Fic: On The Friendship & Sex... (Chapter 2: Fucking & Fucking Up)
I'm sure I'm, like, spamming your friends page with fanfic. I truely apologize. I promise to not post for at least a week after this.
Author: Mina (Gildedmuse)
Title: On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter: Two: Fucking & Fucking Up
Pairings: Mark/Roger (graphic), Mark/Roger/April (semi-graphic).
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 9,690
Warnings: S-E-X. All the really scary kinks are in the next chapter, though. Despite the fact that this one has NO plot (even, somehow, less then the first chapter) it managed to stay realativly kink free.
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that.
Additional Chapters: Additional Chapters: One: First Times & Blow Jobs, Two: Fucking & Fucking Up, Three: Scripts & Sickness, Four: Jealousy & Drinks, Five: Blindness & Bondage
Crossposted: fuckingartists,rentcubed,below14thstreet,2leather2dildos
On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter Two: Fucking & Fucking Up
A couple days (swearing he’ll be out soon, looking for a job) turns into a couple weeks (getting high and listening to Collins’ ramblings, helping Roger move a mattress they found in the street upstairs that becomes his bed) that pass by until Mark has been at the loft for four whole months. It turns out that finding his footing in New York is harder than he expected. Impossible is the word he would use.
Still, he loves the city with just as much fever as he had when he was younger. It’s turned into an obsession with becoming the artists he wants to be, with living the life he’s dreamed of, with proving his family wrong. So with a deep breath Mark buckles down and ignores all those little things like how he occasionally doesn’t eat and the water is broken so he hasn’t had the chance to shower in a week, and he just keeps pushing on.
There are some things that are harder to ignore. Like Roger.
Not that it’s always a bad thing, being unable to ignore Roger. The truth is, in those first four months all Mark wants to do was film until he had something worth showing. The only thing between Mark and becoming a crazed homeless man on the street muttering about scenes and angles is Roger and Collins. The anarchist to babble on about Society and Capitalize and Important Ideas that make Mark think, that give him an ideal he wants to live up to. The rock star to make sure that, every now and then, Mark talked to people instead of just watched them from the other side of the camera.
Eventually, so subtly Mark isn’t even sure when it happens, they becomes friends. After they push the sex out of their minds and try and get along something just clicks into place. Who can really say why two people become friends, but in the end Mark is glad it happens. Roger is a good guy, sweeter than he lets on at first. He smiles and laughs a lot, and he doesn’t mind showing Mark around the city or picking him up when he gets lost. Mark really isn’t sure what Roger sees in him, but it’s nice to have someone care enough to yank the camera out of his hands every now and then, no matter how much Mark complains when he does it.
Even after they settle into a comfortable friendship there is part of him that, well, obviously, still sort of likes him maybe in less of a friendly way. Okay, some nights when Mark is laying up on the couch he hears Roger and April moaning and, well, boys with their bodies. It just sort of happens. Not his fault. It’s just, well, Roger sounds pornographic when he’s groaning and crying out, and the things he says… It leaves Mark hard, which is perfectly normal for any teenage guy.
Right, yeah. Jerking off to the sounds of your roommates having sex falls right into the realm of normal. But as long as he is lying there, hard and awake, he might as well be doing something. So he closes his eyes and bites his lips and pretends he is in that room, pressed between those two bodies again.
He’s aware it’s unhealthy, to be harboring sexual fantasies about your friends, but he can’t get himself to stop. He could just disappear into his work. Mark knows he can do it, but of course Roger is there to tear the camera from his hands.
There is this one night where they’re at a club. Mark really isn’t sure what it’s called or why they’re here. He just knows that his camera has been taken from him, and now he wants to have fun. Regardless of what Roger thinks, he doesn’t have to force Mark to have fun. Mark enjoys himself, really, and he likes making a scene when he’s with his friends. Once, in high school, Mark and Vince jumped on a table and kissed in the middle of the cafeteria. It was to prove some sort of point, but Mark doesn’t remember what. There is pot and alcohol swearing around in his brain, and at the moment ideals don’t matter so much as the excitement of it all.
So they’re at a club, and he and Collins are laughing about something. He isn’t sure what, but it makes his gut hurt it’s so funny. Mark is having fun tonight, smiling and dancing (“spazzing,” Collins calls it and Mark ignores him because he doesn’t care how he looks) and now talking with Collins. Not about art or philosophy or bohemia, but just talking the way that friends can. Enjoying life, making each other laugh. The night is perfect.
Then Roger is there, with his arms wrapped around Mark. He recognizes the rock star’s smell, strong and dark like the laugh in his ear. “Come and dance again,” Roger says, trying to tug him away from Collins and the bar. Collins waves him off, and Mark goes willingly.
“You and I both suck at dancing,” Mark reminds Roger. “Why do you want to humiliate ourselves?” It’s more harmless jibes than anything else. Obviously Mark is coming with him, letting Roger move them together, his arms still wrap around him, still pressing up to his back. Mark never complains.
They fall into a weird rhythm, nothing like the music or others around them, and neither seems to care. “It’s fun,” Roger answers, voice rumbling through Mark’s ear. And it is fun, just being yourself with your friends, so Mark doesn’t stop him. Not even when Roger stops dancing all together, with his body pressed into Mark and his hands stroking across the strip of skin between his shirt and pants. Right now he should be stopping him, but something keeps Mark in Roger’s arms, head tipping back against Roger’s shoulder as rough lips press against his jaw and down his neck.
Mark can’t exactly ignore the way Roger is rubbing against him, erection trapped by his jeans and digging against Mark’s back. He should stop, because now they’re friends and you don’t throw away friendship for groping on the dance floor. Only for as much as he chants ‘just friends’ in his mind, it feels so fucking good to have Roger biting into his neck as he unsnaps the front of Mark’s jeans, hand sliding down past his boxers.
Mark gasps and arches up against those rough fingers. His mind is racing with the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this but, oh, fuck that’s good, God, Roger’s thumb pressed against the head and he isn’t stopping him now. He wants to be bohemian, right, and that means sexual freedom. Means whatever Roger wants it to so long as he don’t stop stroking him, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his neck as his hand twists around Mark’s cock.
In the middle of the floor, Mark starts to moan. “More,” he says, licking at his lips and whimpering softly as Roger squeezes him hard, almost painful but not enough to stop Mark from rocking into that hand. He can feel the lights pass over them and the noise of people around them and it just heightens everything. Fuck them if they think Mark and Roger are wrong for this. Mark is making a statement, a point about sexual expression or something. A statement about how much he’s needed Roger after all those nights of listening to him and April only a room away.
He reaches around to Roger, nails buried in his jeans as he comes. Mark barely holds back a scream, arching against Roger and spilling into his hand. He closes his eyes, lights dancing behind the lids as the heat continues humming through him, Roger’s hand still moving over him as the spasms slowly come to a stop. Then there is a lighter weight pressing up to him. Almost like waking from sleep, Mark opens his eyes and there is April’s bright smile. “Glad you kept yourself entertained,” she says, leaning over Mark to kiss Roger.
Right. She’s April, the girlfriend. And he’s Mark, the best friend. He needs to start remembering those.
Roger lets him go and Mark stumbles back to the bar, panting and tripping over himself as he tries to get himself back together again. It’s been months since Roger has touched him, which is better than years but still, and it’s even been months since Mark has had anyone but his own hand. He’s shaking a bit as he reaches the bar, not sure what to feel or think. Some moments throw you off like that.
“That was pretty amazing,” a voice says, drifting over the loud music and into Mark’s ear. He turns around and there is a girl. She’s got a wide smile that shows off her teeth, almost predator but lighter than that. She’s pretty, yes. Not so pretty that Mark can’t look away. Not even Roger-pretty, and he smiles at the term. Roger-pretty. But she is, in many ways, beautiful under the wild lighting of the club in her bight shirt and tight leather pants.
“Thanks,” Mark says, his own voice still broken. He knows what she is referring to, of course, and her eyes keep falling to the stain on her jeans so it’s easy to tell. He isn’t ashamed. He isn’t even embarrassed. Why should he be when he just got an amazing hand job, and who cares who saw that? He’s more confused then anything else.
The girl turns, looking behind her. “Your boyfriend looks like he got bored.” Roger is warped around April again, their hips sliding against one another. Sex with clothes on.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Mark answers, not bitter or anything. It’s just true.
“Fuck buddies?” The girl asks, raising an eyebrow. As if she doesn’t think Mark is capable of having fuck buddies. A lot of people get that opinion of him, and Mark doesn’t mind too much. Honestly, he isn’t against it. He just doesn’t have time for fuck buddies. He has a film to make.
“Roommates,” he tells the girl, and at her suspicious look he adds, “We’re close.”
The girl tips her head back and giggles, snorting just a bit, and Mark can’t help but smile back. She looks prettier, he realizes, when she isn’t trying so hard. “I’m Maureen.”
“Mark,” he answers, holding out his hand for her. She smiles and moves closer, but doesn’t take his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“How long until you ask me to dance?” She asks with a cock of her head. Her eyes gleam in the God-awful lighting of the club. She’s already pulling him back and he lets her lead. It’s since, just to have someone take interest in him, and he likes the way she smiles and laughs and likes him even with the wet spot on his jeans. “I won’t even ask you for a hand job.”
*
Yet another fun filled day in the city.
There had been a point when he first came to New York, almost seven long months ago, that Mark would be walking up with a bounce in his step. Now he’s dragging himself up the street, hands curled around his chest to try and keep the warmth in. He’s spent all day walking around the city looking for something that would inspire him, that would jump out at him from all the dinginess and dirt and be his inspiration. After the failure of his last script, he needs something that is going to raise his spirits up again. Something with a part for Maureen.
Maureen. Mark winces just thinking about her. She’s so wild and contagious and beautiful. She draws people in, gets them hooked and then what chance do they have? They have to love her. Mark is an observer, though, and he sees through some of her layers of confidences to the girl inside the needs to be reassured, to feel loved. So, okay, maybe telling her she was ruining his film hadn’t been the smartest thing in the world. Yeah, to put it bluntly, he’s an idiot. And it isn’t Maureen’s fault, not all of it, but Mark had just been so upset. With his dad on the phone, telling him he is ruining his life and his films not working. He’d been stressed, and she’d been whining, and well…
She’d come back. Mark is dependable, always taking her back and he loves her, she knows that. She’d come back. He just has to wait it out, maybe buy her something. Not that he has the money to buy her anything, but he’d find a way to make it up to her.
Mark turns the corner back towards the loft. Not that he’s anxious to get home. Unless Collins has miraculously come up with a few more bundles of firewood, it will be just as cold up there as it is on the street. Plus, Roger might be in one of his moods. In the past few months Mark has found that Roger tends to crash every now and then, just fall to pieces. He’ll sit like a statue, staring deadpan out the window and hardly breathing at all. Nothing Mark says or does can make him smile, or even act half way excited about anything. Only April can get him to do anything when he’s like that, and Mark has no idea how she does it. Or why Roger’s eyes glaze over, or why there are needles in the trash. He spends all his time filming. How can he be expected to notice those things?
