Fic: On The Friendship & Sex... (Chapter 1: First Times & Blow Jobs)
As requested by Krissy, who asked me to fit as main kinks into a story as possible. Sadly, that means multi-chapters. For anyone keeping track, that means I'm working on a hell of a lot of fics right now.
Author: Mina (Gildedmuse)
Title: On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter: One: First TImes & Blow Jobs
Pairings: Mark/Roger (graphic), Mark/Roger/April (others will be added later).
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 9,030
Warnings: Underage sex (16/18. Nothing scary), first time, threesomes
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that.
Additional Information: Smut. There is no summery, people, because it’s just smut. I am a little ashamed of writing this. I mean, I can’t even pretend that this has any redeeming qualities because it doesn’t. It’s pretty much just straight up porn. It’s not even good porn. So don’t read this expecting character insight. Don’t read this expecting characters at all. They are all just bodies that I have tried fitting into as many positions as possible. God, I’m going straight to writer hell for this. I feel all of that is fair warning, so don’t get pissed if you read it and it’s all horrible, horrible smut. I warned you. A whole lot.
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, and I was going to post it to markroger3somes but I thought that might be spamming. You should all go join it, anyway.
On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter One: First Times & Blow Jobs
Five hours. Mark has to squint through the darkness until the red numbers on his alarm clock become anything more than a glaring blur, watching the numbers flicker, and suddenly it's three A.M. In five hours he has to get up, get ready, and bike to Kyle's house so that his parents can drive them up to the city for Kyle's birthday. More than anything right now, Mark wants to get some rest. He closes his eyes, and all he can concentrate on is the music blasting from downstairs. In his head Mark keeps chanting that if he gets to sleep now he can still get five hours sleep. If Cindy's friends would all leave, or if mom and dad would come home from visiting aunt Florence early, Mark could still get those five hours.
He's still trying to force himself into a five-hour coma when he hears his door open, the graduation party noise becoming clearer for a second before it's again muffled. Someone else looking for the bathroom he figured, but then there is more noise. The sound of someone stumbling, and a loud protest from his small twin bed as the mattress beside him dips.
Mark's eyes fly open again in an almost panic as he waits for someone to hit him or throw up on him. Squinting through the darkness at the lump on his bed, he waits for the violence or the drunken behavior. He waits and waits and waits, and after a while there is the soft sound of snoring. Slowly and carefully so he doesn't wake the guy, Mark reaches across the body and grabs his glasses from the nightstand. It's still dark, but there is enough light from the street lamp and under his door that he can make out the almost ethereal white curls of hair, down to pitch black and hollow-looking eyes as the shadowed features of the boy next to him become sharper. Bleach and make up, Mark thinks as he adjusts his glasses, almost hovering over the sleeping figure. He knows this guy. Roger, Cindy's friend's sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band from the city, sprawled out next to him. Mark has seen him play once before at his kind-of-not-really girlfriend's sister's party.
He's never seen Roger like this, though, shirtless with his jeans undone just enough that even in the soft glow coming from outside the window Mark can make out the trail of hair that leads down into his boxers. His stomach flutters, like when Sasha laid her head on his lap that time they were watching movies at that party.
Mark unconsciously licks his lips, scooting back until he's hit the wall. He's never actually been this close to a half naked guy. Well, locker rooms don't count. Neither do sleepovers with his best friend, Kyle, because that is different. Kyle looks nothing like Roger. Roger is eighteen and in a band. Roger is bohemian, from the city and everything. Roger makes Mark's stomach jump in this weird way, and all he's doing is snoring.
One moment, Mark is staring at Roger and wondering what to do about sharing his bed, and the next the clock flickers to 3:49 and Roger is looking over at him. The rocker's eyes are green, green, green, like he has no pupil at all. He squints through the dark at Mark, who had tried jumping back again and bumped his head into the window when he realizes Roger is awake. "Who are you?" His voice sounds like he's been singing all-night, raw and hoarse. Mark's mind makes the jump from singing to sex pretty easily. He's a teenage boy, and he could make the jump from math to sex. Roger's voice isn't really helping, though.
"Uh... Mark," he says, running a hand through his hair and not looking at Roger as he scratches at his stomach. "You fell into my bed."
The older boy breaks out this horrible, beautiful grin. "Do you mind?" He asks, like he already knows Mark doesn't. So Mark just shakes his head and hugs a pillow closer, slipping it between them like it can protect him from Roger. He isn't even sure what he wants to protect himself against.
Roger yawns, stretching out until his hands are flopping over the shield/pillow Mark has set up. Then he's rolling on his side, propping his head up enough that he can see Mark over the waves of blankets between them. "You look familiar."
"Well, it's my house." Mark isn't sure Roger is entirely in his right mind. Mark isn't some innocent little sophomore. He's tried alcohol and pot, and he knows what people are like high and drunk. That isn't what it is, he thinks, but he can tell there is something. "And my bed."
"That doesn't matter," Roger says, and Mark gets the impression it really doesn't matter to the older boy that he just collapsed into some random guy's bed. "I mean, I think I've seen you somewhere."
Mark knows what he meant, but he feels a bit like a suburbanite loser telling Roger where he'd seen him. He shrugs, trying to seem like having Roger fall down into his bed is not a strange happening. "I've been to a few parties." Most of those being with Scarsdale Senior High's impromptu film club, which consisted mainly of him, Sasha, Vince, Kyle and sometimes Lizzy when she wasn't doing chess or Homes for Humanity, and none of which involved anyone like Roger.
Roger yawns and starts to stretch out. Feline is the word that comes to Mark's head. Something tough and dangerous, but sleek and poised as well. That's how Roger looks with his hands twisted up above his head. "So you're from around here?"
"No," Mark says before he can hold back his tongue. "I live in LA as a professional film executive. I just like flying home to sleep in Scarsdale every night."
Roger nods, and Mark isn't sure if he caught the sarcasm or is even listening. He just keeps stretching out and that hand that had been idly scratching at his stomach drops lower. Of course Mark catches the flicker of motion out of the corner of his glasses and has to turn to stare. There is a slight pause in the finger's downward movement and if Mark weren't so busy watching Roger's hand he would have seen the rock star smirk before slipping his hand under the waistline of his boxers.
Mark still doesn't look away. Not until there is a low, deep laughter ringing in his ear that pulls his eyes to Roger's. "You're staring."
Mark meets Roger's eyes, trying to figure out if he's going to get the shit beat out of him. It's never happened to him, but it has happened to Vince. He knows guys don't stare at other guys, at least not in Scarsdale. He's seen movies where it happens, though, and movies where people in the city can spend all their time working on paintings or music or film, and he wants to believe that he can go to New York and things will be like that. "Yeah," he says after a long pause, and if Roger is going to beat him up he'll do it no matter what Mark says.
The rock star rolls to his side, amused and not violent at all. "You always stare at guys?"
"Only the ones that fall half naked into my bed," Mark says, shrugging it off like this is all so causal for him. It's not the first time he's found a guy attractive. It's just hormones, he figures and he read in a book somewhere that guys experiences this sort of thing all the time. Sasha even admitted to him that she got that feeling around girls occasionally. Besides, Mark still likes girls. He still got a hard on from tango lessons with Nanette, and that had nothing to do with some love of dancing.
"Well, you're lucky tonight," Roger purrs, and Mark is back to that feline imagery. Beautiful but dangerous, his mind warns, but his body isn't really listening. Especially not when he realizes how close Roger is and how Mark is already against the wall with nowhere else to go. When had he gotten himself trapped in a corner?
Roger's hand is on his hip, pulling him away from the wall and pressing him flat on his back. Mark wants to say something to help break the tense silence he feels that apparently Roger hasn't noticed yet, because he's leaning forward to kiss Mark. Lips pressed together and Mark's eyes go wide. He should stop him, he should stop him, he shouldn't stop him because Roger is kissing him and it feels really good.
Kissing Roger isn't like kissing Sasha. For one thing, he doesn't taste like lip-gloss. His lips are chapped, too, rougher and they move against Mark more aggressively. Mark shivers when Roger's licks along his lips, opening his mouth for the kiss and Roger takes without ever stopping. Pinned below the rock star, Mark feels totally inadequate. What is he supposed to do with his tongue? How did Roger do that? Shit, when is the last time he brushed his teeth? It really doesn't matter, because Roger is trying to posses his mouth and Mark just starts kissing him back, messy and desperate but not worrying about that right now. Hard to think around the blood that is pumping through his ears and quickly traveling lower.
Roger's hands, large and rough, are running down Mark's bare chest. He pulls back from the kiss, and Mark starts to make some excuse for why he never really kissed back properly and why there is a bit of drool running down Roger's chin but before he can say anything Roger is nipping at his lip, teeth scrapping across the skin and his callused fingers brush over Mark's nipples and that feels good. Mark moans as he arches towards Roger's hands. He can feel the older boy smirk as he lets go of his lip and starts placing hot, open mouthed kisses along his jaw.
Mark closes his eyes, lips trembling slightly as he takes in the sensation. Rough hands sliding back down his chest, stroking at his stomach. Teeth and lips and tongue are against his ear and with another moan Mark is leaning up against Roger's mouth. Roger's tongue thrusts against his ear and a palm kneads him through his briefs and any shred of rational thought is overrun by his hormones.
Just as Mark is giving in, Roger pulls back, leaving him whimpering and cold. He sits up in a flash, wanting to know what he did wrong. "Shit!" His head collides with Roger's chin, and he pulls back, wincing and rubbing at his head. Worse, Roger sits up, hand running across his jaw. "Sorry!" Mark says, and what a way to impress the guy. Giving him a concussion.
Roger lays a hand on Mark's chest, pushing him back. "It's cool. Just stay there, okay?" Nodding eagerly, Mark does as told. Roger smiles at him before hooking his fingers through the waistband of Mark's underwear, his other hand digging through his pocket and maybe Mark shouldn't have said yes so quickly. As Roger fishes through his pocket his jeans start to slip down his hips, the erection in his boxers becoming more and more obvious. Mark should be more nervous, lying in a bed with a boy at least two years older than him and who knows how much more experienced.
He would be, too, if he weren't hot and hard and busy helping Roger by wiggling and kicking off his briefs, unable to really tear his eyes off of the line of hair that disappears into Roger's snug-looking boxers.
