy arches into him, rubbing their cocks together. Mark shuts his eyes, rocking his hips to meet Roger's. Another finger slides inside of him, and this one is definitely approaching pain. Mark licks around Roger's ear, shifting his hips so that their erections are rubbing together, trying to think about Roger's trembling and heat and the pressure in his cock and anything to make him relax.
Roger's fingers curl inside him, sending a jolt straight through Mark. "Don't stop," he murmurs, panting for air as the shiver passes through his body. He hits that spot again, and Mark has to bite down on his lower lip, pushing back. He can't even moan properly, just sigh and whimper as he rocks back and fourth. A third finger presses inside him, stretching and painful and brushing against that spot so that Mark is thrusting back. Bucking against Roger's fingers, crying out every time he presses down hard enough that his body convolutes with pleasure.
The low moans turn into a whimper when Roger pulls out, leaving Mark hard and ready and just at the edge. "You should-" The musician starts to say something, but Mark isn't listening. He's leaning back onto the bed, spreading his legs apart for Roger. He's always been curious what it would be like, when Ryan was running his hands over Mark or when he is in bed alone at night. Right now, his head is spinning and all he wants is to feel Roger inside him, rough and fast and now please.
After a few seconds Roger continues to just stare. Mark can't help but fidget, wondering if he's messed up. "Something wrong?" He asks, voice cracking horribly over his words.
Roger shakes his head. "No," he says, and Mark can't help but smile, relieved Roger isn't backing out. "No, it's..."
He doesn't say anything else, which is fine with Mark. Roger crawls up Mark, steadying himself as one hand dips between Mark's legs. Mark shivers, nearly falling back as light, teasing touches are drawn up his inner thigh. Some part of Mark knows he's panting, knows he must look like an eager slut spreading his legs and desperately moving against the lightest of Roger's touches, but everything seems to shut off. Everything is wrapped around the feeling of Roger's hand slowly sliding up his leg. "Roger, please," Mark moans, and then Roger is kissing him. Mark kisses back, hard and fierce and whimpering into Roger's mouth.
The part of Mark that is only barely conscious wakes up just long enough for him to tear away from Roger. The musician looks wild and dazed, almost falling forward when Mark moves away. "What?"
"Condom." Mark's used and tired voice really does sound like a breaking teenager's. "There are some right over there," he says, pointing to the desk. Having a doctor for a father does give a person some sense of responsibility.
Roger leans back, searching the desk for the one or two condoms Mark is praying are still there. Fuck, how did he ever get this guy in his bed in the first place? Roger looks like art, half twisted around with strong shoulders leading down to a curved back and hips, cock and balls nestled in a patch of thick black hair. Mark has the sudden urge to paint.
Roger slowly crosses the bed, placing a chaste kiss on Mark's lips. Mark doesn't even get to kiss back, and right now what he really wants to do is devour Roger. Right now, Mark's whole body is humming, on the edge of burning up and blacking out. He doesn't want soft and sweet. "Ready?"
Mark can't answer Roger. He's too busy yanking Roger down on top of him, smashing their lips together until their teeth are clashing and Mark can taste every inch of Roger's mouth. He wraps a leg around Roger's hips, grinding their erections together, wanting every inch from their mouths to their cocks touching. Frantic and desperate for hot, rough contact. Mark's needs have passed way beyond slow and gentle and caring. Right now, all he wants is Roger.
He slips one hand out of Roger's hair, grabbing the abandoned condom, letting Roger steer the kiss and thrust against Mark while he tries to steady his hands enough to slip the rubber over Roger's thick, leaking cock. He breaks back from the kiss, dragging out Roger's lower lip between his teeth as he pulls back. "Roger?"
Roger breaks away from the kiss with a moan. Mark doesn't have to say anything else before his steadying himself, slipping low enough that his cock is resting at Mark's entrance.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mark squeezes his eyes closed, head going back as Roger pushes inside him. Still stretched and wet, it's not as painful as Mark thought it would be, but that doesn't stop him from whimpering, wiggling to get settled against Roger. Fuck, he's finally buried in Mark and it feels good, almost mind-blowing, teasing him. Roger tries to ask if he's okay, but Mark doesn't care to listen. He grabs Roger's waist, tugging and pulling and needing more.
"Move," Mark moans, arching his hips until he's sure Roger couldn't possible fit any further into him. "Come on, Roger." One command is all it takes. Roger slides out before slamming back in, hitting that one spot and Mark nearly blacks out.
"Fuck!" His nails dig into Roger's hips, pushing down to meet every thrust. God, he just needs a little more. "Faster," he says, urging Roger on. He's so close, he can feel the pressure building in his balls, twisting in his stomach. Roger slamming into him, again and again and, "Come on, Roger. Faster, please." Mark's begging and breathless and desperate. Cock trapped between their stomachs, slick skin sliding against it as Roger pumps and moves and all Mark needs is him to go a little faster, a little harder, just a little more.
Mark arches off the bed, bucking against Roger's cock, sharp teeth digging into his neck. "Harder," he begs, words broken by small whimpers and moans. "Faster... More." So close. So damn close. Roger rocking in and out, rough and messy and he's so close. "God, yes. Please. Roger. More." The last word turns into a scream as Roger grabs Mark's painfully hard cock, rubbing a thumb over the head and slicking the shaft with precum before he starts pumping, trying to match his own almost violent rhythm.
Tight and hard and rough. Roger moving and touching him and Mark can't hold on. He slams up on Roger's cock one last time, hard enough that he can't even get the air to scream. That doesn't stop Roger from crying out when Mark convolutes around him, collapsing against the bed as his orgasm leaves him trembling.
A few more uneven thrusts and Roger is coming, muffling his scream against Mark's burning red skin. His weight against Mark makes it almost impossible to breathe, and Mark is sure even if Roger hadn't chosen to land on him he wouldn't have the strength to move. Somehow he manages to wiggle out from under Roger. He grabs his blanket off the floor, curling into a ball at the top of the bed. He doesn't even wonder what Roger is going to do now before he's asleep.
*
Someone is saying something, trying to shove Mark away. He doesn't really care who they are or what they want. He's exhausted, aching, satisfied and comfortable all wrapped up in his blanket. He rolls over, intent on going back to sleep and whoever it is trying to wake him up can fuck off.
It doesn't seem like he even gets to black out again before someone is shaking him again. God, what is up with these people? "Hey, where's your shower?"
"Commune," Mark mutters, rolling over so that he's out of reach, at least for now. "Down the hall."