He’s almost to the steps when he finally notices the girl standing by the side of the road. Her curly hair is familiar even from behind as she waits on the corner, shifting from side to side. Mark can see the goosebumps crawling up her legs, disappearing beneath her too-short skirt. “Jesus, April,” he says, stopping at the front door. April turns, arms crossed over her chest, which is also… Cold. Mark can’t help it if that is where his eyes are drawn. She’s standing there in a tight white dress shirt unbuttoned to her bra and a small, plaid skirt. She looks like some kind of catholic schoolgirl from a porn movie, and Mark is only human. When he manages to get his eyes back to her face (and she is smiling, because she knows) he asks, “Aren’t you freezing?”
April, clearly more than a little chilled, just shrugs. Like she’s use to standing outside in November wearing next to nothing. “I’m fine,” she says, even though it looks like it aches when she pulls one arm away from her chest to wave Mark inside. “Just waiting for Roger.”
Mark raises an eyebrow, opening the door and almost stepping into the building. “You can’t wait inside?” Not that it is much better, but at least it is out of the wind. April looks ready to collapse, and as much as she and Roger may love each other, freezing to death is no way to show it.
April just keeps standing there, shifting her weight a bit to keep from freezing in place but otherwise not moving. She smiles a bit, that same smile she used the first day that Mark just followed along after. Both she and Roger seem to have that same, wicked smile. Only Roger’s has this underlining almost endearing uncertainty. Like Maureen, hiding away her need to be loved. April’s smile is all sex and mischief and its no wonder Roger is in love with her. “Well, it’s sort of a game.”
“What?” Mark asks, eyebrow going higher. “Is he standing around the corner trying to see who loses a toe first?”
April’s laugh fills the street, a burning and melodic sound like Roger’s music. “It’s not that cold,” she says, her smile becoming a bit less seductive, more playful. Mark has come up with this theory, as weird as it is, that April taught Roger that first smile, the one that is all about looking so beautiful and wild, and he taught her this one. This friendly, open one that looks so good on Roger because he looks like an over grown kid when he wears it. “Just wait until February.”
“I lived in Scarsdale,” he reminds her. It isn’t like he never faced a New York winter before. It’s just that usually he has heating, and his mom to but him a new coat and sweater every year instead of him having to steal one that had been laying around the loft, that is too big for him and bulky and torn up. Better than nothing. He turns back towards the door, stepping inside but still holding the door open. He feels guilty just leaving April standing there. “What are you two playing that involves you freezing to death, anyway?”
Back to the first, dangerous smile. “It’s too grown up for you,” she says in an almost motherly voice. As if April could manage to ever look motherly, especially in what she is wearing. She likes teasing him about the fact that he is the baby of the loft. He’s the youngest one, and the newest to the city. The baby, April insists even if Mark isn’t the one who pouts (Maureen) or throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way (Roger). She won’t leave him alone about it, though, and Mark doesn’t bother arguing.
Still, this time he frowns a little. What could she be doing out here that Mark is too young for? It isn’t like he’s some completely innocent, fresh-faced kid. Mark has proved on plenty of occasions that despite being a little more withdrawn then the others, he can be just as perverted as any of them. “What are you talking about?”
“You really want to know?” April teases, rolling her shoulders out so that her chest is even more obvious, her eyes gleaming with wicked intentions and it’s then that Mark just knows this involves sex. “Maybe if you join us, I’ll let you in on the secret.”
Mark would swear that the only reason April says that is to get him to back off. It’s not like he’s told anyone, though, about that promise to himself that he isn’t going to do anything remotely sexual with Roger ever again. They’re friend now, really good friends, and Mark knows better than to ruin that for a hand job on the dance floor. “Err… No,” he says, shaking his head and backing even further into the building. “That’s okay. Maureen’s enough for me.”
“You’re not actually with Maureen right now, are you?” April points out, taking a step close, almost purring. She must catch the glimpse of hurt, because the next second she has the sense to back off. “Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “Just try not to be in the living room when Roger gets home.”
Mark lets the door fall closed as he turns and heads up the stairs. He doesn’t know when Roger is planning on getting home, but he goes into his room just in case it’s soon. He doesn’t want to get caught up in whatever the hell the two of them are doing. Well, the real problem lays in the fact that he does, but he knows he shouldn’t and… God, why is sex and friendship so fucked up? Why can’t it just be like it had been in high school, where you could jerk your best friend off with no repercussions?
Because Maureen. Because Mark doesn’t want to screw up even more with her. He doesn’t think Roger would mind the casual slip-ups, the occasional blowjobs or whatever. Maureen, though. Mark sighs, sitting down on his bed and flipping open a notebook filled with half finished and crossed through scripts as he tries to distract himself from those serious thoughts. He isn’t going to hurt Maureen just because he has some weird fascination with Roger. One that is about more than sex with friends, and that scares him enough that he’s determined not to let himself slip.
He puts his pen down against the lined paper, waiting for the words to flow into some beautiful, meaningful work. Of course they don’t, but he keeps his pen tapping against the sheet and just keeps hoping. Maybe he can fuel his script by hope alone. That seems to be what is keeping him alive these days, what with the lack of real food and what not. It could damn well work for the film, too.
He’s busy imagination his life is still “going places” when he hears it. The giggling, the slow growl, the door squeaking as it’s pushed open. Mark furrows his brow, concentrating harder on the paper. He’s work through worse, he tells himself as he hears the dull thud of skin against wall, April’s giggling cutting of for a moment. He’s lived here for months. He should be use to this. He’ll just keep working and pay no attention to Roger and April doing whatever it is they’re doing.
Kissing, from the sound of it, and Mark can’t believe he can actually pick up the sound of lips smacking together. This is disgusting. April’s giggling starts up again just as Mark bites his lip and leans over his notebook with a new found determination to ignore them. “I don’t know,” she purrs, her voice muffled but still managing to slip under the crack of Mark’s door. “I’ve never really… done it before.”
Mark raises an eyebrow, scribbling across his page. Did April just suggest she is a virgin? What universe is this? The one where Mark is a hard working, cold and callused businessman and Roger is his secretary - skirt and all? He smiles a bit at the image of Roger ever doing anything he asked. Yeah, that sounds about the same likelihood as April passing as innocent.
“It’s okay,” Roger answers, voice a gruff growl and followed by a low moan from April. Mark keeps his eyes wide open, forcing his avid imagination not to picture what they’re doing. Write. He needs to write. “I know you want it, you little slut. Look how wet you are.”
Mark’s eyebrow goes higher. What the hell are they… They aren’t? They are! Mark groans, squeezing his eyes shut and resisting the urge to bang it back against the headboard. He can’t believe this. “Oh,” April is shrieking, and now he can imagine her perfectly in that skirt, probably riding Roger’s thigh and grabbing at his hand as it tugs at her underwear. If she’s even wearing any. “But I don’t know if I can take that whole thing.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters, covering his face with his hands and trying not to scream. It’s like a bad porno is being taped right outside his door. God, if they’re going to do this, couldn’t they at least get some decent dialogue? Better yet, couldn’t they just watch a porn video and then screw?
“Mm… I know you want to suck on this, baby.”
Why couldn’t he have normal roommates that looked at pictures of girls and horses?
Mark falls back onto the bed with a soft grown, scrubbing at his face as if he can clean the pictures his imagination is bringing up out of his mind. April and Roger start whispering to each other and pretty soon there is the ruffle of clothes and doors swinging open as they two stumble into Roger’s room. Mark can hear all of it, of course. He shuts his eyes, like that will help to block it out when honestly it just makes it worse. Because now he’s imagine Roger setting April on bed with a dark look burning up his intense green eyes. In the bedroom, Mark can hear him. Like his stage voice when he’s howling at the microphone, and it makes him shiver hearing it so close. Mark’s always loved Roger’s voice when he sings, and now the music and sex are blending in his mind, and suddenly the bad dialogue doesn’t matter. Roger doesn’t need the perfect lines when he has that voice.
April shrill voice fills the room. “I don’t know,” she says, Roger’s moan blending in with her words. “What if I can’t take it all?” Part of Mark is disgusted by this, but mostly the words have stopped mattering. It’s all in the tone, the honesty and the low lust that makes their voices turn dark. The more he listens the harder it gets to concentrate on his script, and, well, the harder everything gets. It doesn’t help thinking about how wrong it is to listen to his friends having some sort of weird sexual fantasy in the next room and getting turned on by listening. Mark is so screwed up, and he knows it because the idea of how wrong it is just makes him want it more.
This is exactly the sort of thing his mother would never approve of.
Mark stops thinking about his mom and leans back in bed, undoing his jeans as quickly as he can as he hears Roger growling at April. He closes his eyes tight and then it’s Roger growling at him, rough fingers wrapped around Mark’s cock, moving over him slowly, teasing as he says, “You like that?”
Roger with that dark growl, intense eyes, hand wrapped in Mark’s hair as he slams him back against the bed.
“God, yes,” April moans, and over in his bedroom Mark mouths the words. One hand goes up, grabbing into the headrest as he lifts his hips off the bed, pumping into his hand which has somehow become April’s mouth around him as she looks up at him through those long lashes, and Roger smiles down at her over Mark’s shoulder as he kisses his ear.
The other room fades out expect for grunts and moans, and Mark’s mind is playing with those sounds, twisting them into his fantasy and making his cock that much more sensitive under his hand. Roger growling in his ear, telling April what to do as his fingers graze down Mark’s back, brushing along his ass. Mark moans, pumping into April’s mouth and back against Roger’s fingers - scarred from the guitar strings and rough against Mark’s skin.
“Harder,” April screams and Mark bites at his lip too keep from echoing her as Roger, his Roger, spreads his legs and pulls Mark up against his lap, slamming into him. The picture morphs in Mark’s hand, and he doesn’t care how they got on Roger’s bed with Mark riding his cock, Roger’s hands tight on his waist as April curls his hands in Mark’s hair and pulls him closer, moaning as Mark’s tongue slides inside her.
Mark’s fingers cut into the cheap paint of his head board, the bed pounding back against the wall as he rolls his hips back, whimpering at the way Roger is thrusting up into him. He tightens his hand around himself, and in the other room Roger is groaning loud enough that it rings in Mark’s ears. Then April is gone and Roger is on his knees as Mark pulls them together. He can’t hold back a moan as he thrust into Roger, and the rock star shudders and pushes back against Mark’s cock, groaning, “Fuck, just like that.”
Mark arches off the mattress as he comes to Roger’s voice in the other room, moaning for April.
*
The phone starts ringing, and Mark considers just ignoring it. He’s determined to, really, setting his jaw in a tight line and staring down at the notebook open in front of him as he waits for an idea on his script to hit. Like ideas do, or are supposed to from how Mark understands it. His never seem to just come to him like that. More of get dragged onto paper, kicking and screaming.
It’s probably his mom, Mark figures, calling to ask if he’s been mugged, beaten, jailed, or eaten alive by cannibals. He isn’t sure how he would answer in the phone in some of these cases, but she calls to ask anyway.
This time, though, Mark considers just letting the phone ring. He doesn’t want to talk about how he is doing. There are some things his mom doesn’t need to know. Like… Like about Maureen. Mark, he loves her. He worships her. He adores her. He… needs to spend more time with her instead of working. But just because he spends more time filming than with Maureen doesn’t mean he loves her any less.
According to Maureen and the last fight they had, it does.
The damn phone is still ringing. They just cleared the machine, and it seems to take at least half and hour before it bothers to pick up when it’s cleared. Roger couldn’t stand it beeping at them anymore though, telling them that Mark’s mom had called some seven hundred times in the last five minutes.