Mark looks up when he hears a faint tearing and catches sight of that beautiful grin again. Roger drops between Mark's legs and oh God, oh God, oh God. Those lips are closing around the head of his cock. Chapped and rough, tight around him as a tongue slides over the tip. And before he can arch into that mouth a hand closes around his waist, holding him back as Roger swallows him down and fuck, he didn't even know someone could do that but it feels better than his hand ever did. Behind his eyelids, Mark sees white spots like stars. His fingers curl into the sheets, nails going through the thin material as he tries to ground himself even as the world starts to spin. His entire world is now the tongue wrapping around him and teeth scrapping along lightly as Roger moves his mouth up and down. Thank God for the music downstairs because Mark doesn't want his sister hearing the sounds he's making, desperate and choked back when he can't quite remember how to breathe.
In moments he's panting and whimpering and close and how did he go so long without this, and then there is something slick and cold pressing up against him. Mark yelps, tearing himself away from Roger's mouth and hitting the headboard as he scrambling up the bed. "What the hell?"
Roger looks like a predator in the low light, smiling up at Mark with this dangerous twist of his lips. He strokes along Mark's leg softly, fingers brushing along his inner thigh and even while freaking out Mark shivers from that touch. "It's okay," he purrs, green eyes glowing with what looks to Mark like pure sexual energy, the condom stretched around his fingers gleaming in the low light. "Haven't you ever done this before?"
"I'm not a virgin," Mark says before Roger can get the idea. He and Sasha did have sex that once. She said it hurt, though, and it had been awkward and messy and embarrassing, and after that they stuck to the less confusing things. "I just..."
Roger is still smiling at him, slowly pulling and Mark just lets Roger lie him back down. He knows what's happening, and it makes his stomach twist with nerves but the way Roger is grinning, the way his hand strokes Mark's thigh, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow. "It'll be fine," Roger promises in that low, soft voice as he nuzzles up to Mark's cock. His nose brushes the skin and Mark gasps, hips buckling. The slick latex is pressing against him again, cold and wet on his overheated skin. "Relax," Roger murmurs, a sound that rumbles through his lips and into Mark's cock.
He tries to obey and force his body to calm down as a finger slowly presses into him. Just concentrate on Roger, his hand on Mark's thigh, Roger's lips brushing against his stomach, moving lower with open mouth kisses until, "Fuck," Mark gasps sharply as those lips are back around him. Unfair, his mind screams but he doesn't listen because Roger's mouth is wet and hot and tight as he takes Mark in. Pinned back to the bed he can't do anything but writhe and squirm, moaning quietly and hoping Roger won't pull away this time.
He tries not to let Roger's finger, now fingers and the stretch hurts a little, but he tries not to let it freak him out. He doesn't care what Roger does as long as his mouth stays tight around him just like that, and fuck, he can't keep still on the bed for fear that the pressure building up inside him will snap, and he doesn't want to come yet or Roger might stop and the way his tongue is curled around Mark is amazing so if he would please, please not stop. Mark keeps moving, twisting back and around in Roger's mouth until his fingers are pressed inside Mark and, "Fuck!"
He screams it, toes curling into the sheets as he bucks off the bed, nearly kneeing Roger in the face and not even caring because, oh, fuck, he needs more of that. He whimpers, panting and tensing, and he can still feel the ghost of Roger's fingers pressed up inside of him, pushing into some spot that shots this heat right up his body. Between that and Roger's mouth, he's amazed he is still breathing at all, and how come no one ever told him about that before?
Roger smirks, pushing Mark's hips back against the bed. "Good?" He asks, and Mark can't say anything. Just swallows and tries to stop shuddering at the small jolts still traveling through his body. He hasn't even recovered and, God, Roger is doing it again, rough fingers rubbing up inside him. Mark bites on his lips, trying to force back sounds he didn't even know he could make, trying not to push back against Roger's hand because the slight ache is still there but who cares anymore, so long as it feels like that? It's almost too much, the way every touch sends another twist of pleasure-heat-need twisting around in him.
Between his legs, Roger is still wearing a wicked smile and Mark really wants to kiss him again or have those lips back around him or - Fuck, he has to stop doing that. Whimpering, Mark shoots back off the bed, this time he does push back and Roger's fingers press deeper into him. It's starting to be less of an ache and more of a stretch, and the second Mark thinks that, Roger grabs something and there is more of that cold, slick liquid and a third finger twists up against him. Mark whines, closing his eyes and this is weird. He shouldn't be enjoying this because fingers do not - "Mm... More, more," Mark moans, loosing that last train of thought because Roger is doing that thing again, rubbing his fingers up against that spot as he stretches Mark out.
Mark starts squirming again, his body moving on its own as Roger thrusts his fingers up inside him. With his eyes closed, he can only hear Roger moving on the bed, and that doesn't matter because his fingers press there again and Mark is shouting, body twitching. "Shit!" Mark's eyes fly open at the loud crack of his knee connecting with Roger's jaw.
"Sorry!" He says, trying to sit up and shouting when Roger's fingers bend weirdly inside him. Not pleasurable at all. Roger pulls his hand away, rubbing his jaw with his fingers not bunched in a condom. "Are you okay?" Mark asks, feeling like even more of a complete idiot then he had the first time he accidentally hit Roger.
"It's still okay," Roger says, shaking his head before leaning in and kissing Mark again. Mark decides it's better not to push or bring up the bruise on Roger's cheek. Instead he rolls his tongue around Roger's, scooting closer so he can feel the body heat pouring off the older boy. He's too worked up by now to worry too long about anything.
Roger pulls back from the kiss, looking down as he pulls off his jeans and pulls anther condom from his pocket. Mark eyes it nervously as he slips it over his cock, then turns back to Mark. He knows what this means and he should stop now, but he isn't because he really wants Roger by now, and he knows it's all hormones but those hormones are much more powerful than any other line of reasoning.
"Turn around," Roger tells him. Mark nods and does, trying to get comfortable, but no matter what, his knees are digging into the hard wooden frame of his bed, and the headrest isn't easy to hold onto, and he is shaking. He closes his eyes and tries to stop the last one before Roger wraps his arms around Mark's waist, cock pressed up to his back, and that only makes it worse. Roger doesn't seem to mind. He kisses the back of Mark's neck, and Mark can feel the wet latex pressing up to him like his fingers had been.
"Is this going to hurt?" he asks after swallowing hard, trying to calm his nerves or put out the fire that is burning in his gut, coiled tight enough that he knows the next time Roger touches him he won't be able to stop himself.
"Don't worry," Roger purrs, and really his voice is anything but comforting. Dark and powerful and enough to make Mark shiver, but not really comforting. "Just relax."
Roger starts moving into him, and it doesn't hurt as much as Mark thought it would be he still has to bite back a whimper, nails digging into his headboard as Roger thrusts up into him. A hand curls around his cock, dragging a thumb from the tip to the base, and Mark just has to think about how good that feels, moaning as Roger starts stroking him, squeezing him tight, moving inside him and "God, yes..." Mark's head falls against his chest, whimpering because it hurts, but Roger is rocking up into that spot every time he moves. Mark swears it shouldn't feel that good. Nothing should, but every time Roger hits it and twists his hand, Mark is nearly screaming, rolling his hips back against Roger's rough palm with every move, trembling and moaning and probably making a fool of himself but as long as Roger never stops he doesn't care.
He comes within minutes, keeping himself from making any noise. His body feels like it's melting, boneless and exhausted and he wants to collapse, but Roger is holding him up and it takes him a while more to finish. When he does, he lets Mark drop to the mattress, breathless and so out of it that he doesn't even hear Roger cursing up a storm when he falls off the bed, trying to pull on his pants, or Cindy's surprised yelp when she opens the door. He finally manages to pass out, sleeping so deeply that a train running through his room or his sister screaming at Amanda's sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band for touching her little brother wouldn't wake him.
He sleeps through his alarm and misses that trip to the city with all his friends. Mark spends the day in bed.
*
Maybe his mom had been right about New York City, and within the day Mark will have been beaten, mugged, raped, shot, and then beaten some more until he finally dropped dead on the corner where people could walk by and kick at his body. This sounds more appealing than having to go home and admit to his parents that he got kicked out of Brown after less than a year.
Now that he thinks about it, all of that sounds more appealing than staying at Brown for another year, too.
Mark, nineteen and hopeful and artistic and totally lost, stood at the bus station with absolutely no idea what to do next. He knew what he couldn't do, though. He knew he couldn't go home, because that would mean that his dad had been right and also he couldn't face his mom knowing how disappointed she would be. He couldn't call anyone because he didn't know anyone in the city, and he definitely didn't know anyone willing to come and pick him up and give him a place to stay. He couldn't get a bite to eat, even though his stomach had been annoying everyone on the bus, because he didn't have any money.
There is a whole lot he cannot do and not a lot he can, Mark realizes as he stands there in the crowd of people, wondering why no one really has a friendly face. So he does what he always does when he's lost and confused and the weight of his own stupid decision is starting to set in on him. He picks up his camera and films.
Having no idea what he's looking for or where he's going, Mark just starts walking with his camera aimed at the city. He unconsciously starts narrating after a while, shooting any scene he finds interesting and whispering with his camera. It's comforting, like he isn't stuck in the city alone and with no money but instead he's just filming a few shots, and any time he wants he could be back on the bus and to Brown University where he can miserably sit through more classes he doesn't care about.
He walks down the streets, people jostling him around at every turn and cars not seeming to care that he's a pedestrian and shouldn't be charged at. He might have been frightened, but the camera has a way of filtering things out so that all Mark sees is the beautiful, scene-worthy city.
So much better than being at Brown, he keeps telling himself, because if he doesn't, he's afraid he'll turn around and head home with his tail between his legs. It isn't going to happen. He's wanted to live in New York since he was nine and his mom took him up to see some Broadway musical about cats. It was boring, or at least was to a nine year old boy, but Mark remembers passing by a film crew as they shot down the street. That was awesome. That's what he is looking for.
Pan across the walls of the city as someone bumps into him, twisting his frame. Mark frowns at the disturbance, starts to twist back around when a picture falls into frame. He looks up at the poster slapped haphazardly across the wall. Black and green with just enough yell that the boy's hair looks like it is glow in the dark white. Mark takes a step closer, eyes scanning over the familiar face of the rock star. The Well Hungarians is what the poster says. Mark smiles, snorting softly at that. March 4th at 9:00, presented by CBGBs.
Of all the things Mark needs to be doing in the city, looking up his sister's friend's ex-sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band that he slept with one night isn't one of them. Roger, that is his name, did enough damage last time he fell into Mark's bed, leaving him confused for years. It's been three years, and Mark knows that Roger won't remember him and it's not like he's really been thinking about the rock star. Not for a while now.
