A/N: I'm not really sure if anyone who doesn't follow my roleplay will understand it but I wrote it on request and I REALLY like how it turned out! I can explain it here: So, Roger and Mark have already had two breakups with lots of angst in between and much amazing sex and they love each other but right now they've decided that they aren't working out and Mark's run into his old ex, Harvey, an OC of mine whom I absolutely adore. Roger's always making fun of him because he grew up in Texas so he has a southern accent. XD But now in this, Mark has broken up with Harvey too and he and Roger are both hurting. Which leads to Roger/Harvey hatesex since they never liked each other but they both love Mark… well, enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, but I do own Harvey MacKenzie. :)
Roger grunted as he was slammed against the nearest wall, hands flying up to tug harshly on the short blonde hair of the man in front of him. Harvey leaned down and bit at his neck, hard enough that Roger wondered vaguely whether or not blood had been drawn before letting his eyes roll back into his head, groaning as the Texan man sucked at the junction of his collarbone and his neck. "Fuck!"
"Shut up," mutters the other man, working at his zipper already. They're both impatient and horny now, and they don't necessarily have to like each other to get each other off. They have something in common now, in any case: Mark has left them both high and dry and they don't know what to do without him. Hence the impromptu fucking in the living room.
Deciding, for once, not to argue with him, Roger still can't resist the urge to smirk even as he pants and bucks his hips up against Harvey's leg, seeking friction. "Cowboy," he mumbles, trailing off into another heated groan as Harvey licks up to his ear and nibbles on it, breathing moist, hot air on one of his most sensitive spots.
"What did I tell you about that?" drawls the photographer, tugging his shirt over his head, and holy hell Roger is submitting to this hillbilly but he doesn't even care anymore because he's hard and eager and it doesn't matter who touches him, he needs to cum soon. "If you act like a bitch, I'll have to treat you like one," he hisses into his ear. The guitarist shudders, unable to withhold a needy whimper as more clothes are strewn aside and his cock is grabbed roughly, fondled, stroked just enough to tease him.
"P-" he cuts himself off, refusing to beg. Hell, twenty four hours ago he HATED Harvey with a holy passion. He shouldn't let something special like that end just like that just because Mark decided that he didn't love the bastard after all. The point is, Mark doesn't seem to love Roger either. And it's just not FAIR because that stupid dorky albino man has the hearts and the dicks of two perfectly willing men, just letting them go to waste.
"Now's the time to prove to me that you're as good in bed as you brag about all the time," Harvey laughs bitterly. His recent breakup is still stinging and he just needs an outlet. Roger is as good as any- as much as they talked about it, the two never managed to really go at it with their fists, and this is one way to show the stupid jealous bastard how much of a bitch he really is. Since the first time Mark brought him home from the bar, Harvey hasn't been so fond of the guitarist. But he has to admit, he's attractive enough to fuck.
"N-nngh..." Roger can't seem to form real words anymore, hips thrusting towards that hand and head swimming with pleasure. He just wants to get on with it already. Mark needs to get out of his goddamn head. "F-fucking-GOD."
"S'damn right!" the other man barks, pressing his lips hungrily to Roger's so hard that it's going to bruise later, and dammit, Mark's probably going to ask but he DOESN'T CARE. Roger doesn't care about anything anymore except getting off.
That hand has moved now, and a whine tears itself from Roger's throat as it releases his cock, precum beading at the tip and throbbing almost painfully. It reaches down to tease at his entrance, and he freezes for a moment. The only person he's ever soberly let fuck him is Mark- there the filmmaker is again. Always in his thoughts. He curses at himself, waiting impatiently for Harvey to fish through his jean pockets on the floor for a half-used tube of lube, coating his fingers before unceremoniously thrusting one up to the first knuckle up his ass.
"FUCK!" Roger yelps, squirming away. This part never feels good, and it's hard to remind himself why exactly he does it anyways. Harvey snorts at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and practically throwing him to the ground. The songwriter lands on his hands and knees, grunting in pain and glaring up at the man kneeling behind him. "Watch it, cowboy!" he snarls, keening as that finger reenters him and allowing his green eyes to fall closed as he grimaces.
Harvey merely smirks, adding a second finger and spreading them in a scissoring motion. "I'm showing you what a bitch you are, pretty boy. You're just getting what's coming to you." As he talks he angles his hand, thrusting his fingers in at different angles until-
"AH! T-there there theeeeeere," Roger moans, head falling so that his chin is against his chest. He should really focus on keeping some shreds of his dignity, but Harvey isn't playing fair- his fingers rub up against that spot and Roger sees stars behind his eyelids, choking out bits and pieces of what might be a sentence. "I- Fuck- Ohhh..."
