Fic: Mucho Masturbation [Roger/Mark]
To make up for all my bitching lately, I bring fic.
I've had this done for, like, three weeks and have yet to put it up. Sorry about that.
Author: Stephanie (gildedmuse)
Fandom, Pairing: Rent, Mark/Roger
Series, Chapter: Mucho Masturbation, Part Five: Copulation
Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 8,090
Chapter Note: See chapter title? See rating? Yeah. Still a PWP. Now a finished PWP with a happy ending. [smile]
Past Chapters:
Part 1: Mark
Part 2: Roger
Part 3: Mutual
Part 4: Voyeurism
Mucho Masturbation
Part Five: Copulation
"Tickets."
Joanne raises an eyebrow, giving Mark the look of a woman who has to put up with far too much insanity to add this to the list. "Mark?"
With a slight laugh and huge grin, Mark waves the paper envelope in front of Joanne's face. "Roger sent the tickets!"
Looking like she was afraid to ask, Joanne moves aside and ushers Mark into the apartment. "Nice to see you, too, Mark." Mark smiles and plants a quick kiss on Joanne's cheek. The woman pauses for a second, raising a hand to her face before laughing. She shakes her head and closes the door as Mark bounces all the way inside. "In a good mood?"
"They're for the 31st," Mark explains. "That's in five days."
Before Mark can get another word out, a high-pitched voice breaks through the small living room. "Pookie!" Both of Joanne and Mark turn around, but while Joanne answers with another eye roll Mark nearly chokes to death.
Patting him on the back to help the cough, Joanne says, "It's alright. I've already told her she looks like Bozo the Clown."
Maureen's once stringy brown hair, which had turned blonde and curly last time Mark had seen her, was now a bright, vibrant red. Maureen stood at the doorway of the bathroom, half of her hair hanging limp and straight while the other was still in it's tight curls but all of it was roughly the color of a neon sign. Maureen seems to soak in Mark's attention, either oblivious to why his jaw is hanging open or else not caring. She smiles, the one that used to leave Mark weak and swooning, and flips the straight section of her hair over her shoulder.
"Maureen!" Joanne groans, rubbing her temple a bit. "Put a shirt on."
"Oh, come on, Pookie," Maureen coos, bouncing just enough to bring Mark's attention from her hair to her chest. "It's not like he hasn't seen them before."
With a loud, angry sounding sigh Joanne walks across the apartment and gives Maureen a slight shove back into the bathroom. "And I'm sure he's seen them quite enough. Now, finish straightening your hair and put a shirt on." With the bathroom door shut and Maureen safely out of view, Joanne falls back against the door and shakes her head. "Sorry about that."
"No," Mark says, forcing his eyes back up to female face level. "No, it's alright. Just Maureen being..."
"Are you guys talking about me?" Maureen yells through the door, with just enough lift in her voice that Mark can tell that's what she wants.
"Anyway," Joanne cuts in, loud enough for Maureen to hear them changing the subject. "what were you saying about your tickets?"
"Oh..." Mark has the decency to turn as bright red as Maureen's hair. So maybe he shouldn't have been staring at his ex-girlfriend's breasts (no matter how obviously they were presented) while holding ticket to his boyfriend's (if that was the right word) concert. It seemed wrong somehow, not to mention shouldn't Mark be over Maureen already?
No, that's crazy. Mark will never get over Maureen. Maybe he's not crazy enough to go crawling back to her anymore, but getting over her would take an act of God. Or a deal with the devil.
Joanne walks over to Mark, patting him on the shoulder as if she knows what he's thinking. "Look," she says, voice a little softer than usual. "I feel I should warn you. Maureen, she's scheming again." Mark looks at Joanne, utterly nonplussed. "She's trying to see if she can, you know, get a rise out of you." Joanne makes a wild, non-helpful hand gesture that just confuses Mark even more.
Mark looks from Joanne to the bathroom and tries to remember why he came over here in the first place. "What?"
"You know," Joanne says, sounding exasperated. Mark takes some comfort in knowing most of that probably just comes from dealing with Maureen day in and day out. "She wants to see if she can make you straight."
Mark tries to work reason into that statement and fails. "Maureen wants to see if I'm still straight?" Mark asks, one hundred percent sure he must have heard that wrong. "But she's a lesbian."
"That never stopped you from loving her before," Joanne points out. "Besides, I think she's just scared."
This idea seems oddly pleasing to Mark if it weren't for the small chance of Maureen bouncing over to the loft shirtless. Having her worry about her own sexual prowess would be good payback for the months Mark had spent agonizing over her leaving him. Having to explain to Roger why Maureen has started clinging to her like they're dating again doesn't sound half as fun. "I'm bi," Mark clarifies.
"I told her if anyone changed your mind, it was Roger," Joanne says with a shrug, glancing over to the bathroom for Maureen's next entrance. "I'm not sure what hurt worse. Finding out you were gay-"
"Bi," Mark corrects. Joanne gives him a look that makes him feel foolish for even thinking it, but Mark's been taking time to figure out why the hell he spends so much time fantasying about boys but still stops to stare when he sees pretty girls on the street. Until Collins called him an idiot for taking so long to figure it out. Collins always had a way of making these things seem so easy and obvious; the anti-Mark and Roger, who had to see everything as hard and complicated.
"-Or finding out it wasn't her doing."
"She's a very confusing girl," Mark says, nodding with the expertise of someone who had put up with it for far too long. With all her energy and spunk, it's easy to forget how fragile Maureen's ego can get. She's a lot like Roger in that respect.
Mark pauses, thinking about that for a few seconds. Okay, never have that thought again.
"She is," Joanne says, and even while she looks annoyed and upset, Mark can still see the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Yeah, she's in love.
Maureen appears a few minutes later in something that can barely be called a shirt and earns another eye roll from her girlfriend. Her hair is straightened, but still a scary shade of red.
"It's beautiful, honey bear," Joanne tells her when Maureen all but begs them for compliments in her own way, with her arms spread wide and chest puffed out, eyes begging for their approval.
"It looks like you've been scalped and are bleeding out," Mark says under his breath, surprised a girl like Maureen could do something like that to her hair. Then when Maureen looks ready to cry adds, "I love it, Maureen!"
How is it he falls for her pout every time?
"Thank you, Mark!" Maureen coos right before she pulls him into a tight hug with her breasts squashed against Mark's chest, all but rubbing up against him. Behind her, Joanne makes a face. Mark shrugs, mouthing the words, 'I'll talk to her.'
Pushing Maureen back far enough that he can breathe, Mark ignores her searching smile and instead starts waving around the pack of tickets again. "Roger's band is coming back in five days."
Maureen and Joanne just keep staring at him. Finally, Joanne breaks the silence with, "That's great, Mark."
"He sent me three tickets," Mark explains, opening the envelope and pulling out two of the tickets. "I thought you guys might want to come with me."
'For moral support' went unsaid. In the last four weeks, Mark has had to face up to a lot. He loves Roger, Roger may not love him, Roger is sick. Going to Life Support with Collins had helped him work out a lot, but there are still these constantly nagging fears. What if Roger got back and had changed his mind? What if they're supposed to be just messing around? What if... What if... What if...
"I don't know, Mark," Joanne says, walking over beside Maureen to look down at the tickets. "I-"
It's too late for her to get out another word. Maureen's already squealing, "these are for that Halloween concert!" and pointing at the date on the tickets.
Mark nods. "Yeah. Roger's opening for that band. It's supposed to be a kinda big deal."
"Kind of big?" Maureen asks, hands on hips and rolling her eyes. Mark, you have no idea. Everyone is going to be there! It's going to be the biggest costume party in New York."
Joanne raises an eyebrow. "It's a costume party?"
Mark shrugs a bit. "Roger said some people will probably be dressing up."
"Oh, please," Maureen says, shaking her head. "Some people? More like everyone."
"Well," Joanne says, looking between the tickets and her girlfriend. "I guess the office party isn't that important."
Maureen laughs happily, hugging Joanne and planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Mark settles for just smiling and saying, "Thanks."
"Oh!" Maureen says, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet as she thinks about all the possibilities. "Oh, Mark, I have the perfect costume for you!"
*
Maureen is insane.
Mark tosses his sweater aside, picking Roger's old shirt off the table where'd he'd left it this morning and tugging it back on. It hangs loose around his small frame, enough so that he had to pull it up every few seconds to stop it slipping down his shoulders. It's just enough extra fabric that even lying down on the couch he can gather enough to pull to his nose, breathing the T-shirts strange smell. Like smoke, alcohol, and Roger that hasn't been washed away in months. Mark doesn't care about the slightly funky undertone of the scent. He wraps himself up in the shirt, feeling comfortable and safe.
Maureen is insane, but Mark isn't much better.
He can't help it if he misses his best friend. What he can help is wearing his friend's clothes around the loft just to get the feel of him. What he can help is hovering around the phone some days, waiting for Roger to call. Or spending half the night trying to figure out what Roger thinks about them.
That last one causes him the most problems.
Mark sighs, shifting around on the couch and tries to relax. Why did he have to spend so much of his time thinking about Roger, anyway? That and filming seemed to be all he did lately. Not that this is strange for Mark. Better than when he was dating Maureen, and her and filming controlled his life. Or after that, when it was just filming.
"Just relax," Mark tells himself. He needs something to take his mind of the stress. Over imaging what Roger is thinking of right now. Over Maureen and her crazy ideas. Over his job and his sexuality and all that complicated stuff.