He tears the poster off the wall, tucking his camera under his arm as he swings around and back into the crowd, determined to find CBGBs before nine tonight.
*
The fact that Mark actually finds the club before midnight is probably a miracle. Even more amazing is he makes it in before Roger's band has set up, and he even manages to use the fake ID that Benny got him to buy a beer, although he thinks that might have something to do with the disinterest of the bartender who hardly even glanced at him before handing him a bottle. It tastes disgusting, but Mark doesn't care. He's dropped out of school, run away to New York, is in a club to watch a rock band with a lead singer he slept with, and he feels like getting drunk. Being rebellious. Being anyone but the cute little Jewish boy who volunteered at the JCC with his mom.
He takes a few more sips of the beer and decides that while he wants to be rebellious, he doesn't want to be sick. Who can actually drink that stuff? It tastes worse than that time Cindy made a cake and accidentally used salt instead of sugar.
The house lights dim slightly and Mark's attention goes from the beer to the stage just as he steps out. Mark never harbored any delusions about Roger. He knew the older boy had just been looking for a way to get off and Mark happened to be next to him in bed. Still, that knowledge never stopped him from spending most of the next few months jerking off with Roger in his mind. Even now, if he lets his mind drift while he's in the shower, it will still pick up pictures of the older boy.
Nothing, really, compared to seeing Roger like this. He glows under the bad lighting like a god walking out before his people, his grin making him border on childish but still strangely wicked. Mark holds up his camera, making sure he captures this moment because on stage Roger looks like he could conquer the world.
"He's gorgeous, isn't he?" Mark doesn't look up when he hears the soft voice near his ear, figuring it is meant for someone other than him. He nearly jumps when the warm body nuzzles up against him. He swings around, grabbing his camera protectively as he spins he finds a girl with dancing brown eyes and wild curls leaning into him.
"Err..." Is she flirting with him? Mark isn't use to that. He hung out with a very small group in high school, and it turned out that Sasha was a lesbian and the other two were boys. He hasn't had much experience with girls. Not enough to tell if they're flirting with him. She is leaning awfully close, and every time Mark tries to back off, she seems to get closer. "You a fan?"
"Not exactly," Mark admits. It's been three years since he's seen Roger play, and it's hard to listen to his new music when this girl is almost plastered to him, giggling and Mark can smell the alcohol on her breath. It actually calms him a little. If she's drunk, she's not really interested, which means Mark doesn't have to impress her.
The girl takes his hand, and Mark stumbles a bit but doesn't pull back. She is really pretty, he thinks in this haze of confusion. She has really nice... eyes. Eyes, look at her eyes. Mark looks back at her eyes. A nice smile, like Roger's only less bright and more follow-after-me. "You want to meet him?" She asks, and Mark should be finding somewhere to sleep tonight instead of nodding and letting the beautiful siren of a girl lead him away from the bar and to who knows where.
"You're cute," she giggles, holding something up to this doorman, and he lets them through without question. The backroom smells like equipment and beer. It's dark compared to the flashy lights up front, but the girl seems to know where she's going. She tugs Mark along like she has him on a leash, always smiling. "What about me?"
"Umm..." Fuck, did Mark miss something? He frowns a bit, and she laughs so he supposes that is good enough.
"I'm April," she says, finally stopping and spinning on her heels she pats the cushions of a worn down couch and Mark obediently takes a seat.
"Mark," he says, watching as April picks up a purse, the contents spilling to the floor. "Here, let me help," Mark says, getting to his knees and helping her gathering her make up, some loose change, a bag of power and needle a spoon and a candle. Mark frowns, thinking over it for a while until the scene clicks in his mind. He knows this, and yeah sure it's mostly from gritty indie films but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what it is she is about to do.
April smiles, thanking Mark as she stands up again. "I'll be right back. You can just wait here," she instructions before giving him a cute little wave and disappearing into a bathroom. Mark watches her go, feeling even more unsure about being here. Drinking is one thing, but she's back there shooting up heroin and maybe he should leave. No, Mark thinks, sitting back on the old couch and looking around the small back stage area at all the instruments and amps and random thing piled around him. He isn't going to leave. He isn't going to be a judgmental asshole like his father. He is open-minded. Drugs aren't as bad as everyone thinks they are. People are free to make their own choices.
Mark decides to stay and wait for April. He wants new experiences? He wants to live outside of suburbia? Well, this would be it.
April comes out of the bathroom, smile a little less dangerous now as she tumbles down onto the couch. "Hello," she says, head landing in Mark's lap with a soft thud.
"Oh..." Mark says, nearly jumping as she makes this small sound and nuzzles into his leg. Should her mouth by that close to him? "Err.... Umm... Hey." Yeah, this is going just perfectly. He stares down at April, who seems content to just lie there cuddling against his lap for now.
They stay like that, with Mark feeling awkward and April almost drifting off, until the music stops. Mark hears the sound cut off and Roger saying goodbye to the crowd. He starts to nudge April, trying to wake her or at least push her away from his crotch. This isn't how he wants Roger to see him, with a girl who looks drugged on his lap and drooling onto his jeans. "Hey, April... Get up."
April gives a small moan, barely moving away from Mark. The band is heading in, putting their instruments away and there is Roger, glowing with sweat and eye makeup running slightly, panting and smiling and of course Mark's mind goes right to sex. He hasn't gotten any better at that since he was sixteen.
"Roger!" April finally moves off her lap, throwing herself into the rock star's arms. Roger barely has time to put up his guitar before catching her, laughing as she wraps her thin frame around his. They fall back onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, mouths pressed together and small sounds escaping between their lips. Mark shifts away from them, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. It's like he's not even here. He shouldn't even be here.
Slowly the groping and kissing winds down. April pulls back, her lip still caught in Roger's mouth. Mark feels like he's seeing something he shouldn't. Like catching sight of a friend's home porn video. From the way everyone else moves around the couple like it's nothing, he's guessing this is tame. It still feels weird to him to be sitting so close to them when they're making out, Roger's hands up her shirt, April grinding down against his tight jeans that hide nothing. "Roger," she says softly as he finally pulls her mouth away from his. "This is Mark."
Roger flashes him a bright smile, green eyes dark and glowing in the low light. Mark's smile is weak, still feeling a bit unsure of himself and the situation. He wishes he could back away, get a feel for what is happening and then come back into the scene with an audience perspective. He really doesn't have time for that, though, even with his camera on hand. April nuzzles into Roger's neck, whispering words Mark can't hear as the next band scrambles to get set up and ready.
"We will," Roger answers to whatever April says. He stands up with her still in his lap, laughing when she squeals and wraps herself closer, leaving Mark there on the couch. He hadn't expected Roger to remember him, but he'd expected something more than to be left sitting backstage while he and his girlfriend go off.
Mark doesn't even get a chance to consider what to do next when a rough hand reaches for him, curling in his shirt and pulling him up. "Come on," Roger says as he hauls Mark to his feet. He stumbles a bit, steadying himself on Roger's shoulder, but he manages to make it up in one piece. Roger pats him on the shoulder, which doesn't help with Mark's balance problem. "You ready?"
"Ready?" Mark looks up, glancing between April, who is leaning up against Roger's chest with a lazy smile, to the rock star with his face-splitting grin. No, he isn't ready. His mom had been right. He's too young to be out on his own like this. No, wait. Mark isn't going to go back there. He isn't going to give up. New York indie filmmakers do not live with their parents. "Yeah, sure."
Roger smiles, so it's worth it that Mark feels his good conscious screaming at him. Also, April is moving away from Roger, wrapping an arm around Mark and pressing up against him. That's helping to stifle those annoying thoughts as well. "Come on," she says, grinning wickedly again as she pulls on Mark's sleeve. Really, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow them as the two practically drag him along after them.
It doesn't take Mark long to figure out what they're dragging him along for. Not that his mind hadn't already been racing in that direction, but when April's hand snakes into his corduroys, fingers ghosting along his boxers and, yes, Roger's lips brushing against his ear as he pushes Mark into some building, that really makes their point. Mark moans, a loud sound that echoes of the walls of the broken down building, as April and Roger continue touching him and each other, slowly making their way up the stairs.
There isn't any real time to look around the apartment April and Roger shove him into, and he really could care less where they take him so long as no one stops. He drops his bag as the door closes, and then it's starting again. The confusion is still swirling around in his head, but April's lips against his don't give it much room to bother him. Roger's strong arms around him, pressing up against his back and into April. It's an overload of his senses.
Rough fingers curl around his, leading Mark's hand up April's soft stomach, cupping her breast through the flimsy material of her bra. April moans into Mark's mouth, tongue sliding playfully against his and sighing softly. Callused fingers slide down his stomach, down and down and, "God," Mark moans, head falling back against Roger's shoulder as his hips arch up. With a small whimper he begins grinding into Roger's hand, and thank God he's a little more experienced than last time because he's pretty sure if he were sixteen still this would be it for him.
April pulls away and Mark can barely open his eyes to watch her stumble backwards. Roger's hand is much more distracting, hard fingers wrapping around him as rubbing against him. "Come to bed," April purrs, clumsily taking off her shirt before heading back into the bedroom.
Mark isn't even sure he would follow her, or even move at all except Roger pulls away. Whimpering, he follows after the rock star, nearly tripping over his pants in the process. Fuck grace. Mark is way past caring how he looks so long as he isn't kicked out. In his rush to get back to Roger and April and the contact, he nearly runs into the rock star. Catching himself on the bedroom door, he looks around Roger to see why he's stopped.
April is sprawled out over the bed, heels still on, chest moving only slightly. "Is she okay?" Mark asks after a moment and she still hasn't done anything.
"Yeah." Roger pulls back, closing the door and shutting April inside. Mark catches a flash of something other than lust, happiness, cocky rock star confidence, blinding ecstasy. Before Mark has time to analyze, Roger is scooping him into his arms. "You want to stop."
Mark should really be careful about what he is doing with this guy. "No." Fucking hormones. Better not to think about it or risk talking about it, Mark decides as Roger's lips cover his and without question Mark is wrapping his arms around Roger's shoulders, rubbing up against him and mewling into the rough kiss. He wants to shut down and not think about what he's doing; not just with Roger but with his whole life.
Any thoughts he is still having get cut off when Roger slams him down into the couch. "Hey!" Mark snaps, arching up and rubbing his back where the wooden frame of the under-stuffed couch had dug into his skin.
"You okay?" Roger asks, peeling off his shirt and then hooking fingers through his jeans and he isn't even wearing underwear, Mark can see the lines of his hips meeting as the jeans slowly drift down his skin. He swallows hard, and even though he would swear that he never had a crush on Roger, the way his heart beat picks up, well, if it were anyone else here with him now he wouldn't be quiet this breathless.