The longer this phone rings, the further from his script his thoughts manage to run. Back to his home, where he’d rather not be right now. Or ever again. He wants to be independent, artistic. He wants to change the world.
Hard to do when you’re mom is calling to ask if you have fresh underwear.
The answering machine finally picks up with a long beep, and Mark sinks back into the couch already wincing. He knows what is coming next.
“Hey, Mark.” Wait. That is not the voice of a worried Jewish mother whose only son has run off to live with a bunch of possible murder drug addicts in New York City. Mark stares at the answering machine, almost expecting this to be some sort of trick so that he’ll pick up the phone. “Look, when you get home just call me-“
Mark sets down his pen and grabs the phone. “Hey,” he says, his own voice echoing through the loft from the machine as it keeps recording. Roger is going to have a fit when he has to listen through this whole conversation just to delete this one message. “Why are you calling?”
There is some mild shifting on the other side, like he’d been about to hang up. “Mark,” Benny says, sounding just like Mark remembered him. “Good to know this is the right number, at least.”
“Sorry about that,” Mark says as he sits back onto the couch, giving up on his notebook and the unfinished script inside for now. It’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to talk with his college roommate. He always liked Benny, too. He’d been one of the more sympathetic people at Brown. Most of them were either rich and could care less about Mark or snobbish art students who didn’t like any work but their own. Benny is different, and Mark had tried to keep in touch. After the first few months of living here, though, it slipped away from him. He just got swept up in the life of the City. “We screen.”
“Bill collectors really that bad up there?” Benny asks, and Mark can hear the smile in his voice. At least he’s doing okay.
“Mom is that bad is more like it,” Mark explains, rolling his eyes as Benny shamelessly laughs at him. Not that he expects anything different.
“I remember,” he answers, laughter slowly dying down. “What’s she hounding you about now that she can’t ask about grades?”
It’s a nice catch up conversation, just hearing about each other and what they’ve been doing. Better than sweating blood over his script. He concentrates his attention onto Benny, instead, trying to forget about all his failure. It’s not something he’s up for talking about, and he tries hard to avoid the question of how he’s film is going. He’s trying so hard to ignore the notebook on the table that he doesn’t hear Roger’s door open or the guitarist walk across the living room. He doesn’t notice him at all until the seat cushions are sinking down beside him.
Letting Benny talk on, Mark turns, jumping back a bit when he finds Roger right there beside him. The rock star gives him a cocky smile, arms spread out over the back of the couch as he lounges, taking up more than his fair share of the old thing. In his ear, Benny is still explaining about his last semester at Brown, but Mark’s attention is over to Roger, mouthing, “Who’s that?”
Mark sets his hand over the mouthpiece, leaning away from the phone and answering, “Benny.” He doesn’t really need to lean in. He doesn’t really need to hug Roger after every show, either, but he does. He feels guilty about it, sure, but it happens every time anyway.
Right now Roger smells crisp and clean, like April hasn’t been around all day and he showered this morning. That really isn’t something Mark should notice about his best friend.
Roger smiles like he knows. He hates when he does that. “Who?” He asks, a little louder and Mark leans back into the phone, holding up a finger.
“No,” he says, when Benny asks the same question. “It’s just my roommate, Roger.”
“Who?” Benny asks. Mark’s eyes dart to Roger, who is starting to scoot closer, giving Mark a curious look. Sometimes, Roger reminds him of a kid with how impulsive and curious he can be, not too mention the occasional fit.
“You remember, he’s the guy that invited me to live with him,” Mark explains, keeping his eyes on Roger as he leans in.
He jerks the phone back just as Roger asks, “And who is this?”
“Benny,” Mark explains, hand going back over the phone. “My old roommate from Brown. You remember.”
Roger nods, seeming to be satisfied for now so Mark goes back to his phone call. “Sorry, Benny,” he says. “So, your Senior Seminar guy was crazy, right?”
Benny can talk about his classes for ages, and Mark figures he’ll just settle into the couch and forget about his new and complicated life for a while now. That is, until he feels Roger tap him on the shoulder. With a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, Mark looks up at him, wondering what he could possibly want now. “What’s he want?” Roger asks, at least trying to stay quiet so that Benny can’t hear him.
“I don’t know,” Mark admits as he pulls away, letting Benny talk in one ear while he speaks with Roger. It’s just stuff about business school, so Mark doesn’t feel too bad. “Just called to catch up, I guess.”
“Mm…” Roger answers, still staring Mark down and he’s starting to wonder what this is about. Just Roger being Roger, he would guess. Still, those burning green eyes can make him feel uncomfortable, no matter what they’re doing. “So, you guys are friends?”
“Mm, yeah,” Mark asks, and now Roger is just asking circle questions to annoy him.
With this brilliant smile on his face, Roger wiggles his eyebrows. “More than friends?” He asks, that grin making him look almost wicked.
If it weren’t for everything Mark had done with Roger, he probably would have blushed. As it is, he manages just to roll his eyes, not giving away a thing. Only Roger is still grinning at him, so maybe he isn’t as good as he figured. “No,” he snaps, trying to go back to the conversation with Benny. At least trying not to give Roger anything else to go on.
It’s too late for that. Roger scoots closer until their legs are brushing together and it’s getting harder to ignore him when Mark can feel Roger’s breath against the back of his neck. “Mark and Benny sitting in a tree,” he sings in that low stage voice of his that he shouldn’t be using to mock Mark with.
Mark pulls back the phone again. “Oh, come on,” he says, trying to move away from Roger only to find the armrest digging into his side. “It wasn’t like that. It was just at college. We were horny teenage boys locked in a dorm room together. What do you think happened?”
Roger fucking beams at him.
“Mark?” Benny calls through the phone. Mark stops glaring at Roger for a moment, pressing the phone back up to his ear. “Mark, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Mark mutters, trying to look anywhere but Roger. It’s not like he isn’t use to the playful teasing by now, but Roger is right there and his grin is so fucking gorgeous and, well, Mark could think of better situations to be in. He has a girlfriend, for God sake. Maureen. Think of Maureen. Back at home visiting her parents, and she left when they were fighting and technically she’d said it was over so…
No. They’d been through this before. Maureen always came back to him. “What?” he asks Benny, turning as far from Roger as he can. He could have just gotten off the couch, moved away from him and solve this problem but he stays where he is, brushing up against Roger. Best friends. Girlfriend. Best friends. Girlfriend. A hundred reasons why he should move away.
“I was just saying, about my lease,” Benny explains, and he doesn’t sound the least bit suspicious. He has no idea about how closer Roger keeps leaning in, hot breath over Mark’s skin as he presses up to him. Trying to annoy him, and it is but in all the wrong ways. Of course, how could Benny know something like that? “I was thinking of moving down to New York.”
“That’d be great!” Mark exclaims and, yeah, maybe he acts a little too excited but he just needs a distraction right now from how warm Roger is pressed against him. What is he doing like that, anyway? That isn’t how friends are supposed to touch.
“Yeah.” At least Benny doesn’t say anything about it. “I already have this figured out. You know how you always complained about having editing equipment and how it’s so hard for indie filmmakers to get a hold of?” Roger’s hand creeps up his arm, making it really hard to ignore him. Mark turns back towards him, glaring a bit. “Well, I’ve thought about it and I think I’ve figured out how a company could really help that sort of artist and still make a fair profit.”
“What are you doing?” Mark asks Roger, hand back over the phone.
Roger is still smiling, like he hasn’t done anything wrong. “Is he still interested?”
It takes Mark a second to remember which conversation they’re having. “No.” He listens into the phone for a moment, and Benny is still going on about business so Mark figures he’s safe. “It was just a drunken college thing. He’s straight and I….”
If anything Roger’s smile gets even worse. “Was a bit little college slut?” He teases, purring dark and low as his eyes wrinkle up with the wicked grin.
Mark shouldn’t react, but something in Roger’s voice makes him shiver, licking at his lips as he tries to swallow and breath again after the slight hitch. It’s probably that smile, that low growling voice, those dark green eyes. Either way, it’s all unfair because Mark is a young guy with all the hormones and whatnot and shouldn’t have to be exposed to rock stars who know just how good they look.
Roger knows. Not just how attractive he is, but that Mark is thinking about him. He knows, and Mark can see it in his way-too-dangerous smile and if Mark had any sense he would get the hell off this couch before Roger started trouble.
He’s already started trouble, and now he’s just pushing to see how far Mark will bend for him. It’s like a game, with that playful smile lighting up his face as he leans in and Mark finds himself pressed up between the armrest and Roger’s warm body. “Do you give drunken blow jobs to all your roommates?” He asks, cold nose nuzzling up against the side of Mark’s face. Mark wiggles around under the contact. Not like it’s helping. Not like he shouldn’t just stand up and walk away. He just doesn’t.
He presses the phone closer to his ear. “Yeah, a CyberArt’s studio,” he says, trying to pick up on what Benny is talking about. “Sounds great.”
“With the proper sponsorship, it could really get off the ground.” Roger’s hand strokes along Mark’s knee, and his eyes go right to those long, rough fingers as they trace along his jeans. Soft, ghost like touches leaving Mark tense and shaking under the contact. “And I figure where better to start it up then New York.”
“Makes sense,” Mark mutters, biting at his lip as his eyes follow Roger’s hand to his thigh, tracing circles over the denim. He can hardly feel the touch at all, nothing more the slight press of his jeans down against his skin, but it’s enough to have Mark’s heart skip a few beats.
“It’s going to be great.” Roger’s fingers curl around the crotch of his jeans and - Oh! He should stop this. Think of Maureen. Maureen who left him and told him to jerk off to his camera so much. No! No, just another fight they’d get over it and in the mean time Mark just has to not let Roger rub him off through his jeans, oh God that feels good. “A real blessing to guys like you.”
Mark’s free hand grabs for the back of the couch, holding onto the fabric tight enough to tear it open as he arches his hips off the cushion, riding against the pressure of Roger’s palm. He’s trying to keep from panting, pressing the phone hard into his ear like he can still pay attention to Benny while rubbing up against that hand. And because Roger knows, he squeezes him through the jeans, smirking as Mark bites down to hold back any sound. “Yeah…” He says, voice too breathless but he can’t help that. “Yeah, sounds great.”
“And I figured where better to put it than Alphabet City, home of the starving artist. Exactly the people who need it.” Roger continues grinning, undoing Mark’s jeans and warm fingers closing around him again, heat sinking in past the thin material of his boxers. Mark pulls the phone away just in time to whimper, thrashing around on the couch as he rocks up into that hand. The phone nearly falls to the ground as Mark pushes back into Roger’s hand, ignoring for now how fucking cocky he looks when he’s got Mark like this.
“It’s not you,” Mark growls, slightly broken by the low mewl as Roger squeezes again, rough fingers rubbing over Mark. “Just… Just been a while.” Only four days since his and Maureen’s last fight. He should at least hold out more than four days, but it’s not like they’re together and Roger is here, kneading up against Mark’s cock and what can he do but buck up against that contact?
Roger just keeps that confident smirk pasted on his face as he leans in, hot breath against Mark’s lips. “It is me,” he says, a hint of laughter edging his voice as he presses his hand back against the roll of Mark’s hips. “And you know it.”
Mark glares at him, turning back to the phone. “Benny, look…” I can’t talk right now. I’m getting a hand job from my best friend.