Clenching his fists, Roger manages not to make a pained noise when a third finger invades him, although the stretching is almost unbearable. He still can't believe sometimes that this is what he put Mark through all the time- and he LIKED it! Now he's helplessly rocking his hips back on that hand, biting his lip until it bleeds and glaring at the floor tensely, waiting for this part to be over.
"Right there?" And those fingers curl in the most evil manner. Evil because it feels so damn good and it's SO wrong that it's Mark's redneck ex fingering him right now but it's really, really hard to concentrate when he knows exactly how to manipulate Roger's prostate like that with just his fingers. "Don't keep quiet just for me, I wanna hear you," he purrs into the guitarist's ear. There is a tearing sound and the crinkle of a condom wrapper as if floats innocently to the floor, seen in the corner of his eye, and fuck, he knows what's next...
"Oh, fuck off!" he bites out even as the tip of Harvey's cock presses to his entrance, latex smooth and cold and slick. Trying to relax, knowing that it's going to hurt and this isn't Mark, who will stop and wait for him to say 'Go' when he's ready, Roger hisses. "I'm not your bitch. I'm nobody's bitch."
"I might have to change that." Harvey is musing out loud now, his thoughts uncensored as he speaks them. It seems like there's a burning hole in his chest where Mark tore his heart out earlier that day, and damn if he isn't going to find some way to get Roger back for that, even if he knows it really has nothing to do with him. He thrusts lightly forward, pushing the head of his cock past that tight ring of muscle, and the lithe man below him shudders but remains silent. Taking this as a sign of encouragement- or impassiveness, he doesn't care at this point- the bespectacled man begins to tilt his hips and slide forward into that dizzying, sucking heat.
"Sh- Ahhh..." Roger groans, a sob building in his chest. It hurts it hurts it HURTS but it's so much better than before, thinking about M- thinking all of those things he doesn't want to think about. Now here, this is something he can focus on. The burning pain between his legs isn't enough to make him soft, though, because sparks of pleasure are still shooting through him every few seconds as the southern man moves, slowly as he can, until he's fully embedded in the body below him.
"Speechless?" Harvey mutters, his calves trembling with the effort not to just pound mercilessly into the body below him. He doesn't stop moving, of course- Roger doesn't deserve that kind of kindness from him- but he's slow as he can be, in this situation. His cock is throbbing and he wonders vaguely if Roger is going to make a snide comment about doggy style sex in the south. But he doesn't; the bleached-blond musician remains silent except for the occasional stifled groan. Whether they are of pain or of pleasure, or maybe some of both, Harvey doesn't know. Or care anymore.
"You wish you were th- thaaa-t good," he growls in return, nails digging into his palms. Nope, they didn't use NEARLY enough lube and God it hurts. It's a good sort of pain, a distracting sort of pain, and he's grateful for that. He just wishes the other man would give up and fuck him like he wants it- hard, fast, meaningless sex.
This is stupid. Why does he feel like Mark just broke up with HIM? As Harvey shifts his weight, cock suddenly pressed right up against that spot inside him that makes him buck back against him and sob a moan, Roger stops thinking about Mark altogether.
"MORE!" comes a hoarse howl, and he's almost surprised to find that it comes from him. Harvey complies, jerking forward to thrust into him harder and once again brushes his prostate, eliciting a louder moan. Oh FUCK this really isn't going to last long-
The pace picks up, somehow, between the wanton sounds Roger is making and Harvey, eyes squeezed shut and hands bruising on his hips as he fucks him like the bitch he thinks he is. Their noises are bordering on animalistic but neither can find the will to shut their mouths. It's all Roger, ready to fall onto his forearms as tears form at the corners of his eyes that have something to do with the burning pain and something to do with Mark, and Harvey who is muttering the filmmaker's name under his breath as he cums deep inside the guitarist below him.
"M- Maa- NNGH FUCK FUCKING- AH!" Roger screams as he feels his thighs tense with his orgasm, a roaring in his ears. They both know whose name he was about to moan, but now he's collapsing, unable to hold himself up any longer, and Harvey's weight is somewhat comforting although suffocating on top of him.
"This is... the part where you get the fuck out of my apartment," he murmurs after a few sweaty moments of panting against each other. Harvey gives him a terse nod, sitting up perhaps a bit too quickly and hastily pulling his clothes on from where they'd been carelessly discarded all around him. Roger makes no move to get up. He doesn't open his eyes when the door opens or when it slams shut again, footsteps disappearing down the stairs and echoing in his mind.
He just lays there on the floor, naked and in a puddle of his own rapidly drying cum, wondering how things got so fucked up in the first place.