As he's thinking it, his hand is already sliding down his chest. It may not be the best way to forget about Roger, but it sure as hell will take away some of the stress for a while. Mark bites on his lip to hold back a moan, pushing up against his hand. What's so bad about thinking about Roger, anyway? Especially if it's Roger with those beautiful green eyes of his smiling up at Mark while he licks down his chest, pushing his legs apart and-
"Fuck." Mark curses, trying to catch his breath as he scrambled for the ringing phone. Shaking slightly, Mark grabs for the phone, not bothering to cover the annoyance in his voice. "Hello?" Great. He still sounds breathless and guilty.
There is a few seconds pause, and Mark is all but ready to hang up when he hears a familiar voice. "Mark?" Roger sounds like he just woke up, voice husky and low. Mark grabs onto the table for support because, God, he's pretty sure he could come from that voice alone, and Roger shouldn't be allowed to use that when Mark was just thinking about him. "Hey. What are you doing?"
"N-nothing." It would have sounded more convincing if his voice weren't shaking so badly. Mark swallows down a whimper, and he swears his heart is so loud Roger must be able to hear it over the phone. There's a long pause where Mark tries to fix his heavy breathing and Roger just waits and listens. "Hey, Rog, I was just-"
"Mmm...." Roger cuts him off, not that Mark minds being cut off from his ramblings. "Know what I'm doing?" He says in that same low, ragged voice. Like the one he uses on stage, but softer and for Mark only.
Yes, Mark thinks. Driving me insane.
The next sound of the phone is a slight gasp. Mark goes completely still, listening to the slight panting on the other end. Once he's sure his voice won't crack he asks, "Roger?"
"Mmm... Thinking about you," Roger answers. Mark would swear he could hear the familiar sound of clothes being pushed aside but who knows, maybe that's all just his over active imagination. He's certainly been thinking about Roger enough lately.
"Thinking about you, too." Mark slides back down on the couch, hand running down his chest, and in all honesty he's stopped thinking. Part of him is pretty sure this is wrong, somehow, that he shouldn't be doing this. By the time he's kneading himself through his jeans, that part is long gone. "I- God, Roger."
"Mmm..." Roger groans into the phone, and Mark answers with a small, strangled whimper. He's going to come any minute now, just listening to Roger's shallow breathing, picturing the boy on the other end arching off the bed into his hand, moaning Mark's name. "Want me to..."
"Yes," Mark answers, already beginning to fumble with the buttons of his jeans trying to peel them back. "Yes, please Roger." Mark moans with his fingers wrapped around himself and eyes closed so that the entire world becomes Roger's ragged breathing, Roger's voice in his ear.
The next time he speaks, Mark can honestly hear the smirk in Roger's voice. "You like to beg, Mark?"
"Yes," Mark hisses, hardly aware of his own voice. For right now all that exists is Roger and that voice, that low and dangerous voice that is sending coils of heat twisting in Mark's stomach and his hand tightens around him. "Yes, please."
"Good boy," Roger purrs and sounds ready to pounce. Mark bites on his lip to hold back a moan, afraid to miss a single word. "Now, I want you on your knees." Mark nods, obediently picturing himself on his knees in front of Roger. His hand begins to pick up pace and by now he's lucky to be breathing at all. "Your hands tied behind you back."
"Yes," Mark moans before he can stop himself. It doesn't matter. He's in front of Roger with his hands twisted behind him, his tongue running along Roger's cock and a tight hand twisting in his hair, urging him on.
There's a slight pause and then, "You like that?"
Mark nods, swallowing before he can find his voice again. "God, Yes." Mark on his knees with Roger in his mouth, bucking and moaning, purring like he does. "Please, Roger. More?"
"Mmm... Gonna tie you up when I get home," Roger promises, breathing picking back up again. "Down in front of you, licking and sucking just enough to drive you mad. Make you beg."
Mark's a mess, aching into his hand as visions of a dark room swim in his head. Roger with his fingers clutching Mark's hips, looking up at him with glowing green eyes as he swipes his tongue over Mark, teasing and toying around with him when he's so close. "Please!" Mark nearly screams and he doesn't worry that he sounds so desperate because, really, he is and if Roger would just tell him to he's pretty sure he'd come right now. On command. "God, please, Roger."
"Want me to fuck you?" Said in that low growl with Mark already so frantic and then more of that sweet voice to the point where he can't breath in any more. He bucks into the air, spreading his legs apart and imagines Roger walking in right now and just taking him, without another word. Pinning Mark's hand above his head, kissing him hard as he enters him. The pain would be worth it if Roger were just inside him right now.
All Mark can do is whimper in reply. His hand around the phone is so tight that if he cared to listen he could hear the cheap plastic cracking under his whitened knuckles. Behind his eyelids, everything is black and spotted. Behind his eyelids, everything is Roger on top of him, slamming into him until Mark screams.
If Roger says anything else, Mark doesn't hear it. He screams Roger's name, tensing seconds before the pressure that has been coiled inside him bursts open and everything is Roger inside him and touching him and growling at him and by the time Mark is back to reality he's still trembling.
After he's caught his breath, he picks the phone back up, pressing it between his shoulder and his ear. "Roger?"
There's a long pause before Roger answers. "Mark?" He sounds as out of it as Mark still feels.
"Mmm..." Mark snuggles happily back against the couch. He just wants to fall asleep in Roger's arms right now. If that's not possible, then he just wants to pass out here with that voice on the other end. "I love your voice."
"I..." Mark opens his eye, scooting up a little on the couch. Roger's nervousness is clear no matter how far away they are. "I, uh, I gotta go."
They hang up, and Mark bangs his head back against the armrest, moaning. He'd known that couldn't have been a good idea.
*
"I can't believe how many people are here!"
Mark's ears are still ringing from the sound of Roger's band. Fuck, he'd forgotten how good the guy looks on stage when he's slamming away at his guitar, growling into the microphone like that. That plus the excitement of the colorful crowd jumping up and down, screaming along with the words they knew. It had been contagious. By the end of their set, Mark had worked his way to the front of the pit yelling Roger's song words right back at him. He'd never really been one of Roger's groupies, but with all the energy around him it had felt impossible to just stand in the back and stay quiet like usual.
After they rescued Maureen from crowd surfing, Joanne had dragged both of them out of the concert and to the water fountain. "I've had hundreds of cases were someone gets dehydrated at these things, passes out, and gets trampled on," Joanne says as she forces cups of water into both their hands. "They hardly ever win."
Mark nods, out of breath and burning up from the inside, and swallows down the water Joanne had bought him. His bones ache from the jumping and he's pretty sure his voice is gone. How the hell did Roger get through five whole weeks of this?
Maureen brushes her still straight but back to platinum blonde (white, Joanne called it, with only a tiny hint of yellow) hair from her eyes. "Your make up's running," she points out, running her fingers under Mark's eyes.
Without pulling the glass of water away from his lips, Mark swats her hand away. "Fix your girlfriend's horns," he says once the last drop of water is gone from his cup. Joanne is dressed in a business suit with a pair of red horns Maureen had stuffed on her hair right before they left. She's the devil of big business, or so Mark had dubbed her. This had all been before Maureen showed him what he was wearing.
Maureen is dressed in a tight white skirt with an equally tight white shirt of some shiny material that makes her look like she's from a bad eighties movie about the future. The only thing about her that says 'angel' is her clip on wings. With an over dramatized sigh, she starts riffling through the little white purse she brought with her. "I can fix it."
Mark takes a step back, shaking his head. "I'm hot enough without having another layer of make up caked on, thank you."
Chuckling a bit, Joanne looks Mark up and down. "You really expect us to believe you're over heating in that thing."
Mark's cheeks go so red it shows through the blush. He tugs at the end of the skirt Maureen had tricked him into (she pouted and whined and basically had just been Maureen, which makes it almost certain that Mark will give in) and ends up pulling too far down. Adjusting the waistline again, Mark refuses to meet Maureen or Joanne's eyes. "I still can't believe you made me wear this."
"Ah," Maureen coos, reaching out to fix the curly blonde wig she'd styled onto Mark's head. The wig was the worst part, the slight curls always smacking him in the face or tickling the back of his neck. How could girls stand to have hair this long? Well, the wig or the chunky black boots that feel like their cutting off the better part of his leg's circulation. Or maybe the tight blue shirt that felt like hot plastic melted and rubbing up against his skin. Or the fishnet sleeve things that keep falling down his arm and itch like mad. "I think you're cute."
"For a boy," Joanne adds, and both she and Maureen start laughing again.
The screams from the main auditorium start picking up again and the rest of the people that had been hanging around the venders start scrambling back to their seats or the pits. Maureen smiles, grabbing Joanne's hand and starts pulling her back in. "Come on, the next band's starting up!"
Mark shakes his head, waving Maureen and Joanne on without him. "I'm going to go meet up with Roger."
"Are you sure?" Joanne asks, looking rather desperate. The idea of being left alone trying to watch after Maureen is enough to scare anyone.
Mark nods, pulling the backstage pass Roger had sent him out from under his shirt. "Yeah. I'll see you guys later. Have fun."
Maureen laughs, ignoring Joanne look of slight panic. "We're sure you guys will," she says before dragging Joanne back into the crowd.
After a few minutes, nearly everyone has abandoned the little corridor, all the shops closing down while the next band starts up. Mark sighs and the sound can actually be heard. Well, here it goes. Meeting up with Roger after not seeing him for five weeks. After two weeks of being together, or maybe being together, or just messing around. After four days of awkward pauses on the phone because Mark did who knows what to make Roger nervous.
Hey, it's just Roger. No reason to be nervous. They've been best friends for years now and nothing can change that.
Swallowing down the slight nausea rising from his stomach, Mark tells himself to keep repeating that one.