"Yeah," Mark forces his eyes back to Roger's face, not wanting to be caught staring. Roger smirks, lips curling up just enough that Mark knows he had been caught. Well, okay. As long as he still doesn't stop, Mark doesn't care.
The jeans are gone and Roger straddles his hips, still smirking even when he presses their lips together in a hungry kiss, and thank God he isn't stopping.
Mark runs his hands down Roger's back, over the heated skin of the rock star. He lifts his hips as Roger tears off his jeans and - Oh, fuck.... Hard fingers wrapping around him. Mark moans, hips bucking from the bed and grinding against the palm. He loves Roger's hands, and he's so lost in that feeling that he doesn't notice how Roger slicks up his hand until a finger is pressing up against him. Mark yelps, eyes opening, as he tries to back up into the couch. Roger looks down at him, smiling. "Relax," he tells him, teasing Mark's entrance. Roger's hand wraps around his erection, rough like his kisses, callused from guitar playing and tight around Mark. He cries out, arching up into Roger's hand as the finger presses inside him.
He's done this since back then, of course, but Roger still makes him feel like he's sixteen and uncertain. Except right now, when Roger is slowly thrusting his fingers up into him, hand tight around Mark's cock and lips brushing against his collarbone. Right now, Mark doesn't feel uncertain at all. He feels heat coiling up inside him, body humming with the contact as he tries to rock between both of Roger's hands. Teeth sink into his skin, sucking and marking and he's moaning, losing the rhythm of his hips and whimpering as Roger bites at his collar.
Hard fingers twisting inside of him, curling and - "Fuck, yes!" Mark tightens around Roger's fingers, hips bucking as he rubs against that spot that sends Mark reeling. With small sounds he tries to keep down, he pushes back against Roger, legs hooking around his waist as he forces Roger in deeper.
Roger's hand slows as he looks up. "You're loud," he observes, and right now isn't the time for talking, Mark thinks. Right now Roger has his fingers up inside him, and how can he be talking when that is clearly not what Mark wants?
"Yeah, well." He can't seem to stops gasping for air or rocking up into Roger's hand, even when it's still. "Sorry." If Roger doesn't start moving again, he is going to do it himself because right now he needs this so bad there is an ache spreading through his body.
Smiling, Roger nips at his jaw again, hand tightening and, yes, that is what Mark needs. He moans, head falling back against the couch with a slight thump. "Don't hold back." Roger twists his fingers up into Mark, hard rough thrusts and, fuck, how is he supposed to hold back? Especially with Roger trailing hot kisses down his chest and - fuck, licking at the head of Mark's cock.
"More," Mark shouts, hands tangling in the bleached out hair. He whimpers, unable to stop withering around on the couch as Roger's fingers fill him and now his lips closing around him. Sensation after sensation, leaving Mark bucking up into him mouth and back against his fingers. Not yet, he begs himself because he can feel the way his body starts to tense as Roger's tongue, wet hot and dragging down the length of his cock, and he can't stop trembling or whining for more. Not yet, it's too soon and his body feels like it's burning up from the inside.
Roger's throat closes around the head of his cock and Mark can't even make a sound when he comes, mouth opened in a silent scream as it hits him, ripping him apart for a few seconds before he collapses backwards against the couch, panting for air. Roger sits up, wiping the mess from his mouth, face flushed from being choked and Mark knows he should feel bad or inexperienced but Roger looks really good with his lips swollen and skin gleaming from sweat and that's all Mark manages to think.
Roger lays back, legs bumping into and pushing Mark's away as he tries to spread them out. His cock is sitting against his stomach, condom on and now Mark does feel a little embarrassed for coming that soon. Before Roger finishes wrapping his hand around himself, Mark crawls to his knees and over to the rock star. "I can..." He says, looking up when Roger goes still. "I mean if you want...."
Roger smiles, God that smile, and nods, his legs parting as he leans back. Mark licks at his lips, so nervous he can feel himself shaking just a bit as he leans down. He's done this before, but only on his friends and his old college roommate but that had just been messing around, usually while drunk. Mark closes his eyes, spreading his lips out as he takes an inch of Roger into his mouth. The latex tastes disgusting, bitter and sharp as his tongue rolls over the tip.
Rough hands curl into Mark's hair, making him yelp softly. Roger moans, a low and deep sound that rumbles through them both. The taste is disgusting, but Mark thinks he might do it again to make Roger keep moaning like that. He does, and Roger arches up until his cock is buried in Mark's mouth. Mark tries to keep his cheeks hollowed around Roger, tries not to choke, but it's hard with the way the rock start keeps pushing off the couch.
It only lasts a few strokes, and then the condom in Mark's mouth is filling and Roger is falling back with a low moan. Mark pulls up as soon as he can, his throat feeling raw from the experience. He swallows hard to try and coax it, rubbing his hands across his eyes to make sure the tears he felt start to well up haven't started falling. Not that Roger would notice. He's bent across the armrest, eyes still closed as he soaks in the orgasm. "So," he says, slowly sitting back up, "Where'd April find you?"
Mark leans away from Roger, back against the other armrest. Not that he's scared of the rock star. Actually, Roger looks almost tame now. Okay, he's still naked, but he is no longer looking at Mark like he's about to pounce and pull him apart. He's wearing a sort of lazy grin, mostly harmless. "I, uh, I was at the club," Mark explains. "I saw your poster and I remembered you from Scarsdale."
It's a cheap short to see if Roger remembers anything about Scarsdale. Not that Mark can blame him for forgetting. There is a lot about his hometown he wouldn't mind blocking out of his own memory. Roger cocks his head, nodding just a bit. "Scarsdale." He says it slowly, rolling it around before he smiles again. "Yeah, you're Kate's friend's little brother, right?" Always such a long line to get to the connection. Mark nods, glad Roger at least remembers him after some minor hints. "Yeah... Wow, you look... older."
Mark is sure he still looks like a scrawny sixteen year old, but he smiles a bit. It's just nice to know that Roger isn't the type who forgets a person the second he leaves. Roger pushes himself up with a grunt, grabbing a pillow and holding it over his lap. He is sitting curled up on one side of the couch, naked expect for the throw pillow, looking at Mark with the small smile and curious expression. And, okay, they just sucked each off and, yeah, Mark is homeless and lost in the city and there is nothing obviously funny about any of this but Roger just looks cute - that the only word for it - and Mark can't help it. He's had this vision of Roger since he met him. This reckless city rock star, young and beautiful forever, and here he is curled on the couch with a mismatched pillow over his crotch looking so fucking adorable. Mark starts laughing, okay, snorting. He covers it with his hand, but Roger catches enough that he grins back.
"You laughing at me?" Roger doesn't look to insult, still wearing that bright smile that splits his face in two and makes his eyes wrinkle up. It's endearing, and there is another word he wouldn't think to associate with the Roger in his head, and Mark can't stop laughing. It must be the tension, he thinks, all that stress of leaving school and coming here and meeting Roger, it's getting to his head.
Still beaming as Mark breaks down, Roger takes the pillow from his lap, smacking Mark in the side with it. "Hey!" Mark protest, and the laughing stops but he's still smiling like an idiot as he wobbles around the couch a bit. He catches the back of the couch before Roger's hit can knock him off. "What was that for?"
"No laughing at my sexual prowess," Roger tells him, green eyes wrinkles up in humor. Who thought the guy who seemed so sexual on stage could be so cute in real life?
Roger stands, stretching out, and if Mark was about to laugh again it catches in his throat. The word 'feline' comes back, echoing in his head from long ago as Roger rolls his shoulders. God, he has a sexy back. Mark isn't even sure if the back can be sexy, but looking at Roger makes him wonder. It's like something you could film, his body arching back. It's that aesthetically beautiful. Roger grunts slightly, breaking the mood. "I can call you a taxi," he offers. "If you don't want to wander Alphabet City at this time."
Mark isn't sure what Alphabet City is, but he decides to save himself the embarrassment of looking like a sheltered suburbanite and not ask. "Errr... It's okay," he says, and now comes the awkward part. The getting kicked out part. Mark looked around at the floor, trying to track down his clothes instead of thinking where the hell he is going to go at this time of night. "I don't really have anywhere to go, anyway."
He grabs his pants on a mess on the floor and stands up, hopping around until he's got them pulled back on. When he looks back up, Roger is standing there (still completely naked, like he's got nothing in the world to hide) frowning deeply. Mark is slightly taken back, looking around himself a bit to make sure his pants aren't on inside out or something weird like that. Nope. Nothing. "You on the street?"
"Oh, uh, not really..." Mark frowns a bit, scratching at his cheek and staring up at the skylight, and okay it's fidgeting but, yeah. "I mean, I guess. Sort of. I just got here today and I don't really..." Have anything at all, including a place to stay. Mark doesn't actually go as far as to say the last part, but Roger seems to understand.
"You can sleep here..." Roger waves towards the rumbled up couch. It's an unexpected offer, for sure.
Oh, wait, did Roger think... "I mean, I didn't come here looking for a place to stay," Mark says quickly, not wanting to seem like he looked Roger up just to crash on his couch. Hell, he hadn't even looked him up for the sex. It had been a spur of the moment, rash, in-suburbia's-face sort of decision. "I'll find something..."
"You won't," Roger says, shaking his head and kicking at the couch. It groans and shakes a little. Not the most comforting sight in the world. "Trust me, you won't find a place to stay if you leave now, so just sleep here for tonight." Mark can't help but look a little suspicious. He really didn't expect this from... anyone, really, much less a guy he hardly knew expect for two random sexual encounters (okay, one random and one kind of wished for and walked right into). "Look, I don't mind if you stay a while, until you get used to the city."
"What about April?" Mark asks, looking over Roger's shoulder to the bedroom where his girlfriend has passed out. She seems... nice, he guesses, and certainly willing to take in strangers for the night but for two or three?
Roger's eyes follow his. He shrugs, taking a few steps towards his bedroom. "She doesn't really live here," he explains, opening his door and leaning against it as he talks with Mark, convincing him to stay. Not that it takes much, but Mark feels he should make some attempt at not needing the rock star's help. "And my roommate, Collins, is taking in strays all the time. So it'll be fine." Roger smiles at him, slowly backing into his room and apparently not really giving Mark a choice, which is fine with him. "Night Mark."
"Night," Mark says as the door closes behind Roger. "Umm... Thanks...." Slowly, he sits back down on the couch. He really doesn't want to kick himself to the streets tonight, and if Roger is offering. It will only be for a few nights tops until he finds his own place. What harm can there be of staying here a few nights?