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, but it's no use. He's awake now. His mind is catching up with reality. Roger is still here. Still? Mark's thoughts get cut off when he yawns, unable to process and stretch at the same time. He finally manages to get his eyes open, not that it helps much. It's dark and everything is blurred. "Hey," he mutters, voice still hoarse and scratchy from, well, all of that.
"Hey," Roger answers, not sounding nearly as used as Mark. More nervous. "Look, I've... I've got to go," he mutters, sitting on the end of Mark's bed and pulling up his pants.
"Cool." It really doesn't even bother Mark. He'd expected Roger to be gone when he woke up, anyway. Isn't that how these things worked most of the time? "See you around, I guess."
"Oh." Roger sounds stressed, and Mark is still too tired to worry if it was something he did. "I... Just want to say... I'm not... You know." It's amazing how even while Roger is stumbling over his words and Mark is only half conscious he still knows what the musician means. Mark struggles to sit up. His head is starting to clear and he realizes that even in the dark there is something wrong with how much he is squinting. "Are you?"
Mark reaches around Roger, hands patting down the desk. "Bi, actually," Mark explains, hoping that Roger will just accept that. Last time he tried to tell Cindy what he meant by it, they end up yelling at each other. "Love and lust shouldn't be limited to outward appearances." That line had been lifted from his old roommate at Brown, who had actually stolen it from his girlfriend. It sounds right to Mark though. At least, it sounds better than telling Roger that he can't help it, his mind just refuses to stick to either boys or girls while he's jerking off. "It's fine if you're not, though." After all, Ryan had later told Mark he was straight. He figures for guys that aren't like him, maybe it's just about getting off.
Hid fingers finally land on cold lenses. He sighs, picking his glasses and sliding them on. The word finally comes into focus. "There, now I can see."
Roger turns away, standing off the bed to pull his pants all the way up. "Well... Um..." Mark's glasses aren't helping too much since Roger isn't looking at him, and is now mostly dressed. "I have to go."
"Later," Mark says, giving a half wave. He curls up under the covers, running his hands down his arms to try and get some warmth. Maybe he should put some clothes on before his roommate comes back from his girlfriend's, or before he freezes to death.
"I hope so," Roger answers. It's stupid and girlish, but Mark's stomach sort of seizes up. He leans back against the wall, figuring he probably has a stomachache. "I mean..." Roger shakes his head, hands waving pointlessly through the air. "You seem like... You know, a nice guy."
Mark leans forward, wrapping his arms around his legs. Geeze, is the window open in here or something? "And you seem like, you know, a nice guy, too," he teases. Roger snorts, knocking Mark in the shoulder. He jumps back, hitting Roger in the arm when he turns away. "Hey!" He pouts, massaging the spot on his arm. "I bruise easily." Roger laughs at this, falling back onto the bed.
"Baby," he says, and Mark replies by sticking out his tongue. Roger's laugh is nice and full, not nervous at all. It's nice to be back to playful.
In the other room someone pounds against the wall, yelling, "Trying to sleep!"
Mark hushes Roger, holding one finger against his own lips and pressing his free hand to Roger's mouth. "They're trying to sleep." He nods towards and gently taps the thin plaster that separates the rooms. "Built to spread fires." He personally could care less if they heard him and Roger. It's his last night here, and it's not like Brady and John are two angels. "Hey, they have parties at least three times a week."
Still stuck in his playful mood, Mark grins and leans forward as if to share a secret. He knows he must look slightly evil. "Thanks for helping me get them back."
Mark doesn't even have time to pull back before Roger is licking the palm of his hand. He nearly shouts, pulling his hand back and scooting to the other side of the bed in a flash, leaving a very amused Roger on the other side, arms wrapped around his sides as he practically doubles over in laughter. Mark doesn't know how he does it, but he manages to get enough air to ask, "Ticklish?"
"Fuck you!" Mark says, but his huge smile pretty much takes away any malice in the words. He shakes his hand, still dripping with spit. Hell, if Roger is acting like a child then Mark is all too glad to play along. As fast as he can, so as not to give Roger time to get away, he runs his hand down Roger's jeans.
The musician has pretty quick reactions, getting away before Mark can dry his palm. "Hey! Watch it!" Mark jumps out from under the covers, reaching for Roger's leg. Roger's a lot bigger than Mark, but he's still laughing and all Mark has to do is get him pinned down by sitting on his legs. He may be scrawny, but he's not that light.
He manages to get Roger flat on the bed, sitting on top of Roger's stomach. "Ha!" He says with a smirk of triumph. Roger is too out of breathe to put up any more of a fight, letting Mark wipe the last of the spit off across the waistline of his jeans. And Mark really does mean to stop there, but his hand is just inches from Roger's skin, from Roger's crotch, and the other boy is panting and wiggling beneath him, arching up so that Mark's hand slides lower.
"I have to go." Mark looks up, slightly dazed and not sure if he's following the conversation. "I..." Roger was just having a bit of fun. "Um..." Mark is just some kid he picked up at the bar. "I have to..."
"Yeah." Mark crawls backwards, hoping Roger wouldn't notice that he's already half hard. While the musician looks for the rest of his clothes, Mark pulls on the two things he can find, his underwear and his sweater. What is wrong with him? Could he be any worse at this causal sex thing? No more thinking about Roger like that. Just act like he would around any other guy he didn't want to sleep with.
"You know," Roger says, pulling on his shoes, "me and a couple of friends rent this loft. It's pretty shitty, but... Um... If you need a place to stay." That gets Mark's attention pretty quickly.
"Really?" He could beat himself for sounding so hopeful and eager, but hell, if he can find a place to stay he doesn't have to head back up to Scarsdale. He can actually take a shot at this filmmaker thing. Suddenly, Roger and awkward one-night stands don't mean anything to Mark. His mind is stuck on the fact that he might have a chance to make a movie, and everything else fades away.
"Yeah." Roger looks over Mark's desk, finding paper and a pen and scribbling something down. He holds out the address to Mark, whose eyes have to go over it a few times to make sure he's reading the address right. "You'll like Collins, I think... Oh, and April, my girlfriend."
"It's right here in Manhattan!" He knows where Avenue B is, right in Alphabet City and not out of the way at all. It's not the best part of town but it is right here in the city. No commuting, no suburbs. None of that. If Mark stays here he will be right in the city, a step closer to everything he'll need to make a movie. The very small part of him that isn't mentally jumping up and down and trying to think through all the shots he wants to get and the scripts he wants to use takes enough time to try and act like a responsible adult. "How much does it cost?"
Roger shrugs. "We all chip in what we can." Mark nods, licking his lips and trying not to do anything like scream or jump up and down. "You seem like you'll be a cool roommate."