He stops in the bathroom with the plan to pull off this costume Maureen had talked him into and back into some normal clothes. Stepping into one of the stalls, Mark yells, "Fuck!" Right, he doesn't have any normal clothes on him. Growling a bit, he goes to the sink and scrubs off the make up. Maybe he should take the wig off, too. Only he doesn't have anywhere to put it and Maureen promised she'd kill him if he lost it.
Great, Mark thinks as he stalks out of the bathroom looking no different than when he went in minus the blue eye shadow, blush, and mascara running down his face, now Roger is going to think he's insane.
No, Mark reminds himself as he starts looking around the stage entrance. Maureen is insane. Mark is a push-over.
After flashing his pass to more people than he cared to count, Mark finally manage to work his way backstage. It's calmer than he expected. The roadies, tech guys, and security just sit around talking and eating. There aren't any screaming groupies around like Mark had figured there would be. No one was pacing or yelling or in a panic. After five weeks, maybe they just have this show figured out.
With the pass dangling around his neck, Mark starts moving through the maze of couches and equipment, looking for that familiar smile or a flash of bleached out hair. He can hear a muffled version of the band up on stage and some of the voices filtering through everyone's walkie-talkies. One guy dressed all in black with glasses thicker than Mark's and bright blue hair smiles at him, looking him up and down before asking, "Hey, who are you looking for?"
"Roger," Mark answers without even thinking about it. The guy almost trips back, looking startled as hell. "I'm, uh, Roger Davis's roommate." Giving Mark a strange look, the guy points over to another corner of the room. "Thanks!" Mark shouts back to him, already walking away towards a familiar looking back.
When he's a few steps away, Mark's heart starts to race so fast it nearly jumps into his throat. "Roger!" The rock star turns around wearing that smile which just about does it for Mark's heart. Right now, he could die a very happy death.
Then the smile hitches a bit. Fuck. This was a bad idea. He can tell just from Roger's look that this was a bad idea. "Mark?"
"Umm... Yeah?" Somehow, through the panic, it manages to hit Mark. The skirt. The wig. The general costume. Blushing a deep crimson color, all Mark can think of saying is, "Hey."
Slowly, that smile starts coming back to Roger's lips. As it does, Mark finally lets himself relax. "Fuck," Roger says, laughter more than a little apparent in his voice. "It's like looking at a freaky twin sister."
Any blood that had been hiding elsewhere in his body heads straight to his cheeks. "I mean," Roger adds, cocking his head to the side and grinning. "A kinda slutty twin sister, but a sister."
Mark is going to kill Maureen.
"It-" Mark gets cut off when his lips are smashed against Roger's shoulder. Strong hands wrap around his back, hugging him so tight to Roger's chest he's not sure he can breathe.
Fuck, who needs air, anyway?
Laughing when he pulls back, Roger runs a hand through Mark's wig. "I didn't recognize you without your camera."
Mark swats Roger's hand away. Acting annoyed probably would have been easier if he weren't smiling so damn much. "Very clever," He laughs, ducking away and taking another hit at Roger's hand when he goes to pull at the wig.
Smirking, Roger twists their fingers together when Mark tries to knock his hand away again. "I thought so."
Roger's hand fall from around Mark's back to his hips, keeping Mark close. Not that he had been even considering backing away. "Welcome back to the City," Mark says, smiling up at Roger. Even in the dark, smoky area back stage, he's pretty sure he can see those green eyes spark.
"Miss me?" Roger asks, but before Mark can call him and idiot for even asking he's being pulled closer again.
Roger's lips are hard and demeaning against his, and Mark's glad he wiped that awful lipstick Maureen had painted over his mouth away. Right now he just wants to be able to feel Roger's mouth against his. Mark wraps his arms around Roger's shoulder and lets himself be kissed because right then Roger is controlling and rough and it's all too good and Mark is all too glad to be submissive for that mouth. He's tugged closer to Roger, close enough that Roger barely has to move to slip a thigh up between Mark's legs, and... God... Rough denim pressing up against him, up under the skirt and, fuck, Mark presses back and rides the pressure and it's been too, too, too long since anything felt this good. Mark moans-whimpers-pleads into the kiss and his hips are desperate as the rock against Roger and he's pretty sure - yes, if Roger would just give him a little more than, God-
"Hot girl you've got there, Rog."
Roger's lips are gleaming with spit, trembling slightly when they pull away from Mark's. His eyes are so dark they no longer look green, half hooded an staring right into Mark's until the other boy's pretty sure he'll moan again just staring into those eyes.
Roger flicks off whoever had broken their kiss. Mark runs a hand across Roger's cheek, feeling the hot blush he can't see in the dark. Maybe that kiss had been a mistake, a spur of the moment thing they'll want to take back later. It felt like an explosion. All those thoughts and feelings that have been fucking with his head, he'd just need some way to pour all of that into Roger.
For a while the two boys just sit there and try to even out their ragged breathing. Mark never moves back, and Roger never forces him away. When he's caught his breath, Roger breaks the silence hanging between them. "I want to go home."
"Me, too."
*
Getting home isn't quite what Mark expected.
What he wanted was to be shoved against a wall with Roger on top of him. What he got was Roger opening the loft door and walking straight to the kitchen without even stopping to look at Mark who trails behind to take off the boots that are killing his feet.
"Still empty," Mark says, frowning a bit as he watches Roger sigh and close the refrigerator. This looks familiar. This looks like denial.
Roger sighs, brushing back the messy spikes of his hair that had already been ruined by sweating on stage. "I think I-" He cuts off when Mark steps in front of him, grabbing one shoulder to keep Roger in place. If it were a real, honest struggle, Roger could have easily pushed past Mark, but in this case Mark has the advantage. He is determined and horny as hell, and Roger is not about to just walk away from him without explanation.
"Where are you going?" Mark's voice is low and serious, borderline frightening as he tightens his hand in Roger's shirt.
Roger has the good sense to keep his eyes on the floor, the wall, anywhere but Mark. "I'm tired," Roger mutters to the window. "Thought I'd go sleep in my own bed."
It's an unfair thing to say. Mark's hand flexes in the fabric of Roger's shirt. If Roger's actually tired, then Mark is in charge of making sure he gets enough sleep, enough food, enough medicine for the week. Taking care of Roger somehow managed to worm its way into become second nature over that horrible, fucked up year of disease and withdrawal. On the one hand, he's not going to let Roger just walk away from him. He wants an answer, because even rejection is better than wondering.
In the end Mark decides a few more minutes is not going to kill Roger. He tightens his hand back in the shirt, knuckles going white against the black material. "Liar." Mark's voice may not command the same attention as Roger's, but he can still be damn scary when he needs to. "I am sick of always avoiding the issue with you, I want a.... What the hell are you laughing about?"
Here Mark is trying to be serious and Roger is laughing at him. Worse, the way Roger smiles, eyes crinkled up and licking his lips every now and then, it's not helping Mark's problem from earlier. It's certainly not helping him stay angry with Roger. "I'm sorry," Roger says, still smiling with pearls of laughter escaping through his words. "I'm sorry Mark, it's just the way you're dressed and you're trying to be so fucking serious."
Mark rips off the stupid blond wig, tossing it to the ground and fuck Maureen and her overpriced junk. "I am so fucking sick of you!" Roger quits smiling and just stares, shocked that little Mark could produce such an outbreak. This isn't the sane Mark he left behind, though. This is a Mark who has been going crazy for the last five weeks trying to remember his right from his left, and he needs answers. "I am fucking sick of playing all your little games. I put up with the repulsiveness, the self-hate, the fits, the running away, but I am not going to deal with your avoidance issues. I'm not your mother, Roger. I didn't have to stick around no matter what, but I did and it's about fucking time you paid me back!"
There's a small pause while Mark takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This hardly helps the situation. Seeing Roger staring at him all wide-eyed and helpless and like he has no idea what Mark is talking about. "I can't handle it," Mark says, at least no longer close to yelling. "You fucking back me into a wall and then do nothing. You kiss me and back off before anything real happens. I don't know what the hell is going on in my own fucking head, much less yours. I've been trying, Roger, I have. I've been talking to people... people at Life Support, and I've been thinking and I am so willing to take the risk of... of so much fucking stuff, and now you're back and..." Mark pauses, trailing off as he runs out of words. They've never been the kind of friends to talk things out. They push, they prod, they suggest, but Roger just ends up exploding or Mark grabs his camera and closes himself off.
Mark isn't supposed to be the one going insane, but now that it's happened he doesn't know where to go next. He's not like Roger. Not a bundle of emotions just waiting to get forced out by some pretty girl with a candle, who goes with his first instincts and passions without stopping to think. Something about Roger, though, drives Mark to that point. What the hell is it about Roger that makes Mark shout like that? How is it that the songwriter can always get a nice emotional burst from him? More importantly, how does one follow up pouring all of that out at once without looking like an idiot?
It hits Mark that he's standing there in a skirt telling his best friend of four years that he loves him. He's a little beyond looking like a idiot at this point.
When Roger leans forward to kiss him it's soft, gentle, almost chaste. It's nothing like their backstage kiss, so scared and light that it takes Mark a few minutes to realize he's being kissed at all. But hey, at least it's a kiss.
It's not good enough, though. Roger starts to pull back and whatever energy Mark couldn't pour out during his rants comes back to him. He grabs fistfuls of Roger's shirt, tugging him back to Mark's lips. "Harder." Roger never questions him, just leans back in and deepens that last pathetic excuse for a kiss.
*
Roger doesn't need to breathe.