“So it’s okay then?” Benny asks, and Mark nearly gasps in reply. Or, really, replies to Roger as he leans in, tongue moving around his ear. Gently strokes, lapping at the skin before biting, teasing with his teeth and hot mouth and, God… Mark shuts his eyes, jaw tight as he tries not to whimper into the phone. “I can move in with you guys?”
Mark bites down on his lower lip, trying to stop himself from shaking as Roger’s hand presses up against his erection, rubbing him through his boxers. His warm breath sprawls out against Mark’s skin, mouth closing over his ear as he slides it into Mark’s ear, and this time it’s impossible to hold back a shaky moan as he leans into Roger. “Mark?” Benny still calling out to him, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything but Roger’s body pressed against his, hand on his cock and tongue thrusting into his ear. Roger moans, soft and dark and right against Mark’s skin, hips moving until he’s rubbing up against Mark’s thigh. Tangled up on the couch together, and Mark never wants to move so long as Roger keeps touching him like that.
Bodies twisted together on the couch, stroking and licking and just trying to touch each other as much as possible. “Mark?”
Mark swallows hard, mewling softly as he pulls back from Roger’s hand, the rock star’s growl making him shiver as he grabs for Mark again. “Benny,” Mark says, to himself as much as Roger. He doesn’t need to be doing this. Especially not with his old friend on the phone. He looks down to Roger, meeting his dark and narrowed eyes that tell Mark exactly how much he doesn’t like being forced to stop. Still, Mark holds the phone back into place, clearing his throat before he tries to speak again. “Listen, I have to…” Get off with my best friend. “Call you back.”
“Can I at least get an answer so I know if I should be looking around for some place else or not?” Benny asks, and doesn’t he realize Mark hadn’t been following this conversation at all? How can he be expected to listen to his friend talk about business when he has Roger hard and smirking and on his lap, tongue thrusting into his ear while his hand sneaks back down his stomach, brushing against the tip of his erection. Oh, fuck… Mark’s head tips back, breath hitching as Roger drags a nail over the sensitive skin and, God…
“Wh-what?” He asks, and Roger takes his open neck as permission to begin kissing down to his shoulders, teeth scrapping over the pale stretch of skin. His free hand creeps up Mark’s shirt, groping like a teenage boy, nails raking over his nipple and - Fuck, don’t moan don’t moan… Mark whines, twisting under Roger, pushing into his hands. He decides whatever it is Benny is talking about, it can’t be important. “Yeah, sure.” Anything to get off the phone.
“That’s great!” God, it is… Especially when Roger’s biting into his shoulder, sucking around the skin while the pads of his fingers ghosting down the trail of Mark’s stomach. Mark swallows hard, catching the moan in the back of his throat.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down at Roger and grabbing his hand, trying to push it lower. “Later.” Blindingly reaching behind him, Mark slams the phone back in place, probably into place. Doesn’t fucking matter. Right now what matters is Roger’s rough hand and the way the pressure is hot and coiled in Mark’s cock, waiting for some sort of release.
The second the phone is away Roger pulls up, and Mark swears if this is just some sort of game he’s going to kill Roger. But he’s still wearing that smirk, the one where he knows that Mark wants this too much, more than any friend should. He’ll feel guilty about it later. When Roger isn’t just as hard as he is and kneeling between his legs. “Much better,” he purrs, reaching out for Mark.
Mark lets himself get pulled up, lips slamming together for a messy, rough kiss. It doesn’t really matter if his lips end up swollen and bruised from this. Mark claws at Roger’s shirt, trying to get it the hell out of the way for just a little more skin. Roger is pushing him back, off the couch and Mark just follows, breaking the kiss and gasping for air as his feet hit the ground. “Get these the fuck off,” Roger growls, hands going to his jeans and boxers, tugging them down and Mark steps out of them as quickly as possible, nearly losing his balance in all of this.
Actually does lose his balance when Roger tries to pull off his shirt. Mark winces as his back hits the table, the steel top digging into his spine. “Careful!” He says, reaching around to try and massage the spot as Roger tears off his own clothes.
He isn’t really expecting it, then, when Roger shoves him hard back up against the table. “Wimp,” he says, teasing for all of a second before their mouths are back together in another harsh kiss that leaves Mark whimpering. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into Roger, but he isn’t arguing with it. Just going along with the ride, letting Roger lead as his hands run across Mark’s chest, stroking and scrapping and touching every inch before making it to his hips.
Mark just tries to stay with the kiss. He grabs for Roger’s hair, tugging him forward and moaning as their tongues slide together. Roger’s nails dig into his legs, pulling them up around his waist, and Mark pulls at him, moaning into his mouth as their cocks rub up against each other. He could probably come, just rolling their hips together like this and it doesn’t matter how pathetic that is, the way Roger feels pressed against him is enough to make Mark forget that he isn’t a desperate puberty-stricken teenager anymore.
When Roger pulls out of the kiss, Mark moans and leans in, trying to follow his lips. He’s quickly snapped out of that when Roger grabs him, turning him around and shoving him up against the table. “Shit,” Mark says, coughing as his stomach slams into the edge and that is not the right fucking way to get him off.
Roger leans in, kissing his ear and smacking his ass lightly, almost playfully. “Stay there,” he growls. Still wincing, Mark grabs at the edges of the table, not really having to imagine what’s happening next.
Only then Roger is gone, and Mark hears a door open somewhere behind them. Frowning, he opens his eyes and turns around. “Roger?” This is not fucking funny, he wants to scream. He’s hard as fuck and Roger isn’t allowed to tease and then just run off.
Roger comes back out of his bedroom, small bottle in his hands. “Told you to stay still,” he says, but he’s grinning as he sets the bottle down on the table next to Mark, his hands already slick with the stuff. Mark bites at his lip, turning back around. Maybe he should make some effort to say something about one of the hundreds of reasons why this may not be the best idea.
Roger’s finger presses up against him, and no, no there is no reason why Mark shouldn’t enjoy this. He can feel Roger’s chest press against his back, warm breath back in Mark’s ear as a single finger circles around his entrance, barely pressing in. “Spread your legs,” Roger whispers, tongue flicking out to run along his ear. Mark shivers, pressing himself closer to that finger, legs sliding apart. Like he really needs to be told at this point.
No one else is here but Roger, and with the way he smiles he already knows that Mark couldn’t care less how he looks so desperate, couldn’t care less about a whole lot so long as there is sex involved. Just because he’s an artist doesn’t mean he’s not a guy. He shouldn’t be expected to say no when Roger has him pressed up against a table.
Since Roger isn’t moving, Mark does. He grabs the table, nails scrapping along the already marred up metal as he slides back against Roger’s finger. “You need to relax,” Roger says, biting and playing with his ear again as he holds his hand still, waiting for Mark to push himself back. And he does, shamelessly, pressing down against Roger’s hand until he’s whimpering softly. Roger still doesn’t move. Just licks around Mark’s ear, whispering words of encouragement as Mark rocks his hips back down, until soft whimpers turn to moans and a second finger is pressed inside him.
He keeps moving back, ignoring the slight ache as he pushes down against the fingers. Thrust get more confident, his nails scratching up the underside of the table as he steadies himself, hips bucking up as he rocks down hard, letting himself be pushed on by the dark moans and whisper in his ear. His feet slide further apart as he twists back against Roger’s hand, slamming himself against the rough pads. “Fuck!” Mark’s stomach hits the table as he falls forward, rocking back harder as Roger starts thrusting back against him, curling his fingers to rub up against that spot until Mark is whimpering, tears clinging to his lashes. Fucking himself back against those fingers with a messy, sloppy pace. Doesn’t matter, just that each thrust makes his cock aching and leaves him moaning for more.
He isn’t sure how he manages to let go of the table, but his own hand is wrapping around his cock, rubbing himself as he rocks back against Roger. Fuck, just a little more… Just a little more and Roger grabs his hand, slamming it back against the table.
Mark wants to protest but all he can manage is a whimper. A condom wrapper flutters down next to his face, the bottle being thrown recklessly across the room when Roger’s finished with it. Mark whimpers, trying to pick himself back up, nearly collapsing to the floor. Doesn’t matter, because the next minute Roger’s arms are wrapped around his stomach, holding him against the table. “God, yes,” moaned right in his ear as Roger pushes inside him.
Mark tries not to tense up, but he can’t stop his body from reacting when Roger thrusts inside him, groaning into his ear. With a small growl, Mark grabs for one of Roger’s hands, pulling it down to his cock. He whimpers, squirming around beneath Roger as he leans into Mark, pressing his overheated skin up against the cold tabletop. And Roger, he takes his time, lazily stroking Mark like there is no hurry. Like Mark hasn’t been hard since Roger first climbed onto the couch next to him.
“Asshole,” Mark growls, the sound turning to a soft mewl as he tries bucking up against Roger’s light touches.
Roger grabs for his hips, holding Mark back against the table. “You’ll get there,” he promises, biting down on his ear as he starts to rock their hips together. His thrust quickly get rougher, pushing Mark hard against the table and against his hand as it wraps around his cock, rough fingers squeezing him hard and Mark cries out loud enough for anyone in the building to hear as he’s slammed up to the side of the table.
It’s harder than he’s use to, the way Roger fucks him back against the cold metal and Mark can’t do anything but moan and twist beneath him. Wouldn’t do anything because his hand feels so fucking good so nothing else really matters. Only the way Roger rocks against him it’s like he has something to prove or own or mark up. Who the fuck cares so long as he doesn’t stop.
Mark’s eyes screw shut, blood humming in his ear, burning through his body and he’s trapped in this messy rhythm, rocking back against Roger’s cock and into his hand. He wants to stay suspended like this, never mind the slight pain of bumping up into the table because everything else is perfect down to the heat coiled in his gut, the pressuring building in his cock as Roger’s fingers tighten around it. Mark’s nails almost dig through the metal of the table, holding on as his body tenses up, and all the sensations get to be took much and, “Fuck!” Mark jerks forward, body shaking as the orgasm rips through him, leaving him quivering and panting against the tabletop.
A few more erratic thrusts later and Roger is against his back, hot breath washing over Mark’s skin as he collapses. It’s not the best way to end way, pressed between a cold table and having Roger’s almost dead weight over him. Mark is too breathless to complain.
Somewhere, what seems like miles away, the phone rings.
Roger groans, nuzzling up to Mark’s skin. “So?” He asks, ignoring the ringing. Probably just Mark’s mom. That’s what they always assume. “Better than your old roommate?”
Mark frowns, not quite sure what Roger means by that. Anyway, he doesn’t want to be squashed between the table and Roger when he hears his mom’s voice. With a grunt, he starts to push himself out, wiggling away from Roger even when the weight on top of him growls from the movement. He rolls his eyes, wincing a bit when his sweat slick skin sticking to the metal top for a second.
There is a loud beep and a few seconds pause. “Mark?”
Roger pulls away from Mark. “Shit,” Mark says, running a hand through his hair like anyone can see him. Except for Roger, of course, and he doubt’s Roger cares if he looks a little sex rumbled.
“Mark. I just wanted to call and say how much I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean any of that, pookie.” Really, Roger isn’t looking at him at all. Just picking his clothes up from the floor as Mark dashes across the room to pick up the phone. Mark tries not to wonder. Tries not to think about any of this as he runs to get the phone before Maureen hangs up.