He gives Roger a huge smile. "I try."
"You'll have to share a room with me," Roger explains, wincing the second he says that. Mark is too excited to care. "I mean, me and April."
April. April. Right, the girlfriend Roger mentioned earlier. The catch in Mark's Manhattan, low rent apartment. It managed to put a slight dent his bliss that he is going to have to act like this one night stand never excited, that he's just some poor, lost kid Roger brought home with him after a show. You can't have the guy that has a girlfriend, Mark reminds himself. Still, to make his film he can put up with listening to Roger and some girl have hot, wild sex that will not involve him. Really, he can. He'll just have to spend more time in the shower, that's all.
He takes the address from Roger, finding his camera bag and putting it safely inside. "Camera's in here," Mark explains. "It's the one thing I'll never loose."
"Oh, okay. I guess I better be going." Roger almost looks hesitant, probably regretting giving Mark the address. Well, they can always kick him out. He'll probably only by there a month or two at most anyway, until he can get his film ready.
Mark wants to say thank you. He wants to hug Roger until the other boy can't breath. He wants to drag him back to bed, but he's not allowed to think about that anymore. Before the musician can leave, Mark is calling out, "Roger?"
"Yeah." He stops, turning to stare at Mark, and if Mark really wanted to he could take that hesitation as a sign that Roger wants to stay, but that's just stupid. He's just some musician having fun for one night, doing one good deed before he goes back to his girlfriend. And Mark is just a filmmaker, dedicated to one thing and one thing only.
So he just smiles at Roger. "See you on Monday."
"Right," Roger says. "Tomorrow." Then he's gone, closing the door behind him.
Mark sighs, sitting back on his bed. Maybe it's not the smartest thing, staying in an apartment with a guy he had sex with just once, but the lines between smart and crazy are really starting to blur. Roger is just some guy, and yeah he seems cool and he is talented and sure as hell Mark would sleep with him again if he asks, but people leave. People you can get over. The big thing is that Mark gets to stay right here in New York.
His parents are going to kill him.
Anyway... I own Mark Cohen!
At least in the eyes of fanfic100. And, when you think about it, isn't that all that really matters?
As wickedwitchy would say "My fandom is like Mark... It likes to be tied up and spanked".
In case you are wondering, that has *nothing* to do with the rest of this post. I just wanted to quote it.
Author: Stephanie (gildedmuse)
Fandom, Pairing: RENT, Mark/Roger
Title: Welcome To New York
Prompt: 1. Beginning
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 7,900
Summary: Mark is new to this New York scene, and he wants to try and bask in it's glow while he can.
Author's Note: If this sounds familair, it is because it's a companion to "Only In New York", which I might link later, when I'm not as lazy. Thanks to braveeyes for betaing.
Welcome To New York
Zoom in on a club just off NYU's campus. Just like every other club under yellow and blue lights, it smells like alcohol and people and smoke. The floor is like one body of flesh, grinding so close together that the lines between individuals are blurred. Dancing is all about physical contact and loosing yourself to become part of a single rhythm, about touch and feeling and out of mind experiences. Pull back to the bar where one boy is sitting separate from the frantic group party, apparently unaffected by the primal urge for connection.
Mark is scribbling on a pile of napkins, trying to plan out the speech he's going to give his parents. The one where he admits to dropping out of yet another college, and this time he's not going back. He needs to stay here in New York without school to distract him so that he can dedicate more of his time to his film.
Each time he gets to the part of the speech where he swears he's not going back to Scarsdale he imagines his mother passing out, giving Mark about five minutes before she starts in on the real guilt trip. He can almost hear her now. What exactly does Mark plan on doing for food and shelter? Would he really just leave his poor, aging mother to worry about her only son like that?
The thing is, Mark has no idea what he's doing. He knows he can't just live on the streets, but he's not willing to just resign himself to what his parents want from him just yet. Mark has a vision and a dream and a script, and all he has to do is find a way to make it work. All he has to do is convinces his parents that he's not like them, not at all. He already has plenty of experience in disappointing his family. First his dad catches him and Ryan in the storage room of the hospital, which Mark still hasn't been able to explain to his mother, then he announces that he wants to major in film after getting kicked out of Brown University. Now he's leaving NYU. It's not like Mark started the semester thinking he was going to drop out. He thought New York would be so much different, so much more him. He had only managed to trade in rich brats for art snobs. Mark is an observer, not a critic, and he isn't willing to play one for the teachers and students at NYU any longer.
Hell, he thinks, tearing up one of his many crossed out napkins. Who is he kidding? He doesn't have a friend in this whole city. It will probably be less than a week before he's calling his parents for money or a ride home.
"House brew." Before Mark even looks up, his stomach drops. He knows that voice. It's the lead singer of The Well Hungarians, the entire reason Mark showed up to this club in the first place. He'd been to four of their shows so far, and every time he left in this sort of daze. Their music, their energy, it's amazing. Far better than the trash they play back at the dorms. The bleach blond singer is sitting a few seats down from Mark, leaning over his beer and apparently blind to the dancing and noise and stares.
Mark taps his pen against the bar, eyes going back and forth between the piles of napkins and the musician. He tries not to gawk but this is the closest he's been to anyone close to celebrity status, even if it's just in Mark's small-town, somewhat fan-boyish mind. He looks just like a New York musician should, too. Torn and ratty clothes that fit him perfectly, hugging his hips and sticking against his skin. Bleach blond hair that looks like he just got back from sex. That lean look of too much devotion towards music and partying and not enough time left for food. If he took one step in Scarsdale, Mark's mom would have had them all locked in the house until local news reported that he'd been chased out by torch wielding citizens.
The pen against the bar is going crazy, nearly flying out of Mark's hand. The singer orders another beer, showing no interest to going back to the dance floor or wherever he came from. Mark should go say something. This might be the only time he can talk to the guy without being blocked off by all those high-pitched female groupies that spend the whole show trying to jump on stage. Of course, he'll just tell Mark to fuck off. Guys like that, they have better things to do than talk to boys like Mark.
Mark looks down at his abandoned attempts to convince his parents that he's not a child, that he is capable of living on his own. Hell, Mark has better things to do than hang out with boys like himself. Mark doesn't want to always be some hopeless kid from Scarsdale. He wants to be a New York filmmaker, so its time he grew some balls.
God, he wishes he had a fake ID. In place of liquid courage Mark can only take a deep breath and get this over with as soon as possible. He moves over two stools, almost tripping over one in his rush to get there before the girls descend. "Hey." Mark smiles, trying not to act like some crazed fan.