Mark pushes him back against the bed, which makes a loud groan under Roger's weight, and fresh air pours back into his lungs. Roger doesn't like it, though. He likes Mark's lips against his, likes Mark's taste. He doesn't have to wait too long before Mark is straddling his lap, hands twisting in Roger's hair and pulling him in for another deep kiss. A kiss that has become hard, demanding more, and Mark licks and bites and dives into it. Roger falls back against the bed, grabbing hold of Mark's hip and pulling them closer together, not close enough because his jeans and shirt and Mark seems to feel it too, his hands doing their best to touch every inch of Roger's skin. Shirts are tugged at and tossed aside. Lips, teeth, and tongue mash together as every moan and whimper make the kiss that much more desperate. Roger's hands are being pulled off Mark's waist, and he lets Mark do what he pleases. Right now all he can think about is Mark's hips pressed against him, the little wanton sounds in the back of his throat as Roger bites and sucks at his lower lip.
It isn't until Mark pulls away and Roger reaches out to keep him in place that he notices his arms stretched out over his head, warm and soft cotton hugging his wrists. He tips his head back, the tails of the white and blue scarf brushing against his nose. He curls his hands into the fabric and pulls. The headboard bangs back against the wall, but the scarf stays in place.
Smiling down at him, Mark leans over Roger to plant a small kiss on the corner of his lips. "I practice that, you know." Mark, with his hips slightly raised and that black skirt still bundled around him, those beautiful blue eyes smiling down at Roger and he looks so innocently wicked. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses under his jaw, along his neck, Mark mutters, "What do you think?"
The scarf doesn't budge when Roger tugs at it again, nails curling into the soft fabric when Mark starts sucking at just that spot and white heat flashes under Roger's skin. "Mark, let me go." It would sound better if he weren't so breathy, if his words didn't end in a gasp because of the sharp pleasure-pain of Mark's teeth digging into him. Biting down on the already red skin and even if it almost hurts, Roger is pushing himself back into it, a whimper torn from the back of his throat while Mark sucks and nips and leaves him marked.
Licking his lips and trying to catch his breath, Roger only opens his eyes when the biting stops. He looks back to Mark, silently asking for more but Mark is studying the knot with a certain amount of pride. Too smug. Growling, Roger gives another useless tug. "Come on, Mark." Roger's voice breaks, pushing himself up against Mark. He's not even sure why he's protesting any more.
"No," Mark purrs, traveling lower still. Mark's tongue flicks over a nipple before his lips fasten over it and - fuck, he was good with his mouth. With every moan the lust humming through his nerves, twisting his gut, makes it that much harder to remember why the hell he is not supposed to be doing this anymore. "You're mine." His fingers were undoing Roger's jeans, barely brushing up against the clothed erection as he worked down the zipper. Hips arch off the bed, trying to meet Mark's hands but the second the zipper if pulled down Mark yanks the pants away, never giving Roger more than a ghost of a touch.
Mark leans back, dragging Roger's pants down his legs and tossing them to the side. Sitting between his legs, Mark with that skirt and flushed skin and coy smile. Roger jerked forward, desperate to touch. Five weeks is too long, and now he is tied to a fucking bedpost when Mark is right there licking at his parted, bruised lips. With a strangled snarl he fell back against the bed, wrist rubbed raw by the cotton of the scarf.
Mark's breathing hitches, his clear blue eyes turning dark and hungry. He cups Roger's chin, tipping his head back and leaning in to lick at the shell of his ear, hot breath sprawling across Roger's sweat slick skin. "I love your voice."
"Mark," Roger growled, pretty sure he was going to tell Mark why - Oh... Oh, God. Mark definitely shouldn't be able to do those things with his tongue. His nails are scrapping lightly down his chest, down his hips, down his - fuck, so close and Roger, who has lost all control his owns thoughts and breathing and mouth, is moaning and arching off the bed and begging for Mark to give him more.
Something in the back of his mind tells him this isn't how this was supposed to, God, but, fuck... Mark is working down his chest and looking up at Roger with dark blue, hungry eyes and no one should look so beautiful like this, innocent and young and desperate and wanton and in control and Roger swallows back another moan because he never knew how perfect Mark could look.
He isn't even sure how, but Mark has a condom that he's rolling over Roger and he's looking up at Roger with those dark eyes and says, "I'm not letting you go."
"Good." Roger's voice sounds like he'd just come offstage, hoarse and ragged, and Mark moans in reply. He goes back to the bedside table, this time coming back with glistening fingers and a wet smack when he claps his hands together. Settling between Roger's legs, one hand curls around Roger's erection and - fuck, finally some contact and he doesn't wait for Mark to start moving before he's pushing up against the tight circle of fingers - the other. The other presses up between Mark's own legs. The other, Mark slides between his thighs, only stopping for a second to cup himself before...
Mark moans, his hand on Roger tightening and he's thrusting into himself. He's leaning back and rocking his hips back against his fingers and Roger is pulling at that damn scarf he's going to burn later. He needs to be touching Mark right now. Now when Mark drops Roger's cock to hold himself up as his hips become more desperate, faster, harder, fingers sliding in and out of himself as he moans and writhes and Roger should be doing that. Roger should be the reason his eyes are closed and cheeks are flushed and whole body trembling. Then... Then, he's bucking off the bed and biting his lips and Roger knows Mark must have...And then, then he's pulling out of himself and falling back on the bed and slowly his eyes start to flutter open and he's looking up to meet Roger's.
Roger's eyes, which must be complete black by now. Which must be echoing the hunger and need they find in Mark's. Roger, who is harder than he could ever remember being because it actually hurts, the way his erection is pulsing against his stomach. Mark thrusting into himself with that skirt bundled against his waist. It may not have been something Roger would imagine, but it would be now.
Still part of his knows he was supposed to protest this whole thing, but by now he's not conscious off anything expect for Mark and the heat coiled tight in his stomach so it doesn't matter.
Mark moves to his knees, and Roger can see his muscles quivering in his legs when he uses them, crawls up to straddle Roger's lap and that skirt falls to cover his and Roger's cocks. He crawls over Roger, lips brushing together but by now both of them are breathing so out of time they don't quite kiss. And Mark whispers, "I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."
And Roger answers, "Please, Mark," without ever really hearing what Mark is telling him.
This fails to matter, either, because Mark spreads out his legs and leans back. He holds onto Roger's shoulders and pushes back and. Yes. It's been way, way, way too long since Roger's had this and it feels better than he remembered it because this is Mark. Mark who is lowering himself down on Roger's cock, arching back and flushed and biting at his lip and Roger tries not to push himself up as he is pushed up to meet Mark's too slow movement.
Unbelievable, how Mark can make every second stretch on and when he whimpers, Roger replies with a ragged groan and he knows he shouldn't like that sound so much, but it sounds wonderful when it's Mark who's whimpering because it's Mark who is finally there. There with his nails digging into Roger's skin and face twisted in pleasure-pain-more. There with Roger inside him, sitting back on Roger's lap and shaking around him as he gets use to being filled like that. There...
Yes.
Mark lifts his hips, hands running over Roger's body and bed trying to find where he can hold himself up. Mark lifts his hips, licking his lips and chest moving with heavy breathes to match Roger's. Mark lifts his hips and the skirt moves with him in one, fluid motion that draws Roger's eyes to it when Mark thrusts back down.
Hard.
"Harder," Roger growls, rocking his hips to meet the pace Mark is starting to set. The skirt is bouncing between them as Mark finally grabs hold of Roger's hips and the sheets so he can lift high enough to slam back and - fuck - Roger's whole body is strung tight and Mark is so fucking beautiful when he starts to lose himself to this messy, rough rhythm. He doesn't seem to notice the way the skirt sticks to his overheated skin or the too red flush or the fact that his legs are beginning to shake with the effort it takes to keep thrusting back against Roger, but Roger notices all of this because Mark looks like a vision to him. Mark looks desperate and wanton and like he wants this so bad it hurts as much as the pressure building in Roger. Between that and the tight, fast, heat, hard, thrust of Mark's hips back against his cock and every one of Roger's muscles tensing and pulling him apart and. And. And.
Roger's body jerks up to meet Mark's right before he's coming hard and fast and Mark is still riding out the orgasm before his face twists and lips part for a silent, chocked off scream.
Mark sits up, shivering and panting as his hips continue pushing back against Roger even after they've both come, waiting for the last tremors to past through both of them. Then he's climbing off the bed, out of his skirt, and pulling Roger's wrists free with a few simple tugs.
Groaning when his muscles protest the movement, Roger crawled out of bed to toss the condom, kicking the dirtied skirt under his bed so Mark wouldn't find it in the morning and get rid of it. That done, he fell back into bed without a word. He's sure that if he tried to talk he'd say something stupid like, "Amazing" or "So....". Better to keep his mouth shut.
After a few moments of the only sound being both boys' heavy breathing, Mark scoots across the bed, snuggling up to Roger. And really, they're both still so hot from the whole ordeal that Roger has kicked away the blanket trying to get the cold air to chill the sweat covering his skin, but he doesn't push Mark away. He doesn't have the energy, will, or want. So Mark presses up against him, waits a few seconds, and then cuddles up even closer when Roger doesn't say a word or move away.
With a kiss to the red mark on Roger's shoulder, Mark says, "I meant what I said."
Roger-worn out from the show, the emotions, the sex-makes a small sound of agreement and wraps an arm around Mark and starts drifting off. He can still feel Mark's lips moving over his skin, and it's nice but not nice enough to keep him awake. "I'll be here when you wake up," Mark mutters, and Roger makes another one of those not-quite-word noises. "I'm not going anywhere." It sounds like a borderline threat.
With a grunt, Roger twists them around so that Mark is curled up next to him with legs tangled and chests flush together. Roger never opens his eyes just nuzzles the top of Mark's hair, placing a few kisses there. "I know," he answers, trying to swallow back a yawn. Mark sighs and presses a little closer to Roger, finally starting to relax. "Me, too."
(Pst. If anyone cares about my/Maureen’s sick and twisted sense of humor Mark was dressed - of course - as Mimi.)