See? He just had to be patient and hold out for her. She always comes back.
Author: Mina (Gildedmuse)
Title: On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter: Two: Fucking & Fucking Up
Pairings: Mark/Roger (graphic), Mark/Roger/April (semi-graphic).
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 9,690
Warnings: S-E-X. All the really scary kinks are in the next chapter, though. Despite the fact that this one has NO plot (even, somehow, less then the first chapter) it managed to stay realativly kink free.
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that.
Additional Chapters: Additional Chapters: One: First Times & Blow Jobs, Two: Fucking & Fucking Up, Three: Scripts & Sickness, Four: Jealousy & Drinks, Five: Blindness & Bondage
Crossposted: fuckingartists,rentcubed,below14thstreet,2leather2dildos
On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter Two: Fucking & Fucking Up
A couple days (swearing he’ll be out soon, looking for a job) turns into a couple weeks (getting high and listening to Collins’ ramblings, helping Roger move a mattress they found in the street upstairs that becomes his bed) that pass by until Mark has been at the loft for four whole months. It turns out that finding his footing in New York is harder than he expected. Impossible is the word he would use.
Still, he loves the city with just as much fever as he had when he was younger. It’s turned into an obsession with becoming the artists he wants to be, with living the life he’s dreamed of, with proving his family wrong. So with a deep breath Mark buckles down and ignores all those little things like how he occasionally doesn’t eat and the water is broken so he hasn’t had the chance to shower in a week, and he just keeps pushing on.
There are some things that are harder to ignore. Like Roger.
Not that it’s always a bad thing, being unable to ignore Roger. The truth is, in those first four months all Mark wants to do was film until he had something worth showing. The only thing between Mark and becoming a crazed homeless man on the street muttering about scenes and angles is Roger and Collins. The anarchist to babble on about Society and Capitalize and Important Ideas that make Mark think, that give him an ideal he wants to live up to. The rock star to make sure that, every now and then, Mark talked to people instead of just watched them from the other side of the camera.
Eventually, so subtly Mark isn’t even sure when it happens, they becomes friends. After they push the sex out of their minds and try and get along something just clicks into place. Who can really say why two people become friends, but in the end Mark is glad it happens. Roger is a good guy, sweeter than he lets on at first. He smiles and laughs a lot, and he doesn’t mind showing Mark around the city or picking him up when he gets lost. Mark really isn’t sure what Roger sees in him, but it’s nice to have someone care enough to yank the camera out of his hands every now and then, no matter how much Mark complains when he does it.
Even after they settle into a comfortable friendship there is part of him that, well, obviously, still sort of likes him maybe in less of a friendly way. Okay, some nights when Mark is laying up on the couch he hears Roger and April moaning and, well, boys with their bodies. It just sort of happens. Not his fault. It’s just, well, Roger sounds pornographic when he’s groaning and crying out, and the things he says… It leaves Mark hard, which is perfectly normal for any teenage guy.
Right, yeah. Jerking off to the sounds of your roommates having sex falls right into the realm of normal. But as long as he is lying there, hard and awake, he might as well be doing something. So he closes his eyes and bites his lips and pretends he is in that room, pressed between those two bodies again.
He’s aware it’s unhealthy, to be harboring sexual fantasies about your friends, but he can’t get himself to stop. He could just disappear into his work. Mark knows he can do it, but of course Roger is there to tear the camera from his hands.
There is this one night where they’re at a club. Mark really isn’t sure what it’s called or why they’re here. He just knows that his camera has been taken from him, and now he wants to have fun. Regardless of what Roger thinks, he doesn’t have to force Mark to have fun. Mark enjoys himself, really, and he likes making a scene when he’s with his friends. Once, in high school, Mark and Vince jumped on a table and kissed in the middle of the cafeteria. It was to prove some sort of point, but Mark doesn’t remember what. There is pot and alcohol swearing around in his brain, and at the moment ideals don’t matter so much as the excitement of it all.
So they’re at a club, and he and Collins are laughing about something. He isn’t sure what, but it makes his gut hurt it’s so funny. Mark is having fun tonight, smiling and dancing (“spazzing,” Collins calls it and Mark ignores him because he doesn’t care how he looks) and now talking with Collins. Not about art or philosophy or bohemia, but just talking the way that friends can. Enjoying life, making each other laugh. The night is perfect.
Then Roger is there, with his arms wrapped around Mark. He recognizes the rock star’s smell, strong and dark like the laugh in his ear. “Come and dance again,” Roger says, trying to tug him away from Collins and the bar. Collins waves him off, and Mark goes willingly.
“You and I both suck at dancing,” Mark reminds Roger. “Why do you want to humiliate ourselves?” It’s more harmless jibes than anything else. Obviously Mark is coming with him, letting Roger move them together, his arms still wrap around him, still pressing up to his back. Mark never complains.
They fall into a weird rhythm, nothing like the music or others around them, and neither seems to care. “It’s fun,” Roger answers, voice rumbling through Mark’s ear. And it is fun, just being yourself with your friends, so Mark doesn’t stop him. Not even when Roger stops dancing all together, with his body pressed into Mark and his hands stroking across the strip of skin between his shirt and pants. Right now he should be stopping him, but something keeps Mark in Roger’s arms, head tipping back against Roger’s shoulder as rough lips press against his jaw and down his neck.
Mark can’t exactly ignore the way Roger is rubbing against him, erection trapped by his jeans and digging against Mark’s back. He should stop, because now they’re friends and you don’t throw away friendship for groping on the dance floor. Only for as much as he chants ‘just friends’ in his mind, it feels so fucking good to have Roger biting into his neck as he unsnaps the front of Mark’s jeans, hand sliding down past his boxers.
Mark gasps and arches up against those rough fingers. His mind is racing with the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this but, oh, fuck that’s good, God, Roger’s thumb pressed against the head and he isn’t stopping him now. He wants to be bohemian, right, and that means sexual freedom. Means whatever Roger wants it to so long as he don’t stop stroking him, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his neck as his hand twists around Mark’s cock.
In the middle of the floor, Mark starts to moan. “More,” he says, licking at his lips and whimpering softly as Roger squeezes him hard, almost painful but not enough to stop Mark from rocking into that hand. He can feel the lights pass over them and the noise of people around them and it just heightens everything. Fuck them if they think Mark and Roger are wrong for this. Mark is making a statement, a point about sexual expression or something. A statement about how much he’s needed Roger after all those nights of listening to him and April only a room away.
He reaches around to Roger, nails buried in his jeans as he comes. Mark barely holds back a scream, arching against Roger and spilling into his hand. He closes his eyes, lights dancing behind the lids as the heat continues humming through him, Roger’s hand still moving over him as the spasms slowly come to a stop. Then there is a lighter weight pressing up to him. Almost like waking from sleep, Mark opens his eyes and there is April’s bright smile. “Glad you kept yourself entertained,” she says, leaning over Mark to kiss Roger.
Right. She’s April, the girlfriend. And he’s Mark, the best friend. He needs to start remembering those.
Roger lets him go and Mark stumbles back to the bar, panting and tripping over himself as he tries to get himself back together again. It’s been months since Roger has touched him, which is better than years but still, and it’s even been months since Mark has had anyone but his own hand. He’s shaking a bit as he reaches the bar, not sure what to feel or think. Some moments throw you off like that.
“That was pretty amazing,” a voice says, drifting over the loud music and into Mark’s ear. He turns around and there is a girl. She’s got a wide smile that shows off her teeth, almost predator but lighter than that. She’s pretty, yes. Not so pretty that Mark can’t look away. Not even Roger-pretty, and he smiles at the term. Roger-pretty. But she is, in many ways, beautiful under the wild lighting of the club in her bight shirt and tight leather pants.
“Thanks,” Mark says, his own voice still broken. He knows what she is referring to, of course, and her eyes keep falling to the stain on her jeans so it’s easy to tell. He isn’t ashamed. He isn’t even embarrassed. Why should he be when he just got an amazing hand job, and who cares who saw that? He’s more confused then anything else.
The girl turns, looking behind her. “Your boyfriend looks like he got bored.” Roger is warped around April again, their hips sliding against one another. Sex with clothes on.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Mark answers, not bitter or anything. It’s just true.
“Fuck buddies?” The girl asks, raising an eyebrow. As if she doesn’t think Mark is capable of having fuck buddies. A lot of people get that opinion of him, and Mark doesn’t mind too much. Honestly, he isn’t against it. He just doesn’t have time for fuck buddies. He has a film to make.
“Roommates,” he tells the girl, and at her suspicious look he adds, “We’re close.”
The girl tips her head back and giggles, snorting just a bit, and Mark can’t help but smile back. She looks prettier, he realizes, when she isn’t trying so hard. “I’m Maureen.”
“Mark,” he answers, holding out his hand for her. She smiles and moves closer, but doesn’t take his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“How long until you ask me to dance?” She asks with a cock of her head. Her eyes gleam in the God-awful lighting of the club. She’s already pulling him back and he lets her lead. It’s since, just to have someone take interest in him, and he likes the way she smiles and laughs and likes him even with the wet spot on his jeans. “I won’t even ask you for a hand job.”
*
Yet another fun filled day in the city.
There had been a point when he first came to New York, almost seven long months ago, that Mark would be walking up with a bounce in his step. Now he’s dragging himself up the street, hands curled around his chest to try and keep the warmth in. He’s spent all day walking around the city looking for something that would inspire him, that would jump out at him from all the dinginess and dirt and be his inspiration. After the failure of his last script, he needs something that is going to raise his spirits up again. Something with a part for Maureen.
Maureen. Mark winces just thinking about her. She’s so wild and contagious and beautiful. She draws people in, gets them hooked and then what chance do they have? They have to love her. Mark is an observer, though, and he sees through some of her layers of confidences to the girl inside the needs to be reassured, to feel loved. So, okay, maybe telling her she was ruining his film hadn’t been the smartest thing in the world. Yeah, to put it bluntly, he’s an idiot. And it isn’t Maureen’s fault, not all of it, but Mark had just been so upset. With his dad on the phone, telling him he is ruining his life and his films not working. He’d been stressed, and she’d been whining, and well…
She’d come back. Mark is dependable, always taking her back and he loves her, she knows that. She’d come back. He just has to wait it out, maybe buy her something. Not that he has the money to buy her anything, but he’d find a way to make it up to her.
Mark turns the corner back towards the loft. Not that he’s anxious to get home. Unless Collins has miraculously come up with a few more bundles of firewood, it will be just as cold up there as it is on the street. Plus, Roger might be in one of his moods. In the past few months Mark has found that Roger tends to crash every now and then, just fall to pieces. He’ll sit like a statue, staring deadpan out the window and hardly breathing at all. Nothing Mark says or does can make him smile, or even act half way excited about anything. Only April can get him to do anything when he’s like that, and Mark has no idea how she does it. Or why Roger’s eyes glaze over, or why there are needles in the trash. He spends all his time filming. How can he be expected to notice those things?
He’s almost to the steps when he finally notices the girl standing by the side of the road. Her curly hair is familiar even from behind as she waits on the corner, shifting from side to side. Mark can see the goosebumps crawling up her legs, disappearing beneath her too-short skirt. “Jesus, April,” he says, stopping at the front door. April turns, arms crossed over her chest, which is also… Cold. Mark can’t help it if that is where his eyes are drawn. She’s standing there in a tight white dress shirt unbuttoned to her bra and a small, plaid skirt. She looks like some kind of catholic schoolgirl from a porn movie, and Mark is only human. When he manages to get his eyes back to her face (and she is smiling, because she knows) he asks, “Aren’t you freezing?”