The musician doesn't look up at first, just leans over his beer with his eyes closed and fingers twisted in his short, bleached hair. Mark nervously licks at his lips and pushes his glasses up his nose, all the things he does when he doesn't want his fidgeting to be too obvious. Maybe the guy didn't hear him, or maybe this is his way of telling Mark to fuck off.
Before Mark can figure out if he should try again or back away as quickly as possible the singer glances up, looking over Mark for all of a second before going back to his drink. "Hey."
Mark's smile slips to way-too-excited before he catches himself. "I liked the show." It isn't the most charming or funny or seductive way to start off a conversation, but Mark isn't really any of those things anyway. Besides, he does love the band. There is something about the way they play, some passion flowing through their music. It's not about the money or fame or sex. To Mark, they sound like all they care about is the music. So unlike all the people up at NYU.
The guy is shifting in his seat and keeps glancing over his shoulder, probably trying to work out the quickest escape route. "Thanks."
Mark sticks out his hand, everything short of waving it in front of the other boy's face to get his attention. It took a lot to come and sit by this guy and Lord knows this is probably the last time he'll have the courage to do something like this. He's not ready to be dismissed just yet. "I'm Mark," he says, trying to sound like he's not just some high school loser with big glasses and a movie obsession. No, he's Mark Cohen, future winner of a Sundance award.
The guy finally looks at him, not just a quick glance but actually looks at Mark. "Roger," he says, taking Mark's hand. His fingers are rough and callused, probably from playing guitar. Mark, being a teenage boy with a pulse, his mind instantly wonders how those hands would feel on his skin, sliding up his thighs, wrapped around his cock.
Mark shifts in his seat. Bad thoughts. He's just here to talk. Guys like Roger, they're not into boys like Mark. Guys like Roger aren't into boys at all. "You have a great voice," Mark says, and what he means is that he will most definitely be thinking of that low, rough sound Roger growls into the microphone when he jerks off tonight. "That one song, the third one in the set?"
"Constance," Roger says, and Mark loves how his voice turns possessive when he says that word.
"That's the one." Mark doesn't care if that's the one he's thinking about anymore. "That one, it makes me... It's really you." Mark is waving and grabbing at air, struggling to find something to say that is interesting or impressive or at least doesn't make him sound like some hopeless, wide-eyed fan. He must be doing something right, because Roger is smiling. God, he has a great smile. Like his voice, a little rough around the edges but gorgeous and very close to driving Mark insane. "It's not like some music you hear. It's really... You. Personal."
Roger looks down at his drink, trying to hide a smile and Mark can't tell if he's being laughed at or not. It looks like Roger is embarrassed, but Mark's sure that can't be right. He seems so confident on stage but one terribly worded compliment and suddenly he's self-conscious? Maybe Mark is right about his band. Maybe Roger really is in it for the music, but that doesn't seem right. No one should be that hot, that talented, and not a total asshole. "Thanks," Roger mutters. God, he has gorgeous eyes. Half-hooded and dark and so serious. Wonderful lips, too, a little cracked and dry but that doesn't stop Mark from imagining them wet and bruised and stretched around his cock.
Roger coughs, bringing Mark crashing back to reality a little more uncomfortable than before. "You don't sound like you're from around here."
Mark tries to smile and ignore the new snugness of his jeans. "I'm not," he admits. "I came here for college. Was in college. Dropped out, actually. But I'm staying here," he adds quickly, as if telling someone else will make it any more true. "I mean, in the city, still." Mark tries to laugh off his pathetic rambling. He only manages to sound even more pitiful. "I'm from Scarsdale." He couldn't just answer Roger's question to begin with? He sounded like a fan-boy. Any second now, Roger is going to catch on to Mark's little crush and get out of here as soon as possible.
Roger doesn't start yelling at him. At least not yet. "Haven't heard of it," he says, and even if he doesn't sound extremely interested he's at least sticking around.
Mark can't help but laugh again, relieved Roger isn't sick of him yet. "No one has."
Roger pushes his beer out of the way, leaning forward against the counter so that he and Mark are even more closed off from the rest of the wild party, a breath away from touching. Roger is smiling again, one corner of his lips turned up and those gorgeous eyes even darker under the bad lighting. There's a flutter a little lower than Mark's stomach. "One of those places, huh?"
Mark nods, trying not to be over eager. "New York is about a million times bigger and at least a billion times more exciting. Lots of interesting people." Okay, maybe Mark doesn't do flirting so well. Roger swerves around to search the dance floor. Mark bites back a moan. Could he be any more obvious? Interesting people? What the hell was that? Why didn't he just pull down Roger's pants and go right to the blowjob? That would have been a little subtler and a lot less B-romance movie cheesy. Is that really the best he could think up? He deservers to be dragged out back, shot, stripped, beaten, hung in Times Square, and shot again.
"Want to go?" Mark nearly jumps out of his seat, and probably would have if his body hadn't frozen up in shock. Roger couldn't be talking to him. Not after that little gem. But the musician is looking right at him all serious and dark and Mark would follow him anywhere. "I need some fresh air."
"Sure." Somehow, Mark manages not to stutter but he can't hold back a stupid smile he knows makes him look like a dork. Roger almost smiles back, pulling on his coat and grabbing Mark's hand. He manages to get them through the thick crowd and out the front door before Mark has time to process what is happening.
The cold February wind slaps him in the face, but Mark still feels dizzy. All he wanted to do was talk to Roger, maybe get invited to the next show. This isn't even close to what he had planned.
He's so dazed he nearly trips over Roger when the other boy stops to lean over, apparently choking to death. Mark winces, patting him on the back in show of support or something. All he can think is that Roger better not throw up or pass out. "You alright?" Wouldn't it be just his luck if Roger is so wasted he doesn't even know what he's doing? Sure, that seems to be how a lot of groupies get sex out of their favorite idols, but Roger had seemed so clear minded at the bar. Like he had actually been interested in Mark.
Thinking back, Mark is surprised the idea that the singer is high didn't occur to him before.
"I'm fine," Roger answers, standing back up. He coughs a few more times into his hand, but no longer looks ready to be sick. "Fine."
"You sure?" Mark asks, walking backwards towards his dorms. "Need a cigarette?" It's a goofy thing his uncle use to say whenever Mark would cough too much, but he's so relieved that Roger is actually following him that he's stopped thinking.
"No, I've got-" Roger grunts, shaking his head and smiling, like he just caught on to something. "No, I'm fine."
Now Mark is definitely beaming like some sort of idiot. "Can you make it all the way to NYU?"
"I think so," Roger answers, smiling back. He doesn't sound too out of it, which is good enough for Mark.