Author: Mina (Gildedmuse)
Title: On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter: One: First TImes & Blow Jobs
Pairings: Mark/Roger (graphic), Mark/Roger/April (others will be added later).
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 9,030
Warnings: Underage sex (16/18. Nothing scary), first time, threesomes
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that.
Additional Information: Smut. There is no summery, people, because it’s just smut. I am a little ashamed of writing this. I mean, I can’t even pretend that this has any redeeming qualities because it doesn’t. It’s pretty much just straight up porn. It’s not even good porn. So don’t read this expecting character insight. Don’t read this expecting characters at all. They are all just bodies that I have tried fitting into as many positions as possible. God, I’m going straight to writer hell for this. I feel all of that is fair warning, so don’t get pissed if you read it and it’s all horrible, horrible smut. I warned you. A whole lot.
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, and I was going to post it to markroger3somes but I thought that might be spamming. You should all go join it, anyway.
On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter One: First Times & Blow Jobs
Five hours. Mark has to squint through the darkness until the red numbers on his alarm clock become anything more than a glaring blur, watching the numbers flicker, and suddenly it's three A.M. In five hours he has to get up, get ready, and bike to Kyle's house so that his parents can drive them up to the city for Kyle's birthday. More than anything right now, Mark wants to get some rest. He closes his eyes, and all he can concentrate on is the music blasting from downstairs. In his head Mark keeps chanting that if he gets to sleep now he can still get five hours sleep. If Cindy's friends would all leave, or if mom and dad would come home from visiting aunt Florence early, Mark could still get those five hours.
He's still trying to force himself into a five-hour coma when he hears his door open, the graduation party noise becoming clearer for a second before it's again muffled. Someone else looking for the bathroom he figured, but then there is more noise. The sound of someone stumbling, and a loud protest from his small twin bed as the mattress beside him dips.
Mark's eyes fly open again in an almost panic as he waits for someone to hit him or throw up on him. Squinting through the darkness at the lump on his bed, he waits for the violence or the drunken behavior. He waits and waits and waits, and after a while there is the soft sound of snoring. Slowly and carefully so he doesn't wake the guy, Mark reaches across the body and grabs his glasses from the nightstand. It's still dark, but there is enough light from the street lamp and under his door that he can make out the almost ethereal white curls of hair, down to pitch black and hollow-looking eyes as the shadowed features of the boy next to him become sharper. Bleach and make up, Mark thinks as he adjusts his glasses, almost hovering over the sleeping figure. He knows this guy. Roger, Cindy's friend's sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band from the city, sprawled out next to him. Mark has seen him play once before at his kind-of-not-really girlfriend's sister's party.
He's never seen Roger like this, though, shirtless with his jeans undone just enough that even in the soft glow coming from outside the window Mark can make out the trail of hair that leads down into his boxers. His stomach flutters, like when Sasha laid her head on his lap that time they were watching movies at that party.
Mark unconsciously licks his lips, scooting back until he's hit the wall. He's never actually been this close to a half naked guy. Well, locker rooms don't count. Neither do sleepovers with his best friend, Kyle, because that is different. Kyle looks nothing like Roger. Roger is eighteen and in a band. Roger is bohemian, from the city and everything. Roger makes Mark's stomach jump in this weird way, and all he's doing is snoring.
One moment, Mark is staring at Roger and wondering what to do about sharing his bed, and the next the clock flickers to 3:49 and Roger is looking over at him. The rocker's eyes are green, green, green, like he has no pupil at all. He squints through the dark at Mark, who had tried jumping back again and bumped his head into the window when he realizes Roger is awake. "Who are you?" His voice sounds like he's been singing all-night, raw and hoarse. Mark's mind makes the jump from singing to sex pretty easily. He's a teenage boy, and he could make the jump from math to sex. Roger's voice isn't really helping, though.
"Uh... Mark," he says, running a hand through his hair and not looking at Roger as he scratches at his stomach. "You fell into my bed."
The older boy breaks out this horrible, beautiful grin. "Do you mind?" He asks, like he already knows Mark doesn't. So Mark just shakes his head and hugs a pillow closer, slipping it between them like it can protect him from Roger. He isn't even sure what he wants to protect himself against.
Roger yawns, stretching out until his hands are flopping over the shield/pillow Mark has set up. Then he's rolling on his side, propping his head up enough that he can see Mark over the waves of blankets between them. "You look familiar."
"Well, it's my house." Mark isn't sure Roger is entirely in his right mind. Mark isn't some innocent little sophomore. He's tried alcohol and pot, and he knows what people are like high and drunk. That isn't what it is, he thinks, but he can tell there is something. "And my bed."
"That doesn't matter," Roger says, and Mark gets the impression it really doesn't matter to the older boy that he just collapsed into some random guy's bed. "I mean, I think I've seen you somewhere."
Mark knows what he meant, but he feels a bit like a suburbanite loser telling Roger where he'd seen him. He shrugs, trying to seem like having Roger fall down into his bed is not a strange happening. "I've been to a few parties." Most of those being with Scarsdale Senior High's impromptu film club, which consisted mainly of him, Sasha, Vince, Kyle and sometimes Lizzy when she wasn't doing chess or Homes for Humanity, and none of which involved anyone like Roger.
Roger yawns and starts to stretch out. Feline is the word that comes to Mark's head. Something tough and dangerous, but sleek and poised as well. That's how Roger looks with his hands twisted up above his head. "So you're from around here?"
"No," Mark says before he can hold back his tongue. "I live in LA as a professional film executive. I just like flying home to sleep in Scarsdale every night."
Roger nods, and Mark isn't sure if he caught the sarcasm or is even listening. He just keeps stretching out and that hand that had been idly scratching at his stomach drops lower. Of course Mark catches the flicker of motion out of the corner of his glasses and has to turn to stare. There is a slight pause in the finger's downward movement and if Mark weren't so busy watching Roger's hand he would have seen the rock star smirk before slipping his hand under the waistline of his boxers.
Mark still doesn't look away. Not until there is a low, deep laughter ringing in his ear that pulls his eyes to Roger's. "You're staring."
Mark meets Roger's eyes, trying to figure out if he's going to get the shit beat out of him. It's never happened to him, but it has happened to Vince. He knows guys don't stare at other guys, at least not in Scarsdale. He's seen movies where it happens, though, and movies where people in the city can spend all their time working on paintings or music or film, and he wants to believe that he can go to New York and things will be like that. "Yeah," he says after a long pause, and if Roger is going to beat him up he'll do it no matter what Mark says.
The rock star rolls to his side, amused and not violent at all. "You always stare at guys?"
"Only the ones that fall half naked into my bed," Mark says, shrugging it off like this is all so causal for him. It's not the first time he's found a guy attractive. It's just hormones, he figures and he read in a book somewhere that guys experiences this sort of thing all the time. Sasha even admitted to him that she got that feeling around girls occasionally. Besides, Mark still likes girls. He still got a hard on from tango lessons with Nanette, and that had nothing to do with some love of dancing.
"Well, you're lucky tonight," Roger purrs, and Mark is back to that feline imagery. Beautiful but dangerous, his mind warns, but his body isn't really listening. Especially not when he realizes how close Roger is and how Mark is already against the wall with nowhere else to go. When had he gotten himself trapped in a corner?
Roger's hand is on his hip, pulling him away from the wall and pressing him flat on his back. Mark wants to say something to help break the tense silence he feels that apparently Roger hasn't noticed yet, because he's leaning forward to kiss Mark. Lips pressed together and Mark's eyes go wide. He should stop him, he should stop him, he shouldn't stop him because Roger is kissing him and it feels really good.
Kissing Roger isn't like kissing Sasha. For one thing, he doesn't taste like lip-gloss. His lips are chapped, too, rougher and they move against Mark more aggressively. Mark shivers when Roger's licks along his lips, opening his mouth for the kiss and Roger takes without ever stopping. Pinned below the rock star, Mark feels totally inadequate. What is he supposed to do with his tongue? How did Roger do that? Shit, when is the last time he brushed his teeth? It really doesn't matter, because Roger is trying to posses his mouth and Mark just starts kissing him back, messy and desperate but not worrying about that right now. Hard to think around the blood that is pumping through his ears and quickly traveling lower.
Roger's hands, large and rough, are running down Mark's bare chest. He pulls back from the kiss, and Mark starts to make some excuse for why he never really kissed back properly and why there is a bit of drool running down Roger's chin but before he can say anything Roger is nipping at his lip, teeth scrapping across the skin and his callused fingers brush over Mark's nipples and that feels good. Mark moans as he arches towards Roger's hands. He can feel the older boy smirk as he lets go of his lip and starts placing hot, open mouthed kisses along his jaw.
Mark closes his eyes, lips trembling slightly as he takes in the sensation. Rough hands sliding back down his chest, stroking at his stomach. Teeth and lips and tongue are against his ear and with another moan Mark is leaning up against Roger's mouth. Roger's tongue thrusts against his ear and a palm kneads him through his briefs and any shred of rational thought is overrun by his hormones.
Just as Mark is giving in, Roger pulls back, leaving him whimpering and cold. He sits up in a flash, wanting to know what he did wrong. "Shit!" His head collides with Roger's chin, and he pulls back, wincing and rubbing at his head. Worse, Roger sits up, hand running across his jaw. "Sorry!" Mark says, and what a way to impress the guy. Giving him a concussion.
Roger lays a hand on Mark's chest, pushing him back. "It's cool. Just stay there, okay?" Nodding eagerly, Mark does as told. Roger smiles at him before hooking his fingers through the waistband of Mark's underwear, his other hand digging through his pocket and maybe Mark shouldn't have said yes so quickly. As Roger fishes through his pocket his jeans start to slip down his hips, the erection in his boxers becoming more and more obvious. Mark should be more nervous, lying in a bed with a boy at least two years older than him and who knows how much more experienced.
He would be, too, if he weren't hot and hard and busy helping Roger by wiggling and kicking off his briefs, unable to really tear his eyes off of the line of hair that disappears into Roger's snug-looking boxers.
Mark looks up when he hears a faint tearing and catches sight of that beautiful grin again. Roger drops between Mark's legs and oh God, oh God, oh God. Those lips are closing around the head of his cock. Chapped and rough, tight around him as a tongue slides over the tip. And before he can arch into that mouth a hand closes around his waist, holding him back as Roger swallows him down and fuck, he didn't even know someone could do that but it feels better than his hand ever did. Behind his eyelids, Mark sees white spots like stars. His fingers curl into the sheets, nails going through the thin material as he tries to ground himself even as the world starts to spin. His entire world is now the tongue wrapping around him and teeth scrapping along lightly as Roger moves his mouth up and down. Thank God for the music downstairs because Mark doesn't want his sister hearing the sounds he's making, desperate and choked back when he can't quite remember how to breathe.