I've had this done for, like, three weeks and have yet to put it up. Sorry about that.
Author: Stephanie (gildedmuse)
Fandom, Pairing: Rent, Mark/Roger
Series, Chapter: Mucho Masturbation, Part Five: Copulation
Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 8,090
Chapter Note: See chapter title? See rating? Yeah. Still a PWP. Now a finished PWP with a happy ending. [smile]
Past Chapters:
Part 1: Mark
Part 2: Roger
Part 3: Mutual
Part 4: Voyeurism
Mucho Masturbation
Part Five: Copulation
"Tickets."
Joanne raises an eyebrow, giving Mark the look of a woman who has to put up with far too much insanity to add this to the list. "Mark?"
With a slight laugh and huge grin, Mark waves the paper envelope in front of Joanne's face. "Roger sent the tickets!"
Looking like she was afraid to ask, Joanne moves aside and ushers Mark into the apartment. "Nice to see you, too, Mark." Mark smiles and plants a quick kiss on Joanne's cheek. The woman pauses for a second, raising a hand to her face before laughing. She shakes her head and closes the door as Mark bounces all the way inside. "In a good mood?"
"They're for the 31st," Mark explains. "That's in five days."
Before Mark can get another word out, a high-pitched voice breaks through the small living room. "Pookie!" Both of Joanne and Mark turn around, but while Joanne answers with another eye roll Mark nearly chokes to death.
Patting him on the back to help the cough, Joanne says, "It's alright. I've already told her she looks like Bozo the Clown."
Maureen's once stringy brown hair, which had turned blonde and curly last time Mark had seen her, was now a bright, vibrant red. Maureen stood at the doorway of the bathroom, half of her hair hanging limp and straight while the other was still in it's tight curls but all of it was roughly the color of a neon sign. Maureen seems to soak in Mark's attention, either oblivious to why his jaw is hanging open or else not caring. She smiles, the one that used to leave Mark weak and swooning, and flips the straight section of her hair over her shoulder.
"Maureen!" Joanne groans, rubbing her temple a bit. "Put a shirt on."
"Oh, come on, Pookie," Maureen coos, bouncing just enough to bring Mark's attention from her hair to her chest. "It's not like he hasn't seen them before."
With a loud, angry sounding sigh Joanne walks across the apartment and gives Maureen a slight shove back into the bathroom. "And I'm sure he's seen them quite enough. Now, finish straightening your hair and put a shirt on." With the bathroom door shut and Maureen safely out of view, Joanne falls back against the door and shakes her head. "Sorry about that."
"No," Mark says, forcing his eyes back up to female face level. "No, it's alright. Just Maureen being..."
"Are you guys talking about me?" Maureen yells through the door, with just enough lift in her voice that Mark can tell that's what she wants.
"Anyway," Joanne cuts in, loud enough for Maureen to hear them changing the subject. "what were you saying about your tickets?"
"Oh..." Mark has the decency to turn as bright red as Maureen's hair. So maybe he shouldn't have been staring at his ex-girlfriend's breasts (no matter how obviously they were presented) while holding ticket to his boyfriend's (if that was the right word) concert. It seemed wrong somehow, not to mention shouldn't Mark be over Maureen already?
No, that's crazy. Mark will never get over Maureen. Maybe he's not crazy enough to go crawling back to her anymore, but getting over her would take an act of God. Or a deal with the devil.
Joanne walks over to Mark, patting him on the shoulder as if she knows what he's thinking. "Look," she says, voice a little softer than usual. "I feel I should warn you. Maureen, she's scheming again." Mark looks at Joanne, utterly nonplussed. "She's trying to see if she can, you know, get a rise out of you." Joanne makes a wild, non-helpful hand gesture that just confuses Mark even more.
Mark looks from Joanne to the bathroom and tries to remember why he came over here in the first place. "What?"
"You know," Joanne says, sounding exasperated. Mark takes some comfort in knowing most of that probably just comes from dealing with Maureen day in and day out. "She wants to see if she can make you straight."
Mark tries to work reason into that statement and fails. "Maureen wants to see if I'm still straight?" Mark asks, one hundred percent sure he must have heard that wrong. "But she's a lesbian."
"That never stopped you from loving her before," Joanne points out. "Besides, I think she's just scared."
This idea seems oddly pleasing to Mark if it weren't for the small chance of Maureen bouncing over to the loft shirtless. Having her worry about her own sexual prowess would be good payback for the months Mark had spent agonizing over her leaving him. Having to explain to Roger why Maureen has started clinging to her like they're dating again doesn't sound half as fun. "I'm bi," Mark clarifies.
"I told her if anyone changed your mind, it was Roger," Joanne says with a shrug, glancing over to the bathroom for Maureen's next entrance. "I'm not sure what hurt worse. Finding out you were gay-"
"Bi," Mark corrects. Joanne gives him a look that makes him feel foolish for even thinking it, but Mark's been taking time to figure out why the hell he spends so much time fantasying about boys but still stops to stare when he sees pretty girls on the street. Until Collins called him an idiot for taking so long to figure it out. Collins always had a way of making these things seem so easy and obvious; the anti-Mark and Roger, who had to see everything as hard and complicated.
"-Or finding out it wasn't her doing."
"She's a very confusing girl," Mark says, nodding with the expertise of someone who had put up with it for far too long. With all her energy and spunk, it's easy to forget how fragile Maureen's ego can get. She's a lot like Roger in that respect.
Mark pauses, thinking about that for a few seconds. Okay, never have that thought again.
"She is," Joanne says, and even while she looks annoyed and upset, Mark can still see the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Yeah, she's in love.
Maureen appears a few minutes later in something that can barely be called a shirt and earns another eye roll from her girlfriend. Her hair is straightened, but still a scary shade of red.
"It's beautiful, honey bear," Joanne tells her when Maureen all but begs them for compliments in her own way, with her arms spread wide and chest puffed out, eyes begging for their approval.
"It looks like you've been scalped and are bleeding out," Mark says under his breath, surprised a girl like Maureen could do something like that to her hair. Then when Maureen looks ready to cry adds, "I love it, Maureen!"
How is it he falls for her pout every time?
"Thank you, Mark!" Maureen coos right before she pulls him into a tight hug with her breasts squashed against Mark's chest, all but rubbing up against him. Behind her, Joanne makes a face. Mark shrugs, mouthing the words, 'I'll talk to her.'
Pushing Maureen back far enough that he can breathe, Mark ignores her searching smile and instead starts waving around the pack of tickets again. "Roger's band is coming back in five days."
Maureen and Joanne just keep staring at him. Finally, Joanne breaks the silence with, "That's great, Mark."
"He sent me three tickets," Mark explains, opening the envelope and pulling out two of the tickets. "I thought you guys might want to come with me."
'For moral support' went unsaid. In the last four weeks, Mark has had to face up to a lot. He loves Roger, Roger may not love him, Roger is sick. Going to Life Support with Collins had helped him work out a lot, but there are still these constantly nagging fears. What if Roger got back and had changed his mind? What if they're supposed to be just messing around? What if... What if... What if...
"I don't know, Mark," Joanne says, walking over beside Maureen to look down at the tickets. "I-"
It's too late for her to get out another word. Maureen's already squealing, "these are for that Halloween concert!" and pointing at the date on the tickets.
Mark nods. "Yeah. Roger's opening for that band. It's supposed to be a kinda big deal."
"Kind of big?" Maureen asks, hands on hips and rolling her eyes. Mark, you have no idea. Everyone is going to be there! It's going to be the biggest costume party in New York."
Joanne raises an eyebrow. "It's a costume party?"
Mark shrugs a bit. "Roger said some people will probably be dressing up."
"Oh, please," Maureen says, shaking her head. "Some people? More like everyone."
"Well," Joanne says, looking between the tickets and her girlfriend. "I guess the office party isn't that important."
Maureen laughs happily, hugging Joanne and planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Mark settles for just smiling and saying, "Thanks."
"Oh!" Maureen says, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet as she thinks about all the possibilities. "Oh, Mark, I have the perfect costume for you!"
*
Maureen is insane.
Mark tosses his sweater aside, picking Roger's old shirt off the table where'd he'd left it this morning and tugging it back on. It hangs loose around his small frame, enough so that he had to pull it up every few seconds to stop it slipping down his shoulders. It's just enough extra fabric that even lying down on the couch he can gather enough to pull to his nose, breathing the T-shirts strange smell. Like smoke, alcohol, and Roger that hasn't been washed away in months. Mark doesn't care about the slightly funky undertone of the scent. He wraps himself up in the shirt, feeling comfortable and safe.
Maureen is insane, but Mark isn't much better.
He can't help it if he misses his best friend. What he can help is wearing his friend's clothes around the loft just to get the feel of him. What he can help is hovering around the phone some days, waiting for Roger to call. Or spending half the night trying to figure out what Roger thinks about them.
That last one causes him the most problems.
Mark sighs, shifting around on the couch and tries to relax. Why did he have to spend so much of his time thinking about Roger, anyway? That and filming seemed to be all he did lately. Not that this is strange for Mark. Better than when he was dating Maureen, and her and filming controlled his life. Or after that, when it was just filming.
"Just relax," Mark tells himself. He needs something to take his mind of the stress. Over imaging what Roger is thinking of right now. Over Maureen and her crazy ideas. Over his job and his sexuality and all that complicated stuff.