April, clearly more than a little chilled, just shrugs. Like she’s use to standing outside in November wearing next to nothing. “I’m fine,” she says, even though it looks like it aches when she pulls one arm away from her chest to wave Mark inside. “Just waiting for Roger.”
Mark raises an eyebrow, opening the door and almost stepping into the building. “You can’t wait inside?” Not that it is much better, but at least it is out of the wind. April looks ready to collapse, and as much as she and Roger may love each other, freezing to death is no way to show it.
April just keeps standing there, shifting her weight a bit to keep from freezing in place but otherwise not moving. She smiles a bit, that same smile she used the first day that Mark just followed along after. Both she and Roger seem to have that same, wicked smile. Only Roger’s has this underlining almost endearing uncertainty. Like Maureen, hiding away her need to be loved. April’s smile is all sex and mischief and its no wonder Roger is in love with her. “Well, it’s sort of a game.”
“What?” Mark asks, eyebrow going higher. “Is he standing around the corner trying to see who loses a toe first?”
April’s laugh fills the street, a burning and melodic sound like Roger’s music. “It’s not that cold,” she says, her smile becoming a bit less seductive, more playful. Mark has come up with this theory, as weird as it is, that April taught Roger that first smile, the one that is all about looking so beautiful and wild, and he taught her this one. This friendly, open one that looks so good on Roger because he looks like an over grown kid when he wears it. “Just wait until February.”
“I lived in Scarsdale,” he reminds her. It isn’t like he never faced a New York winter before. It’s just that usually he has heating, and his mom to but him a new coat and sweater every year instead of him having to steal one that had been laying around the loft, that is too big for him and bulky and torn up. Better than nothing. He turns back towards the door, stepping inside but still holding the door open. He feels guilty just leaving April standing there. “What are you two playing that involves you freezing to death, anyway?”
Back to the first, dangerous smile. “It’s too grown up for you,” she says in an almost motherly voice. As if April could manage to ever look motherly, especially in what she is wearing. She likes teasing him about the fact that he is the baby of the loft. He’s the youngest one, and the newest to the city. The baby, April insists even if Mark isn’t the one who pouts (Maureen) or throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way (Roger). She won’t leave him alone about it, though, and Mark doesn’t bother arguing.
Still, this time he frowns a little. What could she be doing out here that Mark is too young for? It isn’t like he’s some completely innocent, fresh-faced kid. Mark has proved on plenty of occasions that despite being a little more withdrawn then the others, he can be just as perverted as any of them. “What are you talking about?”
“You really want to know?” April teases, rolling her shoulders out so that her chest is even more obvious, her eyes gleaming with wicked intentions and it’s then that Mark just knows this involves sex. “Maybe if you join us, I’ll let you in on the secret.”
Mark would swear that the only reason April says that is to get him to back off. It’s not like he’s told anyone, though, about that promise to himself that he isn’t going to do anything remotely sexual with Roger ever again. They’re friend now, really good friends, and Mark knows better than to ruin that for a hand job on the dance floor. “Err… No,” he says, shaking his head and backing even further into the building. “That’s okay. Maureen’s enough for me.”
“You’re not actually with Maureen right now, are you?” April points out, taking a step close, almost purring. She must catch the glimpse of hurt, because the next second she has the sense to back off. “Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “Just try not to be in the living room when Roger gets home.”
Mark lets the door fall closed as he turns and heads up the stairs. He doesn’t know when Roger is planning on getting home, but he goes into his room just in case it’s soon. He doesn’t want to get caught up in whatever the hell the two of them are doing. Well, the real problem lays in the fact that he does, but he knows he shouldn’t and… God, why is sex and friendship so fucked up? Why can’t it just be like it had been in high school, where you could jerk your best friend off with no repercussions?
Because Maureen. Because Mark doesn’t want to screw up even more with her. He doesn’t think Roger would mind the casual slip-ups, the occasional blowjobs or whatever. Maureen, though. Mark sighs, sitting down on his bed and flipping open a notebook filled with half finished and crossed through scripts as he tries to distract himself from those serious thoughts. He isn’t going to hurt Maureen just because he has some weird fascination with Roger. One that is about more than sex with friends, and that scares him enough that he’s determined not to let himself slip.
He puts his pen down against the lined paper, waiting for the words to flow into some beautiful, meaningful work. Of course they don’t, but he keeps his pen tapping against the sheet and just keeps hoping. Maybe he can fuel his script by hope alone. That seems to be what is keeping him alive these days, what with the lack of real food and what not. It could damn well work for the film, too.
He’s busy imagination his life is still “going places” when he hears it. The giggling, the slow growl, the door squeaking as it’s pushed open. Mark furrows his brow, concentrating harder on the paper. He’s work through worse, he tells himself as he hears the dull thud of skin against wall, April’s giggling cutting of for a moment. He’s lived here for months. He should be use to this. He’ll just keep working and pay no attention to Roger and April doing whatever it is they’re doing.
Kissing, from the sound of it, and Mark can’t believe he can actually pick up the sound of lips smacking together. This is disgusting. April’s giggling starts up again just as Mark bites his lip and leans over his notebook with a new found determination to ignore them. “I don’t know,” she purrs, her voice muffled but still managing to slip under the crack of Mark’s door. “I’ve never really… done it before.”
Mark raises an eyebrow, scribbling across his page. Did April just suggest she is a virgin? What universe is this? The one where Mark is a hard working, cold and callused businessman and Roger is his secretary - skirt and all? He smiles a bit at the image of Roger ever doing anything he asked. Yeah, that sounds about the same likelihood as April passing as innocent.
“It’s okay,” Roger answers, voice a gruff growl and followed by a low moan from April. Mark keeps his eyes wide open, forcing his avid imagination not to picture what they’re doing. Write. He needs to write. “I know you want it, you little slut. Look how wet you are.”
Mark’s eyebrow goes higher. What the hell are they… They aren’t? They are! Mark groans, squeezing his eyes shut and resisting the urge to bang it back against the headboard. He can’t believe this. “Oh,” April is shrieking, and now he can imagine her perfectly in that skirt, probably riding Roger’s thigh and grabbing at his hand as it tugs at her underwear. If she’s even wearing any. “But I don’t know if I can take that whole thing.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters, covering his face with his hands and trying not to scream. It’s like a bad porno is being taped right outside his door. God, if they’re going to do this, couldn’t they at least get some decent dialogue? Better yet, couldn’t they just watch a porn video and then screw?
“Mm… I know you want to suck on this, baby.”
Why couldn’t he have normal roommates that looked at pictures of girls and horses?
Mark falls back onto the bed with a soft grown, scrubbing at his face as if he can clean the pictures his imagination is bringing up out of his mind. April and Roger start whispering to each other and pretty soon there is the ruffle of clothes and doors swinging open as they two stumble into Roger’s room. Mark can hear all of it, of course. He shuts his eyes, like that will help to block it out when honestly it just makes it worse. Because now he’s imagine Roger setting April on bed with a dark look burning up his intense green eyes. In the bedroom, Mark can hear him. Like his stage voice when he’s howling at the microphone, and it makes him shiver hearing it so close. Mark’s always loved Roger’s voice when he sings, and now the music and sex are blending in his mind, and suddenly the bad dialogue doesn’t matter. Roger doesn’t need the perfect lines when he has that voice.
April shrill voice fills the room. “I don’t know,” she says, Roger’s moan blending in with her words. “What if I can’t take it all?” Part of Mark is disgusted by this, but mostly the words have stopped mattering. It’s all in the tone, the honesty and the low lust that makes their voices turn dark. The more he listens the harder it gets to concentrate on his script, and, well, the harder everything gets. It doesn’t help thinking about how wrong it is to listen to his friends having some sort of weird sexual fantasy in the next room and getting turned on by listening. Mark is so screwed up, and he knows it because the idea of how wrong it is just makes him want it more.
This is exactly the sort of thing his mother would never approve of.
Mark stops thinking about his mom and leans back in bed, undoing his jeans as quickly as he can as he hears Roger growling at April. He closes his eyes tight and then it’s Roger growling at him, rough fingers wrapped around Mark’s cock, moving over him slowly, teasing as he says, “You like that?”
Roger with that dark growl, intense eyes, hand wrapped in Mark’s hair as he slams him back against the bed.
“God, yes,” April moans, and over in his bedroom Mark mouths the words. One hand goes up, grabbing into the headrest as he lifts his hips off the bed, pumping into his hand which has somehow become April’s mouth around him as she looks up at him through those long lashes, and Roger smiles down at her over Mark’s shoulder as he kisses his ear.
The other room fades out expect for grunts and moans, and Mark’s mind is playing with those sounds, twisting them into his fantasy and making his cock that much more sensitive under his hand. Roger growling in his ear, telling April what to do as his fingers graze down Mark’s back, brushing along his ass. Mark moans, pumping into April’s mouth and back against Roger’s fingers - scarred from the guitar strings and rough against Mark’s skin.
“Harder,” April screams and Mark bites at his lip too keep from echoing her as Roger, his Roger, spreads his legs and pulls Mark up against his lap, slamming into him. The picture morphs in Mark’s hand, and he doesn’t care how they got on Roger’s bed with Mark riding his cock, Roger’s hands tight on his waist as April curls his hands in Mark’s hair and pulls him closer, moaning as Mark’s tongue slides inside her.
Mark’s fingers cut into the cheap paint of his head board, the bed pounding back against the wall as he rolls his hips back, whimpering at the way Roger is thrusting up into him. He tightens his hand around himself, and in the other room Roger is groaning loud enough that it rings in Mark’s ears. Then April is gone and Roger is on his knees as Mark pulls them together. He can’t hold back a moan as he thrust into Roger, and the rock star shudders and pushes back against Mark’s cock, groaning, “Fuck, just like that.”
Mark arches off the mattress as he comes to Roger’s voice in the other room, moaning for April.
*
The phone starts ringing, and Mark considers just ignoring it. He’s determined to, really, setting his jaw in a tight line and staring down at the notebook open in front of him as he waits for an idea on his script to hit. Like ideas do, or are supposed to from how Mark understands it. His never seem to just come to him like that. More of get dragged onto paper, kicking and screaming.
It’s probably his mom, Mark figures, calling to ask if he’s been mugged, beaten, jailed, or eaten alive by cannibals. He isn’t sure how he would answer in the phone in some of these cases, but she calls to ask anyway.
This time, though, Mark considers just letting the phone ring. He doesn’t want to talk about how he is doing. There are some things his mom doesn’t need to know. Like… Like about Maureen. Mark, he loves her. He worships her. He adores her. He… needs to spend more time with her instead of working. But just because he spends more time filming than with Maureen doesn’t mean he loves her any less.
According to Maureen and the last fight they had, it does.
The damn phone is still ringing. They just cleared the machine, and it seems to take at least half and hour before it bothers to pick up when it’s cleared. Roger couldn’t stand it beeping at them anymore though, telling them that Mark’s mom had called some seven hundred times in the last five minutes.