In moments he's panting and whimpering and close and how did he go so long without this, and then there is something slick and cold pressing up against him. Mark yelps, tearing himself away from Roger's mouth and hitting the headboard as he scrambling up the bed. "What the hell?"
Roger looks like a predator in the low light, smiling up at Mark with this dangerous twist of his lips. He strokes along Mark's leg softly, fingers brushing along his inner thigh and even while freaking out Mark shivers from that touch. "It's okay," he purrs, green eyes glowing with what looks to Mark like pure sexual energy, the condom stretched around his fingers gleaming in the low light. "Haven't you ever done this before?"
"I'm not a virgin," Mark says before Roger can get the idea. He and Sasha did have sex that once. She said it hurt, though, and it had been awkward and messy and embarrassing, and after that they stuck to the less confusing things. "I just..."
Roger is still smiling at him, slowly pulling and Mark just lets Roger lie him back down. He knows what's happening, and it makes his stomach twist with nerves but the way Roger is grinning, the way his hand strokes Mark's thigh, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow. "It'll be fine," Roger promises in that low, soft voice as he nuzzles up to Mark's cock. His nose brushes the skin and Mark gasps, hips buckling. The slick latex is pressing against him again, cold and wet on his overheated skin. "Relax," Roger murmurs, a sound that rumbles through his lips and into Mark's cock.
He tries to obey and force his body to calm down as a finger slowly presses into him. Just concentrate on Roger, his hand on Mark's thigh, Roger's lips brushing against his stomach, moving lower with open mouth kisses until, "Fuck," Mark gasps sharply as those lips are back around him. Unfair, his mind screams but he doesn't listen because Roger's mouth is wet and hot and tight as he takes Mark in. Pinned back to the bed he can't do anything but writhe and squirm, moaning quietly and hoping Roger won't pull away this time.
He tries not to let Roger's finger, now fingers and the stretch hurts a little, but he tries not to let it freak him out. He doesn't care what Roger does as long as his mouth stays tight around him just like that, and fuck, he can't keep still on the bed for fear that the pressure building up inside him will snap, and he doesn't want to come yet or Roger might stop and the way his tongue is curled around Mark is amazing so if he would please, please not stop. Mark keeps moving, twisting back and around in Roger's mouth until his fingers are pressed inside Mark and, "Fuck!"
He screams it, toes curling into the sheets as he bucks off the bed, nearly kneeing Roger in the face and not even caring because, oh, fuck, he needs more of that. He whimpers, panting and tensing, and he can still feel the ghost of Roger's fingers pressed up inside of him, pushing into some spot that shots this heat right up his body. Between that and Roger's mouth, he's amazed he is still breathing at all, and how come no one ever told him about that before?
Roger smirks, pushing Mark's hips back against the bed. "Good?" He asks, and Mark can't say anything. Just swallows and tries to stop shuddering at the small jolts still traveling through his body. He hasn't even recovered and, God, Roger is doing it again, rough fingers rubbing up inside him. Mark bites on his lips, trying to force back sounds he didn't even know he could make, trying not to push back against Roger's hand because the slight ache is still there but who cares anymore, so long as it feels like that? It's almost too much, the way every touch sends another twist of pleasure-heat-need twisting around in him.
Between his legs, Roger is still wearing a wicked smile and Mark really wants to kiss him again or have those lips back around him or - Fuck, he has to stop doing that. Whimpering, Mark shoots back off the bed, this time he does push back and Roger's fingers press deeper into him. It's starting to be less of an ache and more of a stretch, and the second Mark thinks that, Roger grabs something and there is more of that cold, slick liquid and a third finger twists up against him. Mark whines, closing his eyes and this is weird. He shouldn't be enjoying this because fingers do not - "Mm... More, more," Mark moans, loosing that last train of thought because Roger is doing that thing again, rubbing his fingers up against that spot as he stretches Mark out.
Mark starts squirming again, his body moving on its own as Roger thrusts his fingers up inside him. With his eyes closed, he can only hear Roger moving on the bed, and that doesn't matter because his fingers press there again and Mark is shouting, body twitching. "Shit!" Mark's eyes fly open at the loud crack of his knee connecting with Roger's jaw.
"Sorry!" He says, trying to sit up and shouting when Roger's fingers bend weirdly inside him. Not pleasurable at all. Roger pulls his hand away, rubbing his jaw with his fingers not bunched in a condom. "Are you okay?" Mark asks, feeling like even more of a complete idiot then he had the first time he accidentally hit Roger.
"It's still okay," Roger says, shaking his head before leaning in and kissing Mark again. Mark decides it's better not to push or bring up the bruise on Roger's cheek. Instead he rolls his tongue around Roger's, scooting closer so he can feel the body heat pouring off the older boy. He's too worked up by now to worry too long about anything.
Roger pulls back from the kiss, looking down as he pulls off his jeans and pulls anther condom from his pocket. Mark eyes it nervously as he slips it over his cock, then turns back to Mark. He knows what this means and he should stop now, but he isn't because he really wants Roger by now, and he knows it's all hormones but those hormones are much more powerful than any other line of reasoning.
"Turn around," Roger tells him. Mark nods and does, trying to get comfortable, but no matter what, his knees are digging into the hard wooden frame of his bed, and the headrest isn't easy to hold onto, and he is shaking. He closes his eyes and tries to stop the last one before Roger wraps his arms around Mark's waist, cock pressed up to his back, and that only makes it worse. Roger doesn't seem to mind. He kisses the back of Mark's neck, and Mark can feel the wet latex pressing up to him like his fingers had been.
"Is this going to hurt?" he asks after swallowing hard, trying to calm his nerves or put out the fire that is burning in his gut, coiled tight enough that he knows the next time Roger touches him he won't be able to stop himself.
"Don't worry," Roger purrs, and really his voice is anything but comforting. Dark and powerful and enough to make Mark shiver, but not really comforting. "Just relax."
Roger starts moving into him, and it doesn't hurt as much as Mark thought it would be he still has to bite back a whimper, nails digging into his headboard as Roger thrusts up into him. A hand curls around his cock, dragging a thumb from the tip to the base, and Mark just has to think about how good that feels, moaning as Roger starts stroking him, squeezing him tight, moving inside him and "God, yes..." Mark's head falls against his chest, whimpering because it hurts, but Roger is rocking up into that spot every time he moves. Mark swears it shouldn't feel that good. Nothing should, but every time Roger hits it and twists his hand, Mark is nearly screaming, rolling his hips back against Roger's rough palm with every move, trembling and moaning and probably making a fool of himself but as long as Roger never stops he doesn't care.
He comes within minutes, keeping himself from making any noise. His body feels like it's melting, boneless and exhausted and he wants to collapse, but Roger is holding him up and it takes him a while more to finish. When he does, he lets Mark drop to the mattress, breathless and so out of it that he doesn't even hear Roger cursing up a storm when he falls off the bed, trying to pull on his pants, or Cindy's surprised yelp when she opens the door. He finally manages to pass out, sleeping so deeply that a train running through his room or his sister screaming at Amanda's sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band for touching her little brother wouldn't wake him.
He sleeps through his alarm and misses that trip to the city with all his friends. Mark spends the day in bed.
*
Maybe his mom had been right about New York City, and within the day Mark will have been beaten, mugged, raped, shot, and then beaten some more until he finally dropped dead on the corner where people could walk by and kick at his body. This sounds more appealing than having to go home and admit to his parents that he got kicked out of Brown after less than a year.
Now that he thinks about it, all of that sounds more appealing than staying at Brown for another year, too.
Mark, nineteen and hopeful and artistic and totally lost, stood at the bus station with absolutely no idea what to do next. He knew what he couldn't do, though. He knew he couldn't go home, because that would mean that his dad had been right and also he couldn't face his mom knowing how disappointed she would be. He couldn't call anyone because he didn't know anyone in the city, and he definitely didn't know anyone willing to come and pick him up and give him a place to stay. He couldn't get a bite to eat, even though his stomach had been annoying everyone on the bus, because he didn't have any money.
There is a whole lot he cannot do and not a lot he can, Mark realizes as he stands there in the crowd of people, wondering why no one really has a friendly face. So he does what he always does when he's lost and confused and the weight of his own stupid decision is starting to set in on him. He picks up his camera and films.
Having no idea what he's looking for or where he's going, Mark just starts walking with his camera aimed at the city. He unconsciously starts narrating after a while, shooting any scene he finds interesting and whispering with his camera. It's comforting, like he isn't stuck in the city alone and with no money but instead he's just filming a few shots, and any time he wants he could be back on the bus and to Brown University where he can miserably sit through more classes he doesn't care about.
He walks down the streets, people jostling him around at every turn and cars not seeming to care that he's a pedestrian and shouldn't be charged at. He might have been frightened, but the camera has a way of filtering things out so that all Mark sees is the beautiful, scene-worthy city.
So much better than being at Brown, he keeps telling himself, because if he doesn't, he's afraid he'll turn around and head home with his tail between his legs. It isn't going to happen. He's wanted to live in New York since he was nine and his mom took him up to see some Broadway musical about cats. It was boring, or at least was to a nine year old boy, but Mark remembers passing by a film crew as they shot down the street. That was awesome. That's what he is looking for.
Pan across the walls of the city as someone bumps into him, twisting his frame. Mark frowns at the disturbance, starts to twist back around when a picture falls into frame. He looks up at the poster slapped haphazardly across the wall. Black and green with just enough yell that the boy's hair looks like it is glow in the dark white. Mark takes a step closer, eyes scanning over the familiar face of the rock star. The Well Hungarians is what the poster says. Mark smiles, snorting softly at that. March 4th at 9:00, presented by CBGBs.
Of all the things Mark needs to be doing in the city, looking up his sister's friend's ex-sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-band that he slept with one night isn't one of them. Roger, that is his name, did enough damage last time he fell into Mark's bed, leaving him confused for years. It's been three years, and Mark knows that Roger won't remember him and it's not like he's really been thinking about the rock star. Not for a while now.
He tears the poster off the wall, tucking his camera under his arm as he swings around and back into the crowd, determined to find CBGBs before nine tonight.