As he's thinking it, his hand is already sliding down his chest. It may not be the best way to forget about Roger, but it sure as hell will take away some of the stress for a while. Mark bites on his lip to hold back a moan, pushing up against his hand. What's so bad about thinking about Roger, anyway? Especially if it's Roger with those beautiful green eyes of his smiling up at Mark while he licks down his chest, pushing his legs apart and-
"Fuck." Mark curses, trying to catch his breath as he scrambled for the ringing phone. Shaking slightly, Mark grabs for the phone, not bothering to cover the annoyance in his voice. "Hello?" Great. He still sounds breathless and guilty.
There is a few seconds pause, and Mark is all but ready to hang up when he hears a familiar voice. "Mark?" Roger sounds like he just woke up, voice husky and low. Mark grabs onto the table for support because, God, he's pretty sure he could come from that voice alone, and Roger shouldn't be allowed to use that when Mark was just thinking about him. "Hey. What are you doing?"
"N-nothing." It would have sounded more convincing if his voice weren't shaking so badly. Mark swallows down a whimper, and he swears his heart is so loud Roger must be able to hear it over the phone. There's a long pause where Mark tries to fix his heavy breathing and Roger just waits and listens. "Hey, Rog, I was just-"
"Mmm...." Roger cuts him off, not that Mark minds being cut off from his ramblings. "Know what I'm doing?" He says in that same low, ragged voice. Like the one he uses on stage, but softer and for Mark only.
Yes, Mark thinks. Driving me insane.
The next sound of the phone is a slight gasp. Mark goes completely still, listening to the slight panting on the other end. Once he's sure his voice won't crack he asks, "Roger?"
"Mmm... Thinking about you," Roger answers. Mark would swear he could hear the familiar sound of clothes being pushed aside but who knows, maybe that's all just his over active imagination. He's certainly been thinking about Roger enough lately.
"Thinking about you, too." Mark slides back down on the couch, hand running down his chest, and in all honesty he's stopped thinking. Part of him is pretty sure this is wrong, somehow, that he shouldn't be doing this. By the time he's kneading himself through his jeans, that part is long gone. "I- God, Roger."
"Mmm..." Roger groans into the phone, and Mark answers with a small, strangled whimper. He's going to come any minute now, just listening to Roger's shallow breathing, picturing the boy on the other end arching off the bed into his hand, moaning Mark's name. "Want me to..."
"Yes," Mark answers, already beginning to fumble with the buttons of his jeans trying to peel them back. "Yes, please Roger." Mark moans with his fingers wrapped around himself and eyes closed so that the entire world becomes Roger's ragged breathing, Roger's voice in his ear.
The next time he speaks, Mark can honestly hear the smirk in Roger's voice. "You like to beg, Mark?"
"Yes," Mark hisses, hardly aware of his own voice. For right now all that exists is Roger and that voice, that low and dangerous voice that is sending coils of heat twisting in Mark's stomach and his hand tightens around him. "Yes, please."
"Good boy," Roger purrs and sounds ready to pounce. Mark bites on his lip to hold back a moan, afraid to miss a single word. "Now, I want you on your knees." Mark nods, obediently picturing himself on his knees in front of Roger. His hand begins to pick up pace and by now he's lucky to be breathing at all. "Your hands tied behind you back."
"Yes," Mark moans before he can stop himself. It doesn't matter. He's in front of Roger with his hands twisted behind him, his tongue running along Roger's cock and a tight hand twisting in his hair, urging him on.
There's a slight pause and then, "You like that?"
Mark nods, swallowing before he can find his voice again. "God, Yes." Mark on his knees with Roger in his mouth, bucking and moaning, purring like he does. "Please, Roger. More?"
"Mmm... Gonna tie you up when I get home," Roger promises, breathing picking back up again. "Down in front of you, licking and sucking just enough to drive you mad. Make you beg."
Mark's a mess, aching into his hand as visions of a dark room swim in his head. Roger with his fingers clutching Mark's hips, looking up at him with glowing green eyes as he swipes his tongue over Mark, teasing and toying around with him when he's so close. "Please!" Mark nearly screams and he doesn't worry that he sounds so desperate because, really, he is and if Roger would just tell him to he's pretty sure he'd come right now. On command. "God, please, Roger."
"Want me to fuck you?" Said in that low growl with Mark already so frantic and then more of that sweet voice to the point where he can't breath in any more. He bucks into the air, spreading his legs apart and imagines Roger walking in right now and just taking him, without another word. Pinning Mark's hand above his head, kissing him hard as he enters him. The pain would be worth it if Roger were just inside him right now.
All Mark can do is whimper in reply. His hand around the phone is so tight that if he cared to listen he could hear the cheap plastic cracking under his whitened knuckles. Behind his eyelids, everything is black and spotted. Behind his eyelids, everything is Roger on top of him, slamming into him until Mark screams.
If Roger says anything else, Mark doesn't hear it. He screams Roger's name, tensing seconds before the pressure that has been coiled inside him bursts open and everything is Roger inside him and touching him and growling at him and by the time Mark is back to reality he's still trembling.
After he's caught his breath, he picks the phone back up, pressing it between his shoulder and his ear. "Roger?"
There's a long pause before Roger answers. "Mark?" He sounds as out of it as Mark still feels.
"Mmm..." Mark snuggles happily back against the couch. He just wants to fall asleep in Roger's arms right now. If that's not possible, then he just wants to pass out here with that voice on the other end. "I love your voice."
"I..." Mark opens his eye, scooting up a little on the couch. Roger's nervousness is clear no matter how far away they are. "I, uh, I gotta go."
They hang up, and Mark bangs his head back against the armrest, moaning. He'd known that couldn't have been a good idea.
*
"I can't believe how many people are here!"
Mark's ears are still ringing from the sound of Roger's band. Fuck, he'd forgotten how good the guy looks on stage when he's slamming away at his guitar, growling into the microphone like that. That plus the excitement of the colorful crowd jumping up and down, screaming along with the words they knew. It had been contagious. By the end of their set, Mark had worked his way to the front of the pit yelling Roger's song words right back at him. He'd never really been one of Roger's groupies, but with all the energy around him it had felt impossible to just stand in the back and stay quiet like usual.
After they rescued Maureen from crowd surfing, Joanne had dragged both of them out of the concert and to the water fountain. "I've had hundreds of cases were someone gets dehydrated at these things, passes out, and gets trampled on," Joanne says as she forces cups of water into both their hands. "They hardly ever win."
Mark nods, out of breath and burning up from the inside, and swallows down the water Joanne had bought him. His bones ache from the jumping and he's pretty sure his voice is gone. How the hell did Roger get through five whole weeks of this?
Maureen brushes her still straight but back to platinum blonde (white, Joanne called it, with only a tiny hint of yellow) hair from her eyes. "Your make up's running," she points out, running her fingers under Mark's eyes.
Without pulling the glass of water away from his lips, Mark swats her hand away. "Fix your girlfriend's horns," he says once the last drop of water is gone from his cup. Joanne is dressed in a business suit with a pair of red horns Maureen had stuffed on her hair right before they left. She's the devil of big business, or so Mark had dubbed her. This had all been before Maureen showed him what he was wearing.
Maureen is dressed in a tight white skirt with an equally tight white shirt of some shiny material that makes her look like she's from a bad eighties movie about the future. The only thing about her that says 'angel' is her clip on wings. With an over dramatized sigh, she starts riffling through the little white purse she brought with her. "I can fix it."
Mark takes a step back, shaking his head. "I'm hot enough without having another layer of make up caked on, thank you."
Chuckling a bit, Joanne looks Mark up and down. "You really expect us to believe you're over heating in that thing."
Mark's cheeks go so red it shows through the blush. He tugs at the end of the skirt Maureen had tricked him into (she pouted and whined and basically had just been Maureen, which makes it almost certain that Mark will give in) and ends up pulling too far down. Adjusting the waistline again, Mark refuses to meet Maureen or Joanne's eyes. "I still can't believe you made me wear this."
"Ah," Maureen coos, reaching out to fix the curly blonde wig she'd styled onto Mark's head. The wig was the worst part, the slight curls always smacking him in the face or tickling the back of his neck. How could girls stand to have hair this long? Well, the wig or the chunky black boots that feel like their cutting off the better part of his leg's circulation. Or maybe the tight blue shirt that felt like hot plastic melted and rubbing up against his skin. Or the fishnet sleeve things that keep falling down his arm and itch like mad. "I think you're cute."
"For a boy," Joanne adds, and both she and Maureen start laughing again.
The screams from the main auditorium start picking up again and the rest of the people that had been hanging around the venders start scrambling back to their seats or the pits. Maureen smiles, grabbing Joanne's hand and starts pulling her back in. "Come on, the next band's starting up!"
Mark shakes his head, waving Maureen and Joanne on without him. "I'm going to go meet up with Roger."
"Are you sure?" Joanne asks, looking rather desperate. The idea of being left alone trying to watch after Maureen is enough to scare anyone.
Mark nods, pulling the backstage pass Roger had sent him out from under his shirt. "Yeah. I'll see you guys later. Have fun."
Maureen laughs, ignoring Joanne look of slight panic. "We're sure you guys will," she says before dragging Joanne back into the crowd.
After a few minutes, nearly everyone has abandoned the little corridor, all the shops closing down while the next band starts up. Mark sighs and the sound can actually be heard. Well, here it goes. Meeting up with Roger after not seeing him for five weeks. After two weeks of being together, or maybe being together, or just messing around. After four days of awkward pauses on the phone because Mark did who knows what to make Roger nervous.
Hey, it's just Roger. No reason to be nervous. They've been best friends for years now and nothing can change that.
Swallowing down the slight nausea rising from his stomach, Mark tells himself to keep repeating that one.
He stops in the bathroom with the plan to pull off this costume Maureen had talked him into and back into some normal clothes. Stepping into one of the stalls, Mark yells, "Fuck!" Right, he doesn't have any normal clothes on him. Growling a bit, he goes to the sink and scrubs off the make up. Maybe he should take the wig off, too. Only he doesn't have anywhere to put it and Maureen promised she'd kill him if he lost it.