The longer this phone rings, the further from his script his thoughts manage to run. Back to his home, where he’d rather not be right now. Or ever again. He wants to be independent, artistic. He wants to change the world.
Hard to do when you’re mom is calling to ask if you have fresh underwear.
The answering machine finally picks up with a long beep, and Mark sinks back into the couch already wincing. He knows what is coming next.
“Hey, Mark.” Wait. That is not the voice of a worried Jewish mother whose only son has run off to live with a bunch of possible murder drug addicts in New York City. Mark stares at the answering machine, almost expecting this to be some sort of trick so that he’ll pick up the phone. “Look, when you get home just call me-“
Mark sets down his pen and grabs the phone. “Hey,” he says, his own voice echoing through the loft from the machine as it keeps recording. Roger is going to have a fit when he has to listen through this whole conversation just to delete this one message. “Why are you calling?”
There is some mild shifting on the other side, like he’d been about to hang up. “Mark,” Benny says, sounding just like Mark remembered him. “Good to know this is the right number, at least.”
“Sorry about that,” Mark says as he sits back onto the couch, giving up on his notebook and the unfinished script inside for now. It’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to talk with his college roommate. He always liked Benny, too. He’d been one of the more sympathetic people at Brown. Most of them were either rich and could care less about Mark or snobbish art students who didn’t like any work but their own. Benny is different, and Mark had tried to keep in touch. After the first few months of living here, though, it slipped away from him. He just got swept up in the life of the City. “We screen.”
“Bill collectors really that bad up there?” Benny asks, and Mark can hear the smile in his voice. At least he’s doing okay.
“Mom is that bad is more like it,” Mark explains, rolling his eyes as Benny shamelessly laughs at him. Not that he expects anything different.
“I remember,” he answers, laughter slowly dying down. “What’s she hounding you about now that she can’t ask about grades?”
It’s a nice catch up conversation, just hearing about each other and what they’ve been doing. Better than sweating blood over his script. He concentrates his attention onto Benny, instead, trying to forget about all his failure. It’s not something he’s up for talking about, and he tries hard to avoid the question of how he’s film is going. He’s trying so hard to ignore the notebook on the table that he doesn’t hear Roger’s door open or the guitarist walk across the living room. He doesn’t notice him at all until the seat cushions are sinking down beside him.
Letting Benny talk on, Mark turns, jumping back a bit when he finds Roger right there beside him. The rock star gives him a cocky smile, arms spread out over the back of the couch as he lounges, taking up more than his fair share of the old thing. In his ear, Benny is still explaining about his last semester at Brown, but Mark’s attention is over to Roger, mouthing, “Who’s that?”
Mark sets his hand over the mouthpiece, leaning away from the phone and answering, “Benny.” He doesn’t really need to lean in. He doesn’t really need to hug Roger after every show, either, but he does. He feels guilty about it, sure, but it happens every time anyway.
Right now Roger smells crisp and clean, like April hasn’t been around all day and he showered this morning. That really isn’t something Mark should notice about his best friend.
Roger smiles like he knows. He hates when he does that. “Who?” He asks, a little louder and Mark leans back into the phone, holding up a finger.
“No,” he says, when Benny asks the same question. “It’s just my roommate, Roger.”
“Who?” Benny asks. Mark’s eyes dart to Roger, who is starting to scoot closer, giving Mark a curious look. Sometimes, Roger reminds him of a kid with how impulsive and curious he can be, not too mention the occasional fit.
“You remember, he’s the guy that invited me to live with him,” Mark explains, keeping his eyes on Roger as he leans in.
He jerks the phone back just as Roger asks, “And who is this?”
“Benny,” Mark explains, hand going back over the phone. “My old roommate from Brown. You remember.”
Roger nods, seeming to be satisfied for now so Mark goes back to his phone call. “Sorry, Benny,” he says. “So, your Senior Seminar guy was crazy, right?”
Benny can talk about his classes for ages, and Mark figures he’ll just settle into the couch and forget about his new and complicated life for a while now. That is, until he feels Roger tap him on the shoulder. With a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, Mark looks up at him, wondering what he could possibly want now. “What’s he want?” Roger asks, at least trying to stay quiet so that Benny can’t hear him.
“I don’t know,” Mark admits as he pulls away, letting Benny talk in one ear while he speaks with Roger. It’s just stuff about business school, so Mark doesn’t feel too bad. “Just called to catch up, I guess.”
“Mm…” Roger answers, still staring Mark down and he’s starting to wonder what this is about. Just Roger being Roger, he would guess. Still, those burning green eyes can make him feel uncomfortable, no matter what they’re doing. “So, you guys are friends?”
“Mm, yeah,” Mark asks, and now Roger is just asking circle questions to annoy him.
With this brilliant smile on his face, Roger wiggles his eyebrows. “More than friends?” He asks, that grin making him look almost wicked.
If it weren’t for everything Mark had done with Roger, he probably would have blushed. As it is, he manages just to roll his eyes, not giving away a thing. Only Roger is still grinning at him, so maybe he isn’t as good as he figured. “No,” he snaps, trying to go back to the conversation with Benny. At least trying not to give Roger anything else to go on.
It’s too late for that. Roger scoots closer until their legs are brushing together and it’s getting harder to ignore him when Mark can feel Roger’s breath against the back of his neck. “Mark and Benny sitting in a tree,” he sings in that low stage voice of his that he shouldn’t be using to mock Mark with.
Mark pulls back the phone again. “Oh, come on,” he says, trying to move away from Roger only to find the armrest digging into his side. “It wasn’t like that. It was just at college. We were horny teenage boys locked in a dorm room together. What do you think happened?”
Roger fucking beams at him.
“Mark?” Benny calls through the phone. Mark stops glaring at Roger for a moment, pressing the phone back up to his ear. “Mark, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Mark mutters, trying to look anywhere but Roger. It’s not like he isn’t use to the playful teasing by now, but Roger is right there and his grin is so fucking gorgeous and, well, Mark could think of better situations to be in. He has a girlfriend, for God sake. Maureen. Think of Maureen. Back at home visiting her parents, and she left when they were fighting and technically she’d said it was over so…
No. They’d been through this before. Maureen always came back to him. “What?” he asks Benny, turning as far from Roger as he can. He could have just gotten off the couch, moved away from him and solve this problem but he stays where he is, brushing up against Roger. Best friends. Girlfriend. Best friends. Girlfriend. A hundred reasons why he should move away.
“I was just saying, about my lease,” Benny explains, and he doesn’t sound the least bit suspicious. He has no idea about how closer Roger keeps leaning in, hot breath over Mark’s skin as he presses up to him. Trying to annoy him, and it is but in all the wrong ways. Of course, how could Benny know something like that? “I was thinking of moving down to New York.”
“That’d be great!” Mark exclaims and, yeah, maybe he acts a little too excited but he just needs a distraction right now from how warm Roger is pressed against him. What is he doing like that, anyway? That isn’t how friends are supposed to touch.
“Yeah.” At least Benny doesn’t say anything about it. “I already have this figured out. You know how you always complained about having editing equipment and how it’s so hard for indie filmmakers to get a hold of?” Roger’s hand creeps up his arm, making it really hard to ignore him. Mark turns back towards him, glaring a bit. “Well, I’ve thought about it and I think I’ve figured out how a company could really help that sort of artist and still make a fair profit.”
“What are you doing?” Mark asks Roger, hand back over the phone.
Roger is still smiling, like he hasn’t done anything wrong. “Is he still interested?”
It takes Mark a second to remember which conversation they’re having. “No.” He listens into the phone for a moment, and Benny is still going on about business so Mark figures he’s safe. “It was just a drunken college thing. He’s straight and I….”
If anything Roger’s smile gets even worse. “Was a bit little college slut?” He teases, purring dark and low as his eyes wrinkle up with the wicked grin.
Mark shouldn’t react, but something in Roger’s voice makes him shiver, licking at his lips as he tries to swallow and breath again after the slight hitch. It’s probably that smile, that low growling voice, those dark green eyes. Either way, it’s all unfair because Mark is a young guy with all the hormones and whatnot and shouldn’t have to be exposed to rock stars who know just how good they look.
Roger knows. Not just how attractive he is, but that Mark is thinking about him. He knows, and Mark can see it in his way-too-dangerous smile and if Mark had any sense he would get the hell off this couch before Roger started trouble.
He’s already started trouble, and now he’s just pushing to see how far Mark will bend for him. It’s like a game, with that playful smile lighting up his face as he leans in and Mark finds himself pressed up between the armrest and Roger’s warm body. “Do you give drunken blow jobs to all your roommates?” He asks, cold nose nuzzling up against the side of Mark’s face. Mark wiggles around under the contact. Not like it’s helping. Not like he shouldn’t just stand up and walk away. He just doesn’t.
He presses the phone closer to his ear. “Yeah, a CyberArt’s studio,” he says, trying to pick up on what Benny is talking about. “Sounds great.”
“With the proper sponsorship, it could really get off the ground.” Roger’s hand strokes along Mark’s knee, and his eyes go right to those long, rough fingers as they trace along his jeans. Soft, ghost like touches leaving Mark tense and shaking under the contact. “And I figure where better to start it up then New York.”
“Makes sense,” Mark mutters, biting at his lip as his eyes follow Roger’s hand to his thigh, tracing circles over the denim. He can hardly feel the touch at all, nothing more the slight press of his jeans down against his skin, but it’s enough to have Mark’s heart skip a few beats.
“It’s going to be great.” Roger’s fingers curl around the crotch of his jeans and - Oh! He should stop this. Think of Maureen. Maureen who left him and told him to jerk off to his camera so much. No! No, just another fight they’d get over it and in the mean time Mark just has to not let Roger rub him off through his jeans, oh God that feels good. “A real blessing to guys like you.”
Mark’s free hand grabs for the back of the couch, holding onto the fabric tight enough to tear it open as he arches his hips off the cushion, riding against the pressure of Roger’s palm. He’s trying to keep from panting, pressing the phone hard into his ear like he can still pay attention to Benny while rubbing up against that hand. And because Roger knows, he squeezes him through the jeans, smirking as Mark bites down to hold back any sound. “Yeah…” He says, voice too breathless but he can’t help that. “Yeah, sounds great.”
“And I figured where better to put it than Alphabet City, home of the starving artist. Exactly the people who need it.” Roger continues grinning, undoing Mark’s jeans and warm fingers closing around him again, heat sinking in past the thin material of his boxers. Mark pulls the phone away just in time to whimper, thrashing around on the couch as he rocks up into that hand. The phone nearly falls to the ground as Mark pushes back into Roger’s hand, ignoring for now how fucking cocky he looks when he’s got Mark like this.
“It’s not you,” Mark growls, slightly broken by the low mewl as Roger squeezes again, rough fingers rubbing over Mark. “Just… Just been a while.” Only four days since his and Maureen’s last fight. He should at least hold out more than four days, but it’s not like they’re together and Roger is here, kneading up against Mark’s cock and what can he do but buck up against that contact?
Roger just keeps that confident smirk pasted on his face as he leans in, hot breath against Mark’s lips. “It is me,” he says, a hint of laughter edging his voice as he presses his hand back against the roll of Mark’s hips. “And you know it.”
Mark glares at him, turning back to the phone. “Benny, look…” I can’t talk right now. I’m getting a hand job from my best friend.