*
The fact that Mark actually finds the club before midnight is probably a miracle. Even more amazing is he makes it in before Roger's band has set up, and he even manages to use the fake ID that Benny got him to buy a beer, although he thinks that might have something to do with the disinterest of the bartender who hardly even glanced at him before handing him a bottle. It tastes disgusting, but Mark doesn't care. He's dropped out of school, run away to New York, is in a club to watch a rock band with a lead singer he slept with, and he feels like getting drunk. Being rebellious. Being anyone but the cute little Jewish boy who volunteered at the JCC with his mom.
He takes a few more sips of the beer and decides that while he wants to be rebellious, he doesn't want to be sick. Who can actually drink that stuff? It tastes worse than that time Cindy made a cake and accidentally used salt instead of sugar.
The house lights dim slightly and Mark's attention goes from the beer to the stage just as he steps out. Mark never harbored any delusions about Roger. He knew the older boy had just been looking for a way to get off and Mark happened to be next to him in bed. Still, that knowledge never stopped him from spending most of the next few months jerking off with Roger in his mind. Even now, if he lets his mind drift while he's in the shower, it will still pick up pictures of the older boy.
Nothing, really, compared to seeing Roger like this. He glows under the bad lighting like a god walking out before his people, his grin making him border on childish but still strangely wicked. Mark holds up his camera, making sure he captures this moment because on stage Roger looks like he could conquer the world.
"He's gorgeous, isn't he?" Mark doesn't look up when he hears the soft voice near his ear, figuring it is meant for someone other than him. He nearly jumps when the warm body nuzzles up against him. He swings around, grabbing his camera protectively as he spins he finds a girl with dancing brown eyes and wild curls leaning into him.
"Err..." Is she flirting with him? Mark isn't use to that. He hung out with a very small group in high school, and it turned out that Sasha was a lesbian and the other two were boys. He hasn't had much experience with girls. Not enough to tell if they're flirting with him. She is leaning awfully close, and every time Mark tries to back off, she seems to get closer. "You a fan?"
"Not exactly," Mark admits. It's been three years since he's seen Roger play, and it's hard to listen to his new music when this girl is almost plastered to him, giggling and Mark can smell the alcohol on her breath. It actually calms him a little. If she's drunk, she's not really interested, which means Mark doesn't have to impress her.
The girl takes his hand, and Mark stumbles a bit but doesn't pull back. She is really pretty, he thinks in this haze of confusion. She has really nice... eyes. Eyes, look at her eyes. Mark looks back at her eyes. A nice smile, like Roger's only less bright and more follow-after-me. "You want to meet him?" She asks, and Mark should be finding somewhere to sleep tonight instead of nodding and letting the beautiful siren of a girl lead him away from the bar and to who knows where.
"You're cute," she giggles, holding something up to this doorman, and he lets them through without question. The backroom smells like equipment and beer. It's dark compared to the flashy lights up front, but the girl seems to know where she's going. She tugs Mark along like she has him on a leash, always smiling. "What about me?"
"Umm..." Fuck, did Mark miss something? He frowns a bit, and she laughs so he supposes that is good enough.
"I'm April," she says, finally stopping and spinning on her heels she pats the cushions of a worn down couch and Mark obediently takes a seat.
"Mark," he says, watching as April picks up a purse, the contents spilling to the floor. "Here, let me help," Mark says, getting to his knees and helping her gathering her make up, some loose change, a bag of power and needle a spoon and a candle. Mark frowns, thinking over it for a while until the scene clicks in his mind. He knows this, and yeah sure it's mostly from gritty indie films but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what it is she is about to do.
April smiles, thanking Mark as she stands up again. "I'll be right back. You can just wait here," she instructions before giving him a cute little wave and disappearing into a bathroom. Mark watches her go, feeling even more unsure about being here. Drinking is one thing, but she's back there shooting up heroin and maybe he should leave. No, Mark thinks, sitting back on the old couch and looking around the small back stage area at all the instruments and amps and random thing piled around him. He isn't going to leave. He isn't going to be a judgmental asshole like his father. He is open-minded. Drugs aren't as bad as everyone thinks they are. People are free to make their own choices.
Mark decides to stay and wait for April. He wants new experiences? He wants to live outside of suburbia? Well, this would be it.
April comes out of the bathroom, smile a little less dangerous now as she tumbles down onto the couch. "Hello," she says, head landing in Mark's lap with a soft thud.
"Oh..." Mark says, nearly jumping as she makes this small sound and nuzzles into his leg. Should her mouth by that close to him? "Err.... Umm... Hey." Yeah, this is going just perfectly. He stares down at April, who seems content to just lie there cuddling against his lap for now.
They stay like that, with Mark feeling awkward and April almost drifting off, until the music stops. Mark hears the sound cut off and Roger saying goodbye to the crowd. He starts to nudge April, trying to wake her or at least push her away from his crotch. This isn't how he wants Roger to see him, with a girl who looks drugged on his lap and drooling onto his jeans. "Hey, April... Get up."
April gives a small moan, barely moving away from Mark. The band is heading in, putting their instruments away and there is Roger, glowing with sweat and eye makeup running slightly, panting and smiling and of course Mark's mind goes right to sex. He hasn't gotten any better at that since he was sixteen.
"Roger!" April finally moves off her lap, throwing herself into the rock star's arms. Roger barely has time to put up his guitar before catching her, laughing as she wraps her thin frame around his. They fall back onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, mouths pressed together and small sounds escaping between their lips. Mark shifts away from them, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. It's like he's not even here. He shouldn't even be here.
Slowly the groping and kissing winds down. April pulls back, her lip still caught in Roger's mouth. Mark feels like he's seeing something he shouldn't. Like catching sight of a friend's home porn video. From the way everyone else moves around the couple like it's nothing, he's guessing this is tame. It still feels weird to him to be sitting so close to them when they're making out, Roger's hands up her shirt, April grinding down against his tight jeans that hide nothing. "Roger," she says softly as he finally pulls her mouth away from his. "This is Mark."
Roger flashes him a bright smile, green eyes dark and glowing in the low light. Mark's smile is weak, still feeling a bit unsure of himself and the situation. He wishes he could back away, get a feel for what is happening and then come back into the scene with an audience perspective. He really doesn't have time for that, though, even with his camera on hand. April nuzzles into Roger's neck, whispering words Mark can't hear as the next band scrambles to get set up and ready.
"We will," Roger answers to whatever April says. He stands up with her still in his lap, laughing when she squeals and wraps herself closer, leaving Mark there on the couch. He hadn't expected Roger to remember him, but he'd expected something more than to be left sitting backstage while he and his girlfriend go off.
Mark doesn't even get a chance to consider what to do next when a rough hand reaches for him, curling in his shirt and pulling him up. "Come on," Roger says as he hauls Mark to his feet. He stumbles a bit, steadying himself on Roger's shoulder, but he manages to make it up in one piece. Roger pats him on the shoulder, which doesn't help with Mark's balance problem. "You ready?"
"Ready?" Mark looks up, glancing between April, who is leaning up against Roger's chest with a lazy smile, to the rock star with his face-splitting grin. No, he isn't ready. His mom had been right. He's too young to be out on his own like this. No, wait. Mark isn't going to go back there. He isn't going to give up. New York indie filmmakers do not live with their parents. "Yeah, sure."
Roger smiles, so it's worth it that Mark feels his good conscious screaming at him. Also, April is moving away from Roger, wrapping an arm around Mark and pressing up against him. That's helping to stifle those annoying thoughts as well. "Come on," she says, grinning wickedly again as she pulls on Mark's sleeve. Really, he doesn't have much of a choice but to follow them as the two practically drag him along after them.
It doesn't take Mark long to figure out what they're dragging him along for. Not that his mind hadn't already been racing in that direction, but when April's hand snakes into his corduroys, fingers ghosting along his boxers and, yes, Roger's lips brushing against his ear as he pushes Mark into some building, that really makes their point. Mark moans, a loud sound that echoes of the walls of the broken down building, as April and Roger continue touching him and each other, slowly making their way up the stairs.
There isn't any real time to look around the apartment April and Roger shove him into, and he really could care less where they take him so long as no one stops. He drops his bag as the door closes, and then it's starting again. The confusion is still swirling around in his head, but April's lips against his don't give it much room to bother him. Roger's strong arms around him, pressing up against his back and into April. It's an overload of his senses.
Rough fingers curl around his, leading Mark's hand up April's soft stomach, cupping her breast through the flimsy material of her bra. April moans into Mark's mouth, tongue sliding playfully against his and sighing softly. Callused fingers slide down his stomach, down and down and, "God," Mark moans, head falling back against Roger's shoulder as his hips arch up. With a small whimper he begins grinding into Roger's hand, and thank God he's a little more experienced than last time because he's pretty sure if he were sixteen still this would be it for him.
April pulls away and Mark can barely open his eyes to watch her stumble backwards. Roger's hand is much more distracting, hard fingers wrapping around him as rubbing against him. "Come to bed," April purrs, clumsily taking off her shirt before heading back into the bedroom.
Mark isn't even sure he would follow her, or even move at all except Roger pulls away. Whimpering, he follows after the rock star, nearly tripping over his pants in the process. Fuck grace. Mark is way past caring how he looks so long as he isn't kicked out. In his rush to get back to Roger and April and the contact, he nearly runs into the rock star. Catching himself on the bedroom door, he looks around Roger to see why he's stopped.
April is sprawled out over the bed, heels still on, chest moving only slightly. "Is she okay?" Mark asks after a moment and she still hasn't done anything.
"Yeah." Roger pulls back, closing the door and shutting April inside. Mark catches a flash of something other than lust, happiness, cocky rock star confidence, blinding ecstasy. Before Mark has time to analyze, Roger is scooping him into his arms. "You want to stop."
Mark should really be careful about what he is doing with this guy. "No." Fucking hormones. Better not to think about it or risk talking about it, Mark decides as Roger's lips cover his and without question Mark is wrapping his arms around Roger's shoulders, rubbing up against him and mewling into the rough kiss. He wants to shut down and not think about what he's doing; not just with Roger but with his whole life.
Any thoughts he is still having get cut off when Roger slams him down into the couch. "Hey!" Mark snaps, arching up and rubbing his back where the wooden frame of the under-stuffed couch had dug into his skin.
"You okay?" Roger asks, peeling off his shirt and then hooking fingers through his jeans and he isn't even wearing underwear, Mark can see the lines of his hips meeting as the jeans slowly drift down his skin. He swallows hard, and even though he would swear that he never had a crush on Roger, the way his heart beat picks up, well, if it were anyone else here with him now he wouldn't be quiet this breathless.