Great, Mark thinks as he stalks out of the bathroom looking no different than when he went in minus the blue eye shadow, blush, and mascara running down his face, now Roger is going to think he's insane.
No, Mark reminds himself as he starts looking around the stage entrance. Maureen is insane. Mark is a push-over.
After flashing his pass to more people than he cared to count, Mark finally manage to work his way backstage. It's calmer than he expected. The roadies, tech guys, and security just sit around talking and eating. There aren't any screaming groupies around like Mark had figured there would be. No one was pacing or yelling or in a panic. After five weeks, maybe they just have this show figured out.
With the pass dangling around his neck, Mark starts moving through the maze of couches and equipment, looking for that familiar smile or a flash of bleached out hair. He can hear a muffled version of the band up on stage and some of the voices filtering through everyone's walkie-talkies. One guy dressed all in black with glasses thicker than Mark's and bright blue hair smiles at him, looking him up and down before asking, "Hey, who are you looking for?"
"Roger," Mark answers without even thinking about it. The guy almost trips back, looking startled as hell. "I'm, uh, Roger Davis's roommate." Giving Mark a strange look, the guy points over to another corner of the room. "Thanks!" Mark shouts back to him, already walking away towards a familiar looking back.
When he's a few steps away, Mark's heart starts to race so fast it nearly jumps into his throat. "Roger!" The rock star turns around wearing that smile which just about does it for Mark's heart. Right now, he could die a very happy death.
Then the smile hitches a bit. Fuck. This was a bad idea. He can tell just from Roger's look that this was a bad idea. "Mark?"
"Umm... Yeah?" Somehow, through the panic, it manages to hit Mark. The skirt. The wig. The general costume. Blushing a deep crimson color, all Mark can think of saying is, "Hey."
Slowly, that smile starts coming back to Roger's lips. As it does, Mark finally lets himself relax. "Fuck," Roger says, laughter more than a little apparent in his voice. "It's like looking at a freaky twin sister."
Any blood that had been hiding elsewhere in his body heads straight to his cheeks. "I mean," Roger adds, cocking his head to the side and grinning. "A kinda slutty twin sister, but a sister."
Mark is going to kill Maureen.
"It-" Mark gets cut off when his lips are smashed against Roger's shoulder. Strong hands wrap around his back, hugging him so tight to Roger's chest he's not sure he can breathe.
Fuck, who needs air, anyway?
Laughing when he pulls back, Roger runs a hand through Mark's wig. "I didn't recognize you without your camera."
Mark swats Roger's hand away. Acting annoyed probably would have been easier if he weren't smiling so damn much. "Very clever," He laughs, ducking away and taking another hit at Roger's hand when he goes to pull at the wig.
Smirking, Roger twists their fingers together when Mark tries to knock his hand away again. "I thought so."
Roger's hand fall from around Mark's back to his hips, keeping Mark close. Not that he had been even considering backing away. "Welcome back to the City," Mark says, smiling up at Roger. Even in the dark, smoky area back stage, he's pretty sure he can see those green eyes spark.
"Miss me?" Roger asks, but before Mark can call him and idiot for even asking he's being pulled closer again.
Roger's lips are hard and demeaning against his, and Mark's glad he wiped that awful lipstick Maureen had painted over his mouth away. Right now he just wants to be able to feel Roger's mouth against his. Mark wraps his arms around Roger's shoulder and lets himself be kissed because right then Roger is controlling and rough and it's all too good and Mark is all too glad to be submissive for that mouth. He's tugged closer to Roger, close enough that Roger barely has to move to slip a thigh up between Mark's legs, and... God... Rough denim pressing up against him, up under the skirt and, fuck, Mark presses back and rides the pressure and it's been too, too, too long since anything felt this good. Mark moans-whimpers-pleads into the kiss and his hips are desperate as the rock against Roger and he's pretty sure - yes, if Roger would just give him a little more than, God-
"Hot girl you've got there, Rog."
Roger's lips are gleaming with spit, trembling slightly when they pull away from Mark's. His eyes are so dark they no longer look green, half hooded an staring right into Mark's until the other boy's pretty sure he'll moan again just staring into those eyes.
Roger flicks off whoever had broken their kiss. Mark runs a hand across Roger's cheek, feeling the hot blush he can't see in the dark. Maybe that kiss had been a mistake, a spur of the moment thing they'll want to take back later. It felt like an explosion. All those thoughts and feelings that have been fucking with his head, he'd just need some way to pour all of that into Roger.
For a while the two boys just sit there and try to even out their ragged breathing. Mark never moves back, and Roger never forces him away. When he's caught his breath, Roger breaks the silence hanging between them. "I want to go home."
"Me, too."
*
Getting home isn't quite what Mark expected.
What he wanted was to be shoved against a wall with Roger on top of him. What he got was Roger opening the loft door and walking straight to the kitchen without even stopping to look at Mark who trails behind to take off the boots that are killing his feet.
"Still empty," Mark says, frowning a bit as he watches Roger sigh and close the refrigerator. This looks familiar. This looks like denial.
Roger sighs, brushing back the messy spikes of his hair that had already been ruined by sweating on stage. "I think I-" He cuts off when Mark steps in front of him, grabbing one shoulder to keep Roger in place. If it were a real, honest struggle, Roger could have easily pushed past Mark, but in this case Mark has the advantage. He is determined and horny as hell, and Roger is not about to just walk away from him without explanation.
"Where are you going?" Mark's voice is low and serious, borderline frightening as he tightens his hand in Roger's shirt.
Roger has the good sense to keep his eyes on the floor, the wall, anywhere but Mark. "I'm tired," Roger mutters to the window. "Thought I'd go sleep in my own bed."
It's an unfair thing to say. Mark's hand flexes in the fabric of Roger's shirt. If Roger's actually tired, then Mark is in charge of making sure he gets enough sleep, enough food, enough medicine for the week. Taking care of Roger somehow managed to worm its way into become second nature over that horrible, fucked up year of disease and withdrawal. On the one hand, he's not going to let Roger just walk away from him. He wants an answer, because even rejection is better than wondering.
In the end Mark decides a few more minutes is not going to kill Roger. He tightens his hand back in the shirt, knuckles going white against the black material. "Liar." Mark's voice may not command the same attention as Roger's, but he can still be damn scary when he needs to. "I am sick of always avoiding the issue with you, I want a.... What the hell are you laughing about?"
Here Mark is trying to be serious and Roger is laughing at him. Worse, the way Roger smiles, eyes crinkled up and licking his lips every now and then, it's not helping Mark's problem from earlier. It's certainly not helping him stay angry with Roger. "I'm sorry," Roger says, still smiling with pearls of laughter escaping through his words. "I'm sorry Mark, it's just the way you're dressed and you're trying to be so fucking serious."
Mark rips off the stupid blond wig, tossing it to the ground and fuck Maureen and her overpriced junk. "I am so fucking sick of you!" Roger quits smiling and just stares, shocked that little Mark could produce such an outbreak. This isn't the sane Mark he left behind, though. This is a Mark who has been going crazy for the last five weeks trying to remember his right from his left, and he needs answers. "I am fucking sick of playing all your little games. I put up with the repulsiveness, the self-hate, the fits, the running away, but I am not going to deal with your avoidance issues. I'm not your mother, Roger. I didn't have to stick around no matter what, but I did and it's about fucking time you paid me back!"
There's a small pause while Mark takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This hardly helps the situation. Seeing Roger staring at him all wide-eyed and helpless and like he has no idea what Mark is talking about. "I can't handle it," Mark says, at least no longer close to yelling. "You fucking back me into a wall and then do nothing. You kiss me and back off before anything real happens. I don't know what the hell is going on in my own fucking head, much less yours. I've been trying, Roger, I have. I've been talking to people... people at Life Support, and I've been thinking and I am so willing to take the risk of... of so much fucking stuff, and now you're back and..." Mark pauses, trailing off as he runs out of words. They've never been the kind of friends to talk things out. They push, they prod, they suggest, but Roger just ends up exploding or Mark grabs his camera and closes himself off.
Mark isn't supposed to be the one going insane, but now that it's happened he doesn't know where to go next. He's not like Roger. Not a bundle of emotions just waiting to get forced out by some pretty girl with a candle, who goes with his first instincts and passions without stopping to think. Something about Roger, though, drives Mark to that point. What the hell is it about Roger that makes Mark shout like that? How is it that the songwriter can always get a nice emotional burst from him? More importantly, how does one follow up pouring all of that out at once without looking like an idiot?
It hits Mark that he's standing there in a skirt telling his best friend of four years that he loves him. He's a little beyond looking like a idiot at this point.
When Roger leans forward to kiss him it's soft, gentle, almost chaste. It's nothing like their backstage kiss, so scared and light that it takes Mark a few minutes to realize he's being kissed at all. But hey, at least it's a kiss.
It's not good enough, though. Roger starts to pull back and whatever energy Mark couldn't pour out during his rants comes back to him. He grabs fistfuls of Roger's shirt, tugging him back to Mark's lips. "Harder." Roger never questions him, just leans back in and deepens that last pathetic excuse for a kiss.
*
Roger doesn't need to breathe.