“So it’s okay then?” Benny asks, and Mark nearly gasps in reply. Or, really, replies to Roger as he leans in, tongue moving around his ear. Gently strokes, lapping at the skin before biting, teasing with his teeth and hot mouth and, God… Mark shuts his eyes, jaw tight as he tries not to whimper into the phone. “I can move in with you guys?”
Mark bites down on his lower lip, trying to stop himself from shaking as Roger’s hand presses up against his erection, rubbing him through his boxers. His warm breath sprawls out against Mark’s skin, mouth closing over his ear as he slides it into Mark’s ear, and this time it’s impossible to hold back a shaky moan as he leans into Roger. “Mark?” Benny still calling out to him, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything but Roger’s body pressed against his, hand on his cock and tongue thrusting into his ear. Roger moans, soft and dark and right against Mark’s skin, hips moving until he’s rubbing up against Mark’s thigh. Tangled up on the couch together, and Mark never wants to move so long as Roger keeps touching him like that.
Bodies twisted together on the couch, stroking and licking and just trying to touch each other as much as possible. “Mark?”
Mark swallows hard, mewling softly as he pulls back from Roger’s hand, the rock star’s growl making him shiver as he grabs for Mark again. “Benny,” Mark says, to himself as much as Roger. He doesn’t need to be doing this. Especially not with his old friend on the phone. He looks down to Roger, meeting his dark and narrowed eyes that tell Mark exactly how much he doesn’t like being forced to stop. Still, Mark holds the phone back into place, clearing his throat before he tries to speak again. “Listen, I have to…” Get off with my best friend. “Call you back.”
“Can I at least get an answer so I know if I should be looking around for some place else or not?” Benny asks, and doesn’t he realize Mark hadn’t been following this conversation at all? How can he be expected to listen to his friend talk about business when he has Roger hard and smirking and on his lap, tongue thrusting into his ear while his hand sneaks back down his stomach, brushing against the tip of his erection. Oh, fuck… Mark’s head tips back, breath hitching as Roger drags a nail over the sensitive skin and, God…
“Wh-what?” He asks, and Roger takes his open neck as permission to begin kissing down to his shoulders, teeth scrapping over the pale stretch of skin. His free hand creeps up Mark’s shirt, groping like a teenage boy, nails raking over his nipple and - Fuck, don’t moan don’t moan… Mark whines, twisting under Roger, pushing into his hands. He decides whatever it is Benny is talking about, it can’t be important. “Yeah, sure.” Anything to get off the phone.
“That’s great!” God, it is… Especially when Roger’s biting into his shoulder, sucking around the skin while the pads of his fingers ghosting down the trail of Mark’s stomach. Mark swallows hard, catching the moan in the back of his throat.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down at Roger and grabbing his hand, trying to push it lower. “Later.” Blindingly reaching behind him, Mark slams the phone back in place, probably into place. Doesn’t fucking matter. Right now what matters is Roger’s rough hand and the way the pressure is hot and coiled in Mark’s cock, waiting for some sort of release.
The second the phone is away Roger pulls up, and Mark swears if this is just some sort of game he’s going to kill Roger. But he’s still wearing that smirk, the one where he knows that Mark wants this too much, more than any friend should. He’ll feel guilty about it later. When Roger isn’t just as hard as he is and kneeling between his legs. “Much better,” he purrs, reaching out for Mark.
Mark lets himself get pulled up, lips slamming together for a messy, rough kiss. It doesn’t really matter if his lips end up swollen and bruised from this. Mark claws at Roger’s shirt, trying to get it the hell out of the way for just a little more skin. Roger is pushing him back, off the couch and Mark just follows, breaking the kiss and gasping for air as his feet hit the ground. “Get these the fuck off,” Roger growls, hands going to his jeans and boxers, tugging them down and Mark steps out of them as quickly as possible, nearly losing his balance in all of this.
Actually does lose his balance when Roger tries to pull off his shirt. Mark winces as his back hits the table, the steel top digging into his spine. “Careful!” He says, reaching around to try and massage the spot as Roger tears off his own clothes.
He isn’t really expecting it, then, when Roger shoves him hard back up against the table. “Wimp,” he says, teasing for all of a second before their mouths are back together in another harsh kiss that leaves Mark whimpering. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into Roger, but he isn’t arguing with it. Just going along with the ride, letting Roger lead as his hands run across Mark’s chest, stroking and scrapping and touching every inch before making it to his hips.
Mark just tries to stay with the kiss. He grabs for Roger’s hair, tugging him forward and moaning as their tongues slide together. Roger’s nails dig into his legs, pulling them up around his waist, and Mark pulls at him, moaning into his mouth as their cocks rub up against each other. He could probably come, just rolling their hips together like this and it doesn’t matter how pathetic that is, the way Roger feels pressed against him is enough to make Mark forget that he isn’t a desperate puberty-stricken teenager anymore.
When Roger pulls out of the kiss, Mark moans and leans in, trying to follow his lips. He’s quickly snapped out of that when Roger grabs him, turning him around and shoving him up against the table. “Shit,” Mark says, coughing as his stomach slams into the edge and that is not the right fucking way to get him off.
Roger leans in, kissing his ear and smacking his ass lightly, almost playfully. “Stay there,” he growls. Still wincing, Mark grabs at the edges of the table, not really having to imagine what’s happening next.
Only then Roger is gone, and Mark hears a door open somewhere behind them. Frowning, he opens his eyes and turns around. “Roger?” This is not fucking funny, he wants to scream. He’s hard as fuck and Roger isn’t allowed to tease and then just run off.
Roger comes back out of his bedroom, small bottle in his hands. “Told you to stay still,” he says, but he’s grinning as he sets the bottle down on the table next to Mark, his hands already slick with the stuff. Mark bites at his lip, turning back around. Maybe he should make some effort to say something about one of the hundreds of reasons why this may not be the best idea.
Roger’s finger presses up against him, and no, no there is no reason why Mark shouldn’t enjoy this. He can feel Roger’s chest press against his back, warm breath back in Mark’s ear as a single finger circles around his entrance, barely pressing in. “Spread your legs,” Roger whispers, tongue flicking out to run along his ear. Mark shivers, pressing himself closer to that finger, legs sliding apart. Like he really needs to be told at this point.
No one else is here but Roger, and with the way he smiles he already knows that Mark couldn’t care less how he looks so desperate, couldn’t care less about a whole lot so long as there is sex involved. Just because he’s an artist doesn’t mean he’s not a guy. He shouldn’t be expected to say no when Roger has him pressed up against a table.
Since Roger isn’t moving, Mark does. He grabs the table, nails scrapping along the already marred up metal as he slides back against Roger’s finger. “You need to relax,” Roger says, biting and playing with his ear again as he holds his hand still, waiting for Mark to push himself back. And he does, shamelessly, pressing down against Roger’s hand until he’s whimpering softly. Roger still doesn’t move. Just licks around Mark’s ear, whispering words of encouragement as Mark rocks his hips back down, until soft whimpers turn to moans and a second finger is pressed inside him.
He keeps moving back, ignoring the slight ache as he pushes down against the fingers. Thrust get more confident, his nails scratching up the underside of the table as he steadies himself, hips bucking up as he rocks down hard, letting himself be pushed on by the dark moans and whisper in his ear. His feet slide further apart as he twists back against Roger’s hand, slamming himself against the rough pads. “Fuck!” Mark’s stomach hits the table as he falls forward, rocking back harder as Roger starts thrusting back against him, curling his fingers to rub up against that spot until Mark is whimpering, tears clinging to his lashes. Fucking himself back against those fingers with a messy, sloppy pace. Doesn’t matter, just that each thrust makes his cock aching and leaves him moaning for more.
He isn’t sure how he manages to let go of the table, but his own hand is wrapping around his cock, rubbing himself as he rocks back against Roger. Fuck, just a little more… Just a little more and Roger grabs his hand, slamming it back against the table.
Mark wants to protest but all he can manage is a whimper. A condom wrapper flutters down next to his face, the bottle being thrown recklessly across the room when Roger’s finished with it. Mark whimpers, trying to pick himself back up, nearly collapsing to the floor. Doesn’t matter, because the next minute Roger’s arms are wrapped around his stomach, holding him against the table. “God, yes,” moaned right in his ear as Roger pushes inside him.
Mark tries not to tense up, but he can’t stop his body from reacting when Roger thrusts inside him, groaning into his ear. With a small growl, Mark grabs for one of Roger’s hands, pulling it down to his cock. He whimpers, squirming around beneath Roger as he leans into Mark, pressing his overheated skin up against the cold tabletop. And Roger, he takes his time, lazily stroking Mark like there is no hurry. Like Mark hasn’t been hard since Roger first climbed onto the couch next to him.
“Asshole,” Mark growls, the sound turning to a soft mewl as he tries bucking up against Roger’s light touches.
Roger grabs for his hips, holding Mark back against the table. “You’ll get there,” he promises, biting down on his ear as he starts to rock their hips together. His thrust quickly get rougher, pushing Mark hard against the table and against his hand as it wraps around his cock, rough fingers squeezing him hard and Mark cries out loud enough for anyone in the building to hear as he’s slammed up to the side of the table.
It’s harder than he’s use to, the way Roger fucks him back against the cold metal and Mark can’t do anything but moan and twist beneath him. Wouldn’t do anything because his hand feels so fucking good so nothing else really matters. Only the way Roger rocks against him it’s like he has something to prove or own or mark up. Who the fuck cares so long as he doesn’t stop.
Mark’s eyes screw shut, blood humming in his ear, burning through his body and he’s trapped in this messy rhythm, rocking back against Roger’s cock and into his hand. He wants to stay suspended like this, never mind the slight pain of bumping up into the table because everything else is perfect down to the heat coiled in his gut, the pressuring building in his cock as Roger’s fingers tighten around it. Mark’s nails almost dig through the metal of the table, holding on as his body tenses up, and all the sensations get to be took much and, “Fuck!” Mark jerks forward, body shaking as the orgasm rips through him, leaving him quivering and panting against the tabletop.
A few more erratic thrusts later and Roger is against his back, hot breath washing over Mark’s skin as he collapses. It’s not the best way to end way, pressed between a cold table and having Roger’s almost dead weight over him. Mark is too breathless to complain.
Somewhere, what seems like miles away, the phone rings.
Roger groans, nuzzling up to Mark’s skin. “So?” He asks, ignoring the ringing. Probably just Mark’s mom. That’s what they always assume. “Better than your old roommate?”
Mark frowns, not quite sure what Roger means by that. Anyway, he doesn’t want to be squashed between the table and Roger when he hears his mom’s voice. With a grunt, he starts to push himself out, wiggling away from Roger even when the weight on top of him growls from the movement. He rolls his eyes, wincing a bit when his sweat slick skin sticking to the metal top for a second.
There is a loud beep and a few seconds pause. “Mark?”
Roger pulls away from Mark. “Shit,” Mark says, running a hand through his hair like anyone can see him. Except for Roger, of course, and he doubt’s Roger cares if he looks a little sex rumbled.
“Mark. I just wanted to call and say how much I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean any of that, pookie.” Really, Roger isn’t looking at him at all. Just picking his clothes up from the floor as Mark dashes across the room to pick up the phone. Mark tries not to wonder. Tries not to think about any of this as he runs to get the phone before Maureen hangs up.
See? He just had to be patient and hold out for her. She always comes back.