"Perfect. My dorm is just over there." He points towards the old, slowly collapsing building where NYU sticks all the freshmen.
Roger frowns, not following Mark as he starts off towards his dorm. "Your place?"
Mark shrugs, chuckling at the look on Roger's face before he can stop himself. He just looks so young out from under the bad lighting of the club. Almost as lost as Mark. "Yeah, my place. Unless you want to go back to yours?"
"Oh," Roger says, coming to a completely halt. "But, I..." Mark waits for him to say something else, but he just stands there staring. Mark can't help but laugh, trying to hide his embarrassment. Had he screwed this up already? Outside of his element, Roger looks a lot less like some sort of New York god, but Mark still feels like a dork in comparison.
"I'm horrible at these things," he admits, staring at the ground and hoping he isn't blushing. It's so humiliating when he starts blushing like some kind of girl. It's true, though. Mark has never been good with people he likes. He's always awkward or smiling too much or acting like a complete idiot. So far, he's managed to do every single one of those with Roger, and yet the musician is still here. That has to mean something.
"Me, too," Roger says, and Mark almost laughs, but in the streetlight Roger does look kind of nervous, young, vulnerable. Hot, rocker Roger, Mark wanted him because he was confident and passionate and everything a New York artist should be, and Mark just wanted part of that to rub off on him. Now he has Roger staring at his shoes, shy and quiet and all Mark wants to do is kiss him.
"This could be awkward." Then Mark kisses him, because that's what a New York filmmaker would do.
Roger's mouth tastes like warm alcohol and smoke. He's kissing Mark back, gently sucking on Mark's tongue and giving him full control. Mark clings to Roger's jacket, pulling and tugging until there isn't an inch between them and Mark is exploring every corner of Roger's hot mouth. He can't remember the last time he needed something like he needs to kiss Roger.
When they pull apart, Roger moans, low and throaty and Mark nearly whimpers, only now noticing Roger's hands twisted into the back of his hair, that they're still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, that life actually went on while they were kissing. "Wow." It's the one thought Mark can manage at the moment.
Roger's cheeks are a dark red, his lips gleaming and Mark thinks he might have kissed him again if Roger didn't take a step back. Mark can't blame him. Mark sounds like some small town virgin. He stares at the ground, licking his lips and laughing at his own pathetic attempt at seduction. "I mean... I didn't think you were going to kiss me back like that." Now he'd probably be lucky if Roger tried kissing him ever again.
"Oh," Roger mutters. Mark chances a sneak glance. He looks just as nervous as Mark, blushing under the soft yellow street lamp.
If he were being completely honest with himself, Mark is probably going to be back in Scarsdale by the end of the week. He screwed up being a volunteer at the hospital and going to Brown and being a film major. This is his last chance to act out, then it's back home to become the business major and family man his parents expect him to be. He could make this last week in New York memorable with Roger sexy and blushing and not even out of Mark's reach just yet.
So he takes Roger's hand, pulling it free from his pocket and linking their fingers together. "Come on, it's getting cold out here," he says, giving Roger a gently tug towards his dorm. Mark needs to learn how to take chances before they're all gone.
*
They make it to Mark's dorm purely by miracle.
It would have been quicker if Mark hadn't had to stop to kiss Roger every now and then to make sure the musician was still following along. It's not his fault that every time he kissed Roger, Mark ended up backed against a wall with Roger pressed against him and thoughts of moving towards the dorm room very, very forgotten.
Mark is acting like a teenager in heat, and if he weren't so desperate to get Roger out of his clothes he would probably be embarrassed. It's hard to be shy when Roger is pushing him backwards into bed, tongue pressing into Mark's mouth all eager and greedy and possessive.
"Owe." Maybe Mark should have been paying a little more attention. He winces, arching off the bed to relieve the pressure in his already bruising backside. He should have warned Roger that the beds at NYU were not made for rough sex. Mark has his doubts to whether the beds were made for sleeping. Prisoner of war camps seem more the style the designers were going for.
That hazy confidences of sex that Roger had fades. "Sorry," the singer says, taking a seat next to Mark. After a moment of hesitation he starts massaging the sore spot on the small of Mark's back. "You okay?"
Roger's rough fingers are surprisingly gentle, just brushing across Mark's skin. He feels like a cat, arching back into the petting. Soft touches that send knots to Mark's stomach. "Yes," he moans, and he shouldn't sound so damn easy but Roger has seriously just discovered one of his zones or something, the way each brush against his skin goes straight to his cock.
Mark has to try to hold back a groan when Roger stops. The musician looks so unsure of this, and Mark just wants to kiss him again. "I'm really-"
"It's okay," Mark says, scooting across the bed so that he's pressed against Roger. His hand wraps around the back of Roger's neck, desperate to touch skin to skin. "I don't mind." Please don't stop.
"Didn't mean to hurt you," Roger says, and Mark can't help but chuckle. How is it Roger looks so hot even when he's being all shy and nervous?
Mark bounces just a bit, but the entire bed creaks and shakes like some sort of medieval torture rack. "It's these damn beds. This mattress, it's been used some million times already." Roger makes a face like a child, and Mark is laughing again. Shit. He probably shouldn't think Roger is so cute on top of being so hot. That's not a healthy one-night-stand mentality.
Mark's hand tightens in Roger's hair, tugging until the other boy looks up from the bed and meets his eyes. Yeah. He definitely needs to steer clear of any unhealthy obsessions. "It's really okay," Mark mutters, trying to fight back a smile so that he doesn't look like some shy virgin. "I don't mind if you push a little."
Mark isn't sure if he manages to get his point across, so he does the next best thing. He kisses Roger again, hard and controlling and fervent. His fingers curl around the messy locks of Roger's bleached hair, steadying himself when Roger pulls him down and both boys hit the mattress with a loud protest from the bed. It feels natural to have Roger under him like this, bodies pressed as close as they can be with all these layers in between.
Mark's fingers get greedy, sliding out of Roger's hair and under his shirt, grazing across hot skin. He pulls away from Roger long enough to get that damn shirt off him. The second the shirt is over his head, Roger is leaning back up, grabbing Mark by the shoulders and pulling him back down for another frantic kiss. It feels like they're in high school, desperate and messy and unstoppable.
Roger's leg slips between Mark's thighs, pressing up against his already straining erection. Mark pulls away, moaning into Roger's neck as he tries to catch his breath. His hips rock against Roger's strong thigh, the pressure building up until Mark is trembling, fingers digging into Roger's skin. A little too much like high school. He's going to come before he even gets out of his clothes.