"Yeah," Mark forces his eyes back to Roger's face, not wanting to be caught staring. Roger smirks, lips curling up just enough that Mark knows he had been caught. Well, okay. As long as he still doesn't stop, Mark doesn't care.
The jeans are gone and Roger straddles his hips, still smirking even when he presses their lips together in a hungry kiss, and thank God he isn't stopping.
Mark runs his hands down Roger's back, over the heated skin of the rock star. He lifts his hips as Roger tears off his jeans and - Oh, fuck.... Hard fingers wrapping around him. Mark moans, hips bucking from the bed and grinding against the palm. He loves Roger's hands, and he's so lost in that feeling that he doesn't notice how Roger slicks up his hand until a finger is pressing up against him. Mark yelps, eyes opening, as he tries to back up into the couch. Roger looks down at him, smiling. "Relax," he tells him, teasing Mark's entrance. Roger's hand wraps around his erection, rough like his kisses, callused from guitar playing and tight around Mark. He cries out, arching up into Roger's hand as the finger presses inside him.
He's done this since back then, of course, but Roger still makes him feel like he's sixteen and uncertain. Except right now, when Roger is slowly thrusting his fingers up into him, hand tight around Mark's cock and lips brushing against his collarbone. Right now, Mark doesn't feel uncertain at all. He feels heat coiling up inside him, body humming with the contact as he tries to rock between both of Roger's hands. Teeth sink into his skin, sucking and marking and he's moaning, losing the rhythm of his hips and whimpering as Roger bites at his collar.
Hard fingers twisting inside of him, curling and - "Fuck, yes!" Mark tightens around Roger's fingers, hips bucking as he rubs against that spot that sends Mark reeling. With small sounds he tries to keep down, he pushes back against Roger, legs hooking around his waist as he forces Roger in deeper.
Roger's hand slows as he looks up. "You're loud," he observes, and right now isn't the time for talking, Mark thinks. Right now Roger has his fingers up inside him, and how can he be talking when that is clearly not what Mark wants?
"Yeah, well." He can't seem to stops gasping for air or rocking up into Roger's hand, even when it's still. "Sorry." If Roger doesn't start moving again, he is going to do it himself because right now he needs this so bad there is an ache spreading through his body.
Smiling, Roger nips at his jaw again, hand tightening and, yes, that is what Mark needs. He moans, head falling back against the couch with a slight thump. "Don't hold back." Roger twists his fingers up into Mark, hard rough thrusts and, fuck, how is he supposed to hold back? Especially with Roger trailing hot kisses down his chest and - fuck, licking at the head of Mark's cock.
"More," Mark shouts, hands tangling in the bleached out hair. He whimpers, unable to stop withering around on the couch as Roger's fingers fill him and now his lips closing around him. Sensation after sensation, leaving Mark bucking up into him mouth and back against his fingers. Not yet, he begs himself because he can feel the way his body starts to tense as Roger's tongue, wet hot and dragging down the length of his cock, and he can't stop trembling or whining for more. Not yet, it's too soon and his body feels like it's burning up from the inside.
Roger's throat closes around the head of his cock and Mark can't even make a sound when he comes, mouth opened in a silent scream as it hits him, ripping him apart for a few seconds before he collapses backwards against the couch, panting for air. Roger sits up, wiping the mess from his mouth, face flushed from being choked and Mark knows he should feel bad or inexperienced but Roger looks really good with his lips swollen and skin gleaming from sweat and that's all Mark manages to think.
Roger lays back, legs bumping into and pushing Mark's away as he tries to spread them out. His cock is sitting against his stomach, condom on and now Mark does feel a little embarrassed for coming that soon. Before Roger finishes wrapping his hand around himself, Mark crawls to his knees and over to the rock star. "I can..." He says, looking up when Roger goes still. "I mean if you want...."
Roger smiles, God that smile, and nods, his legs parting as he leans back. Mark licks at his lips, so nervous he can feel himself shaking just a bit as he leans down. He's done this before, but only on his friends and his old college roommate but that had just been messing around, usually while drunk. Mark closes his eyes, spreading his lips out as he takes an inch of Roger into his mouth. The latex tastes disgusting, bitter and sharp as his tongue rolls over the tip.
Rough hands curl into Mark's hair, making him yelp softly. Roger moans, a low and deep sound that rumbles through them both. The taste is disgusting, but Mark thinks he might do it again to make Roger keep moaning like that. He does, and Roger arches up until his cock is buried in Mark's mouth. Mark tries to keep his cheeks hollowed around Roger, tries not to choke, but it's hard with the way the rock start keeps pushing off the couch.
It only lasts a few strokes, and then the condom in Mark's mouth is filling and Roger is falling back with a low moan. Mark pulls up as soon as he can, his throat feeling raw from the experience. He swallows hard to try and coax it, rubbing his hands across his eyes to make sure the tears he felt start to well up haven't started falling. Not that Roger would notice. He's bent across the armrest, eyes still closed as he soaks in the orgasm. "So," he says, slowly sitting back up, "Where'd April find you?"
Mark leans away from Roger, back against the other armrest. Not that he's scared of the rock star. Actually, Roger looks almost tame now. Okay, he's still naked, but he is no longer looking at Mark like he's about to pounce and pull him apart. He's wearing a sort of lazy grin, mostly harmless. "I, uh, I was at the club," Mark explains. "I saw your poster and I remembered you from Scarsdale."
It's a cheap short to see if Roger remembers anything about Scarsdale. Not that Mark can blame him for forgetting. There is a lot about his hometown he wouldn't mind blocking out of his own memory. Roger cocks his head, nodding just a bit. "Scarsdale." He says it slowly, rolling it around before he smiles again. "Yeah, you're Kate's friend's little brother, right?" Always such a long line to get to the connection. Mark nods, glad Roger at least remembers him after some minor hints. "Yeah... Wow, you look... older."
Mark is sure he still looks like a scrawny sixteen year old, but he smiles a bit. It's just nice to know that Roger isn't the type who forgets a person the second he leaves. Roger pushes himself up with a grunt, grabbing a pillow and holding it over his lap. He is sitting curled up on one side of the couch, naked expect for the throw pillow, looking at Mark with the small smile and curious expression. And, okay, they just sucked each off and, yeah, Mark is homeless and lost in the city and there is nothing obviously funny about any of this but Roger just looks cute - that the only word for it - and Mark can't help it. He's had this vision of Roger since he met him. This reckless city rock star, young and beautiful forever, and here he is curled on the couch with a mismatched pillow over his crotch looking so fucking adorable. Mark starts laughing, okay, snorting. He covers it with his hand, but Roger catches enough that he grins back.
"You laughing at me?" Roger doesn't look to insult, still wearing that bright smile that splits his face in two and makes his eyes wrinkle up. It's endearing, and there is another word he wouldn't think to associate with the Roger in his head, and Mark can't stop laughing. It must be the tension, he thinks, all that stress of leaving school and coming here and meeting Roger, it's getting to his head.
Still beaming as Mark breaks down, Roger takes the pillow from his lap, smacking Mark in the side with it. "Hey!" Mark protest, and the laughing stops but he's still smiling like an idiot as he wobbles around the couch a bit. He catches the back of the couch before Roger's hit can knock him off. "What was that for?"
"No laughing at my sexual prowess," Roger tells him, green eyes wrinkles up in humor. Who thought the guy who seemed so sexual on stage could be so cute in real life?
Roger stands, stretching out, and if Mark was about to laugh again it catches in his throat. The word 'feline' comes back, echoing in his head from long ago as Roger rolls his shoulders. God, he has a sexy back. Mark isn't even sure if the back can be sexy, but looking at Roger makes him wonder. It's like something you could film, his body arching back. It's that aesthetically beautiful. Roger grunts slightly, breaking the mood. "I can call you a taxi," he offers. "If you don't want to wander Alphabet City at this time."
Mark isn't sure what Alphabet City is, but he decides to save himself the embarrassment of looking like a sheltered suburbanite and not ask. "Errr... It's okay," he says, and now comes the awkward part. The getting kicked out part. Mark looked around at the floor, trying to track down his clothes instead of thinking where the hell he is going to go at this time of night. "I don't really have anywhere to go, anyway."
He grabs his pants on a mess on the floor and stands up, hopping around until he's got them pulled back on. When he looks back up, Roger is standing there (still completely naked, like he's got nothing in the world to hide) frowning deeply. Mark is slightly taken back, looking around himself a bit to make sure his pants aren't on inside out or something weird like that. Nope. Nothing. "You on the street?"
"Oh, uh, not really..." Mark frowns a bit, scratching at his cheek and staring up at the skylight, and okay it's fidgeting but, yeah. "I mean, I guess. Sort of. I just got here today and I don't really..." Have anything at all, including a place to stay. Mark doesn't actually go as far as to say the last part, but Roger seems to understand.
"You can sleep here..." Roger waves towards the rumbled up couch. It's an unexpected offer, for sure.
Oh, wait, did Roger think... "I mean, I didn't come here looking for a place to stay," Mark says quickly, not wanting to seem like he looked Roger up just to crash on his couch. Hell, he hadn't even looked him up for the sex. It had been a spur of the moment, rash, in-suburbia's-face sort of decision. "I'll find something..."
"You won't," Roger says, shaking his head and kicking at the couch. It groans and shakes a little. Not the most comforting sight in the world. "Trust me, you won't find a place to stay if you leave now, so just sleep here for tonight." Mark can't help but look a little suspicious. He really didn't expect this from... anyone, really, much less a guy he hardly knew expect for two random sexual encounters (okay, one random and one kind of wished for and walked right into). "Look, I don't mind if you stay a while, until you get used to the city."
"What about April?" Mark asks, looking over Roger's shoulder to the bedroom where his girlfriend has passed out. She seems... nice, he guesses, and certainly willing to take in strangers for the night but for two or three?
Roger's eyes follow his. He shrugs, taking a few steps towards his bedroom. "She doesn't really live here," he explains, opening his door and leaning against it as he talks with Mark, convincing him to stay. Not that it takes much, but Mark feels he should make some attempt at not needing the rock star's help. "And my roommate, Collins, is taking in strays all the time. So it'll be fine." Roger smiles at him, slowly backing into his room and apparently not really giving Mark a choice, which is fine with him. "Night Mark."
"Night," Mark says as the door closes behind Roger. "Umm... Thanks...." Slowly, he sits back down on the couch. He really doesn't want to kick himself to the streets tonight, and if Roger is offering. It will only be for a few nights tops until he finds his own place. What harm can there be of staying here a few nights?