Mark pushes him back against the bed, which makes a loud groan under Roger's weight, and fresh air pours back into his lungs. Roger doesn't like it, though. He likes Mark's lips against his, likes Mark's taste. He doesn't have to wait too long before Mark is straddling his lap, hands twisting in Roger's hair and pulling him in for another deep kiss. A kiss that has become hard, demanding more, and Mark licks and bites and dives into it. Roger falls back against the bed, grabbing hold of Mark's hip and pulling them closer together, not close enough because his jeans and shirt and Mark seems to feel it too, his hands doing their best to touch every inch of Roger's skin. Shirts are tugged at and tossed aside. Lips, teeth, and tongue mash together as every moan and whimper make the kiss that much more desperate. Roger's hands are being pulled off Mark's waist, and he lets Mark do what he pleases. Right now all he can think about is Mark's hips pressed against him, the little wanton sounds in the back of his throat as Roger bites and sucks at his lower lip.
It isn't until Mark pulls away and Roger reaches out to keep him in place that he notices his arms stretched out over his head, warm and soft cotton hugging his wrists. He tips his head back, the tails of the white and blue scarf brushing against his nose. He curls his hands into the fabric and pulls. The headboard bangs back against the wall, but the scarf stays in place.
Smiling down at him, Mark leans over Roger to plant a small kiss on the corner of his lips. "I practice that, you know." Mark, with his hips slightly raised and that black skirt still bundled around him, those beautiful blue eyes smiling down at Roger and he looks so innocently wicked. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses under his jaw, along his neck, Mark mutters, "What do you think?"
The scarf doesn't budge when Roger tugs at it again, nails curling into the soft fabric when Mark starts sucking at just that spot and white heat flashes under Roger's skin. "Mark, let me go." It would sound better if he weren't so breathy, if his words didn't end in a gasp because of the sharp pleasure-pain of Mark's teeth digging into him. Biting down on the already red skin and even if it almost hurts, Roger is pushing himself back into it, a whimper torn from the back of his throat while Mark sucks and nips and leaves him marked.
Licking his lips and trying to catch his breath, Roger only opens his eyes when the biting stops. He looks back to Mark, silently asking for more but Mark is studying the knot with a certain amount of pride. Too smug. Growling, Roger gives another useless tug. "Come on, Mark." Roger's voice breaks, pushing himself up against Mark. He's not even sure why he's protesting any more.
"No," Mark purrs, traveling lower still. Mark's tongue flicks over a nipple before his lips fasten over it and - fuck, he was good with his mouth. With every moan the lust humming through his nerves, twisting his gut, makes it that much harder to remember why the hell he is not supposed to be doing this anymore. "You're mine." His fingers were undoing Roger's jeans, barely brushing up against the clothed erection as he worked down the zipper. Hips arch off the bed, trying to meet Mark's hands but the second the zipper if pulled down Mark yanks the pants away, never giving Roger more than a ghost of a touch.
Mark leans back, dragging Roger's pants down his legs and tossing them to the side. Sitting between his legs, Mark with that skirt and flushed skin and coy smile. Roger jerked forward, desperate to touch. Five weeks is too long, and now he is tied to a fucking bedpost when Mark is right there licking at his parted, bruised lips. With a strangled snarl he fell back against the bed, wrist rubbed raw by the cotton of the scarf.
Mark's breathing hitches, his clear blue eyes turning dark and hungry. He cups Roger's chin, tipping his head back and leaning in to lick at the shell of his ear, hot breath sprawling across Roger's sweat slick skin. "I love your voice."
"Mark," Roger growled, pretty sure he was going to tell Mark why - Oh... Oh, God. Mark definitely shouldn't be able to do those things with his tongue. His nails are scrapping lightly down his chest, down his hips, down his - fuck, so close and Roger, who has lost all control his owns thoughts and breathing and mouth, is moaning and arching off the bed and begging for Mark to give him more.
Something in the back of his mind tells him this isn't how this was supposed to, God, but, fuck... Mark is working down his chest and looking up at Roger with dark blue, hungry eyes and no one should look so beautiful like this, innocent and young and desperate and wanton and in control and Roger swallows back another moan because he never knew how perfect Mark could look.
He isn't even sure how, but Mark has a condom that he's rolling over Roger and he's looking up at Roger with those dark eyes and says, "I'm not letting you go."
"Good." Roger's voice sounds like he'd just come offstage, hoarse and ragged, and Mark moans in reply. He goes back to the bedside table, this time coming back with glistening fingers and a wet smack when he claps his hands together. Settling between Roger's legs, one hand curls around Roger's erection and - fuck, finally some contact and he doesn't wait for Mark to start moving before he's pushing up against the tight circle of fingers - the other. The other presses up between Mark's own legs. The other, Mark slides between his thighs, only stopping for a second to cup himself before...
Mark moans, his hand on Roger tightening and he's thrusting into himself. He's leaning back and rocking his hips back against his fingers and Roger is pulling at that damn scarf he's going to burn later. He needs to be touching Mark right now. Now when Mark drops Roger's cock to hold himself up as his hips become more desperate, faster, harder, fingers sliding in and out of himself as he moans and writhes and Roger should be doing that. Roger should be the reason his eyes are closed and cheeks are flushed and whole body trembling. Then... Then, he's bucking off the bed and biting his lips and Roger knows Mark must have...And then, then he's pulling out of himself and falling back on the bed and slowly his eyes start to flutter open and he's looking up to meet Roger's.
Roger's eyes, which must be complete black by now. Which must be echoing the hunger and need they find in Mark's. Roger, who is harder than he could ever remember being because it actually hurts, the way his erection is pulsing against his stomach. Mark thrusting into himself with that skirt bundled against his waist. It may not have been something Roger would imagine, but it would be now.
Still part of his knows he was supposed to protest this whole thing, but by now he's not conscious off anything expect for Mark and the heat coiled tight in his stomach so it doesn't matter.
Mark moves to his knees, and Roger can see his muscles quivering in his legs when he uses them, crawls up to straddle Roger's lap and that skirt falls to cover his and Roger's cocks. He crawls over Roger, lips brushing together but by now both of them are breathing so out of time they don't quite kiss. And Mark whispers, "I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."
And Roger answers, "Please, Mark," without ever really hearing what Mark is telling him.
This fails to matter, either, because Mark spreads out his legs and leans back. He holds onto Roger's shoulders and pushes back and. Yes. It's been way, way, way too long since Roger's had this and it feels better than he remembered it because this is Mark. Mark who is lowering himself down on Roger's cock, arching back and flushed and biting at his lip and Roger tries not to push himself up as he is pushed up to meet Mark's too slow movement.
Unbelievable, how Mark can make every second stretch on and when he whimpers, Roger replies with a ragged groan and he knows he shouldn't like that sound so much, but it sounds wonderful when it's Mark who's whimpering because it's Mark who is finally there. There with his nails digging into Roger's skin and face twisted in pleasure-pain-more. There with Roger inside him, sitting back on Roger's lap and shaking around him as he gets use to being filled like that. There...
Yes.
Mark lifts his hips, hands running over Roger's body and bed trying to find where he can hold himself up. Mark lifts his hips, licking his lips and chest moving with heavy breathes to match Roger's. Mark lifts his hips and the skirt moves with him in one, fluid motion that draws Roger's eyes to it when Mark thrusts back down.
Hard.
"Harder," Roger growls, rocking his hips to meet the pace Mark is starting to set. The skirt is bouncing between them as Mark finally grabs hold of Roger's hips and the sheets so he can lift high enough to slam back and - fuck - Roger's whole body is strung tight and Mark is so fucking beautiful when he starts to lose himself to this messy, rough rhythm. He doesn't seem to notice the way the skirt sticks to his overheated skin or the too red flush or the fact that his legs are beginning to shake with the effort it takes to keep thrusting back against Roger, but Roger notices all of this because Mark looks like a vision to him. Mark looks desperate and wanton and like he wants this so bad it hurts as much as the pressure building in Roger. Between that and the tight, fast, heat, hard, thrust of Mark's hips back against his cock and every one of Roger's muscles tensing and pulling him apart and. And. And.
Roger's body jerks up to meet Mark's right before he's coming hard and fast and Mark is still riding out the orgasm before his face twists and lips part for a silent, chocked off scream.
Mark sits up, shivering and panting as his hips continue pushing back against Roger even after they've both come, waiting for the last tremors to past through both of them. Then he's climbing off the bed, out of his skirt, and pulling Roger's wrists free with a few simple tugs.
Groaning when his muscles protest the movement, Roger crawled out of bed to toss the condom, kicking the dirtied skirt under his bed so Mark wouldn't find it in the morning and get rid of it. That done, he fell back into bed without a word. He's sure that if he tried to talk he'd say something stupid like, "Amazing" or "So....". Better to keep his mouth shut.
After a few moments of the only sound being both boys' heavy breathing, Mark scoots across the bed, snuggling up to Roger. And really, they're both still so hot from the whole ordeal that Roger has kicked away the blanket trying to get the cold air to chill the sweat covering his skin, but he doesn't push Mark away. He doesn't have the energy, will, or want. So Mark presses up against him, waits a few seconds, and then cuddles up even closer when Roger doesn't say a word or move away.
With a kiss to the red mark on Roger's shoulder, Mark says, "I meant what I said."
Roger-worn out from the show, the emotions, the sex-makes a small sound of agreement and wraps an arm around Mark and starts drifting off. He can still feel Mark's lips moving over his skin, and it's nice but not nice enough to keep him awake. "I'll be here when you wake up," Mark mutters, and Roger makes another one of those not-quite-word noises. "I'm not going anywhere." It sounds like a borderline threat.
With a grunt, Roger twists them around so that Mark is curled up next to him with legs tangled and chests flush together. Roger never opens his eyes just nuzzles the top of Mark's hair, placing a few kisses there. "I know," he answers, trying to swallow back a yawn. Mark sighs and presses a little closer to Roger, finally starting to relax. "Me, too."
(Pst. If anyone cares about my/Maureen’s sick and twisted sense of humor Mark was dressed - of course - as Mimi.)