Roger is on the same page. "Get out of these," he mutters, messing with the buttons of Mark's jeans. God, that voice all low and scratchy and every time Roger sings now Mark is going to be thinking about this. He can barely nod, pushing away from Roger so that he can strip off his clothes as quickly as possible.
Roger manages to slip out of his own pants in no time. Mark is having a little more trouble. He's shaking too bad to get his belt unbuckled. Fuck, what had he been thinking wearing a belt anyway? He sucks in his stomach, shimming out of the black jeans with the belt still in place. Some help it is for keeping his pants up.
Roger smiles, reaching forward to snap the band of Mark's underwear. "Tighty-Whities?"
Mark's already hot skin heats up, and he just knows he's turning bright pink. "They're cheap," he explains, which sounds better than his mother sent them and Mark doesn't really do his own shopping.
There are better things Mark could be doing right now than thinking about his mom. He pulls off his underwear, climbing onto Roger's lap before his thoughts catch up with him. Roger is moaning into the kiss, hands tangling in Mark's hair so tight that he can't help but whimper, but that doesn't stop him from pressing as close to Roger as he can, skin sliding against skin. His hips are rocking forward, begging for release. He drags their cocks together, and Roger is moaning and letting Mark kiss him hot and slow and thrusting until he's sure he's going to hit the edge.
He's not sure how he manages to pull back, but both he and Roger groan when he tears their lips apart. He reaches over towards his desk, feeling around for the lube. He knows it's there. He used it last night, and unless his roommate borrowed it it should still be here. He looks back to Roger and temporarily forgets what he's doing. Roger looks like he's just spent hours on stage, flushed and wet and hair sticking up in chunks. His green eyes are almost completely black, staring back at Mark with a glazed expression. "Have you ever done this before?" He's not sure what brings on the question. Of course Roger has done this before. Look at him, he's probably had sex with half of New York. After all, who in their right mind would say no?
Roger's goes from a daze to an almost lost look. "Ummm..." He shifts, rubbing Mark's erection against his stomach. Mark's fingers convolute, a lot more eager to find the lube again. "Have you?"
Not a question Mark had been hoping would come up. He can't help but avoid Roger's eyes, playing with his bottom lip while he figures out how best to admit his almost-virgin status. Sure, there has been that time at Nanette's 16th birthday party and a few times that he and Ryan had helped each other out, but none of those seem to qualify. "I've seen films." Come on now. There had to be some better way to put it than that.
Roger tries to smile, his lips almost managing to twitch into place. He still looks a little nervous. That little revelation by Mark surely couldn't have helped. "I don't thinking watching movies is quite the same as doing something in real life."
Mark laughs, trying to cover up the fact that he knows he must be blushing by now. "I think we can manage." His hand finally manages to run into a small, sticky bottle. "Here." He dangles the small, half used bottle in front of Roger. "Will this do?"
"Um... Yeah," Roger answers, looking over the bottle like Mark has no idea what he's doing. Far from true, Mark thinks. He knows a few things about this. He picks up Roger's hand, pouring some of the cold oil over his fingers.
"This might hurt a little," Roger warns, pushing himself up against the wall with Mark still straddling his hips.
Mark places a shaky kiss on Roger's cheek. Maybe intimacy is a no in these types of situations, but suddenly he feels the urge to show Roger that he trusts him. Maybe just to convince himself that he feels safe doing this. "That's all right," he says, not quite working out the trembling in his voice. Roger offers a half smile, one hand running down Mark's side and resting against his hip. Mark's shudder turns into a cringe when Roger's fingers wrap around his skin hard enough to bruise. He closes his eyes, telling his body to relax. Unfortunately, his body stopped listening to him a while ago.
Expecting it only makes it worse. Roger circles around his entrance, gently prodding and warning before he starts to slide in. This doesn't stop Mark from yelping and pulling back. "Keep going," he says, not even thinking about it. Relax. Relax. Relax.
He's kissing Roger again, mostly to distract himself. He bites down on Roger's lower lip, kneading the hot flesh with his teeth. He bites, following the rough action with licks and kisses. His hands trace their way down Roger's chest, brushing against his hard nipples. "Roger, I'm fine," he mutters against the other boy's mouth before sucking the singer's swollen lip between his teeth, giving a gentle tug.
Roger doesn't say anything, just starts pressing back into Mark. Mark bites down on Roger's lip, distracting himself, forcing himself to relax. Under him, Roger jumps a little. Before he can change his mind, Mark mutters, "It's okay." He leaves a tail of bite marks and cat-like licks across his jaw. "Don't stop." Mark nibbles at Roger's earlobe and the other boy arches into him, rubbing their cocks together. Mark shuts his eyes, rocking his hips to meet Roger's. Another finger slides inside of him, and this one is definitely approaching pain. Mark licks around Roger's ear, shifting his hips so that their erections are rubbing together, trying to think about Roger's trembling and heat and the pressure in his cock and anything to make him relax.
Roger's fingers curl inside him, sending a jolt straight through Mark. "Don't stop," he murmurs, panting for air as the shiver passes through his body. He hits that spot again, and Mark has to bite down on his lower lip, pushing back. He can't even moan properly, just sigh and whimper as he rocks back and fourth. A third finger presses inside him, stretching and painful and brushing against that spot so that Mark is thrusting back. Bucking against Roger's fingers, crying out every time he presses down hard enough that his body convolutes with pleasure.
The low moans turn into a whimper when Roger pulls out, leaving Mark hard and ready and just at the edge. "You should-" The musician starts to say something, but Mark isn't listening. He's leaning back onto the bed, spreading his legs apart for Roger. He's always been curious what it would be like, when Ryan was running his hands over Mark or when he is in bed alone at night. Right now, his head is spinning and all he wants is to feel Roger inside him, rough and fast and now please.
After a few seconds Roger continues to just stare. Mark can't help but fidget, wondering if he's messed up. "Something wrong?" He asks, voice cracking horribly over his words.
Roger shakes his head. "No," he says, and Mark can't help but smile, relieved Roger isn't backing out. "No, it's..."
He doesn't say anything else, which is fine with Mark. Roger crawls up Mark, steadying himself as one hand dips between Mark's legs. Mark shivers, nearly falling back as light, teasing touches are drawn up his inner thigh. Some part of Mark knows he's panting, knows he must look like an eager slut spreading his legs and desperately moving against the lightest of Roger's touches, but everything seems to shut off. Everything is wrapped around the feeling of Roger's hand slowly sliding up his leg. "Roger, please," Mark moans, and then Roger is kissing him. Mark kisses back, hard and fierce and whimpering into Roger's mouth.
The part of Mark that is only barely conscious wakes up just long enough for him to tear away from Roger. The musician looks wild and dazed, almost falling forward when Mark moves away. "What?"
"Condom." Mark's used and tired voice really does sound like a breaking teenager's. "There are some right over there," he says, pointing to the desk. Having a doctor for a father does give a person some sense of responsibility.
Roger leans back, searching the desk for the one or two condoms Mark is praying are still there. Fuck, how did he ever get this guy in his bed in the first place? Roger looks like art, half twisted around with strong shoulders leading down to a curved back and hips, cock and balls nestled in a patch of thick black hair. Mark has the sudden urge to paint.
Roger slowly crosses the bed, placing a chaste kiss on Mark's lips. Mark doesn't even get to kiss back, and right now what he really wants to do is devour Roger. Right now, Mark's whole body is humming, on the edge of burning up and blacking out. He doesn't want soft and sweet. "Ready?"
Mark can't answer Roger. He's too busy yanking Roger down on top of him, smashing their lips together until their teeth are clashing and Mark can taste every inch of Roger's mouth. He wraps a leg around Roger's hips, grinding their erections together, wanting every inch from their mouths to their cocks touching. Frantic and desperate for hot, rough contact. Mark's needs have passed way beyond slow and gentle and caring. Right now, all he wants is Roger.
He slips one hand out of Roger's hair, grabbing the abandoned condom, letting Roger steer the kiss and thrust against Mark while he tries to steady his hands enough to slip the rubber over Roger's thick, leaking cock. He breaks back from the kiss, dragging out Roger's lower lip between his teeth as he pulls back. "Roger?"
Roger breaks away from the kiss with a moan. Mark doesn't have to say anything else before his steadying himself, slipping low enough that his cock is resting at Mark's entrance.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mark squeezes his eyes closed, head going back as Roger pushes inside him. Still stretched and wet, it's not as painful as Mark thought it would be, but that doesn't stop him from whimpering, wiggling to get settled against Roger. Fuck, he's finally buried in Mark and it feels good, almost mind-blowing, teasing him. Roger tries to ask if he's okay, but Mark doesn't care to listen. He grabs Roger's waist, tugging and pulling and needing more.
"Move," Mark moans, arching his hips until he's sure Roger couldn't possible fit any further into him. "Come on, Roger." One command is all it takes. Roger slides out before slamming back in, hitting that one spot and Mark nearly blacks out.
"Fuck!" His nails dig into Roger's hips, pushing down to meet every thrust. God, he just needs a little more. "Faster," he says, urging Roger on. He's so close, he can feel the pressure building in his balls, twisting in his stomach. Roger slamming into him, again and again and, "Come on, Roger. Faster, please." Mark's begging and breathless and desperate. Cock trapped between their stomachs, slick skin sliding against it as Roger pumps and moves and all Mark needs is him to go a little faster, a little harder, just a little more.
Mark arches off the bed, bucking against Roger's cock, sharp teeth digging into his neck. "Harder," he begs, words broken by small whimpers and moans. "Faster... More." So close. So damn close. Roger rocking in and out, rough and messy and he's so close. "God, yes. Please. Roger. More." The last word turns into a scream as Roger grabs Mark's painfully hard cock, rubbing a thumb over the head and slicking the shaft with precum before he starts pumping, trying to match his own almost violent rhythm.
Tight and hard and rough. Roger moving and touching him and Mark can't hold on. He slams up on Roger's cock one last time, hard enough that he can't even get the air to scream. That doesn't stop Roger from crying out when Mark convolutes around him, collapsing against the bed as his orgasm leaves him trembling.
A few more uneven thrusts and Roger is coming, muffling his scream against Mark's burning red skin. His weight against Mark makes it almost impossible to breathe, and Mark is sure even if Roger hadn't chosen to land on him he wouldn't have the strength to move. Somehow he manages to wiggle out from under Roger. He grabs his blanket off the floor, curling into a ball at the top of the bed. He doesn't even wonder what Roger is going to do now before he's asleep.
*
Someone is saying something, trying to shove Mark away. He doesn't really care who they are or what they want. He's exhausted, aching, satisfied and comfortable all wrapped up in his blanket. He rolls over, intent on going back to sleep and whoever it is trying to wake him up can fuck off.
It doesn't seem like he even gets to black out again before someone is shaking him again. God, what is up with these people? "Hey, where's your shower?"
"Commune," Mark mutters, rolling over so that he's out of reach, at least for now. "Down the hall."
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, but it's no use. He's awake now. His mind is catching up with reality. Roger is still here. Still? Mark's thoughts get cut off when he yawns, unable to process and stretch at the same time. He finally manages to get his eyes open, not that it helps much. It's dark and everything is blurred. "Hey," he mutters, voice still hoarse and scratchy from, well, all of that.
"Hey," Roger answers, not sounding nearly as used as Mark. More nervous. "Look, I've... I've got to go," he mutters, sitting on the end of Mark's bed and pulling up his pants.
"Cool." It really doesn't even bother Mark. He'd expected Roger to be gone when he woke up, anyway. Isn't that how these things worked most of the time? "See you around, I guess."
"Oh." Roger sounds stressed, and Mark is still too tired to worry if it was something he did. "I... Just want to say... I'm not... You know." It's amazing how even while Roger is stumbling over his words and Mark is only half conscious he still knows what the musician means. Mark struggles to sit up. His head is starting to clear and he realizes that even in the dark there is something wrong with how much he is squinting. "Are you?"
Mark reaches around Roger, hands patting down the desk. "Bi, actually," Mark explains, hoping that Roger will just accept that. Last time he tried to tell Cindy what he meant by it, they end up yelling at each other. "Love and lust shouldn't be limited to outward appearances." That line had been lifted from his old roommate at Brown, who had actually stolen it from his girlfriend. It sounds right to Mark though. At least, it sounds better than telling Roger that he can't help it, his mind just refuses to stick to either boys or girls while he's jerking off. "It's fine if you're not, though." After all, Ryan had later told Mark he was straight. He figures for guys that aren't like him, maybe it's just about getting off.
Hid fingers finally land on cold lenses. He sighs, picking his glasses and sliding them on. The word finally comes into focus. "There, now I can see."
Roger turns away, standing off the bed to pull his pants all the way up. "Well... Um..." Mark's glasses aren't helping too much since Roger isn't looking at him, and is now mostly dressed. "I have to go."
"Later," Mark says, giving a half wave. He curls up under the covers, running his hands down his arms to try and get some warmth. Maybe he should put some clothes on before his roommate comes back from his girlfriend's, or before he freezes to death.
"I hope so," Roger answers. It's stupid and girlish, but Mark's stomach sort of seizes up. He leans back against the wall, figuring he probably has a stomachache. "I mean..." Roger shakes his head, hands waving pointlessly through the air. "You seem like... You know, a nice guy."
Mark leans forward, wrapping his arms around his legs. Geeze, is the window open in here or something? "And you seem like, you know, a nice guy, too," he teases. Roger snorts, knocking Mark in the shoulder. He jumps back, hitting Roger in the arm when he turns away. "Hey!" He pouts, massaging the spot on his arm. "I bruise easily." Roger laughs at this, falling back onto the bed.
"Baby," he says, and Mark replies by sticking out his tongue. Roger's laugh is nice and full, not nervous at all. It's nice to be back to playful.
In the other room someone pounds against the wall, yelling, "Trying to sleep!"
Mark hushes Roger, holding one finger against his own lips and pressing his free hand to Roger's mouth. "They're trying to sleep." He nods towards and gently taps the thin plaster that separates the rooms. "Built to spread fires." He personally could care less if they heard him and Roger. It's his last night here, and it's not like Brady and John are two angels. "Hey, they have parties at least three times a week."
Still stuck in his playful mood, Mark grins and leans forward as if to share a secret. He knows he must look slightly evil. "Thanks for helping me get them back."
Mark doesn't even have time to pull back before Roger is licking the palm of his hand. He nearly shouts, pulling his hand back and scooting to the other side of the bed in a flash, leaving a very amused Roger on the other side, arms wrapped around his sides as he practically doubles over in laughter. Mark doesn't know how he does it, but he manages to get enough air to ask, "Ticklish?"
"Fuck you!" Mark says, but his huge smile pretty much takes away any malice in the words. He shakes his hand, still dripping with spit. Hell, if Roger is acting like a child then Mark is all too glad to play along. As fast as he can, so as not to give Roger time to get away, he runs his hand down Roger's jeans.
The musician has pretty quick reactions, getting away before Mark can dry his palm. "Hey! Watch it!" Mark jumps out from under the covers, reaching for Roger's leg. Roger's a lot bigger than Mark, but he's still laughing and all Mark has to do is get him pinned down by sitting on his legs. He may be scrawny, but he's not that light.
He manages to get Roger flat on the bed, sitting on top of Roger's stomach. "Ha!" He says with a smirk of triumph. Roger is too out of breathe to put up any more of a fight, letting Mark wipe the last of the spit off across the waistline of his jeans. And Mark really does mean to stop there, but his hand is just inches from Roger's skin, from Roger's crotch, and the other boy is panting and wiggling beneath him, arching up so that Mark's hand slides lower.
"I have to go." Mark looks up, slightly dazed and not sure if he's following the conversation. "I..." Roger was just having a bit of fun. "Um..." Mark is just some kid he picked up at the bar. "I have to..."
"Yeah." Mark crawls backwards, hoping Roger wouldn't notice that he's already half hard. While the musician looks for the rest of his clothes, Mark pulls on the two things he can find, his underwear and his sweater. What is wrong with him? Could he be any worse at this causal sex thing? No more thinking about Roger like that. Just act like he would around any other guy he didn't want to sleep with.
"You know," Roger says, pulling on his shoes, "me and a couple of friends rent this loft. It's pretty shitty, but... Um... If you need a place to stay." That gets Mark's attention pretty quickly.
"Really?" He could beat himself for sounding so hopeful and eager, but hell, if he can find a place to stay he doesn't have to head back up to Scarsdale. He can actually take a shot at this filmmaker thing. Suddenly, Roger and awkward one-night stands don't mean anything to Mark. His mind is stuck on the fact that he might have a chance to make a movie, and everything else fades away.
"Yeah." Roger looks over Mark's desk, finding paper and a pen and scribbling something down. He holds out the address to Mark, whose eyes have to go over it a few times to make sure he's reading the address right. "You'll like Collins, I think... Oh, and April, my girlfriend."
"It's right here in Manhattan!" He knows where Avenue B is, right in Alphabet City and not out of the way at all. It's not the best part of town but it is right here in the city. No commuting, no suburbs. None of that. If Mark stays here he will be right in the city, a step closer to everything he'll need to make a movie. The very small part of him that isn't mentally jumping up and down and trying to think through all the shots he wants to get and the scripts he wants to use takes enough time to try and act like a responsible adult. "How much does it cost?"
Roger shrugs. "We all chip in what we can." Mark nods, licking his lips and trying not to do anything like scream or jump up and down. "You seem like you'll be a cool roommate."
He gives Roger a huge smile. "I try."
"You'll have to share a room with me," Roger explains, wincing the second he says that. Mark is too excited to care. "I mean, me and April."
April. April. Right, the girlfriend Roger mentioned earlier. The catch in Mark's Manhattan, low rent apartment. It managed to put a slight dent his bliss that he is going to have to act like this one night stand never excited, that he's just some poor, lost kid Roger brought home with him after a show. You can't have the guy that has a girlfriend, Mark reminds himself. Still, to make his film he can put up with listening to Roger and some girl have hot, wild sex that will not involve him. Really, he can. He'll just have to spend more time in the shower, that's all.
He takes the address from Roger, finding his camera bag and putting it safely inside. "Camera's in here," Mark explains. "It's the one thing I'll never loose."
"Oh, okay. I guess I better be going." Roger almost looks hesitant, probably regretting giving Mark the address. Well, they can always kick him out. He'll probably only by there a month or two at most anyway, until he can get his film ready.
Mark wants to say thank you. He wants to hug Roger until the other boy can't breath. He wants to drag him back to bed, but he's not allowed to think about that anymore. Before the musician can leave, Mark is calling out, "Roger?"
"Yeah." He stops, turning to stare at Mark, and if Mark really wanted to he could take that hesitation as a sign that Roger wants to stay, but that's just stupid. He's just some musician having fun for one night, doing one good deed before he goes back to his girlfriend. And Mark is just a filmmaker, dedicated to one thing and one thing only.
So he just smiles at Roger. "See you on Monday."
"Right," Roger says. "Tomorrow." Then he's gone, closing the door behind him.
Mark sighs, sitting back on his bed. Maybe it's not the smartest thing, staying in an apartment with a guy he had sex with just once, but the lines between smart and crazy are really starting to blur. Roger is just some guy, and yeah he seems cool and he is talented and sure as hell Mark would sleep with him again if he asks, but people leave. People you can get over. The big thing is that Mark gets to stay right here in New York.
His parents are going to kill him.