Challenge: Mark/Roger. They were making out with crazy, wild, passionate (and probably drunk) abandon. Before the power blew.
A/N: This is for you, Dani. Not exactly what you asked for, but I got the gist of it.

When Roger looked back on it he'd have to say it was all Collins' fault. Easter was just as good a time as any to get smashed, and so Collins decided he'd treat the group to a couple of rounds at the bar. Roger, Mark, Maureen and Joanne agreed, Mark and Joanne less enthusiastically, and they all went to the bar. Joanne left first, dragging a tipsy Maureen who couldn't figure out how to keep her hands to herself. Not to long after, the remaining three left the bar and went back to the loft, where they pulled out a half-bottle of vodka left over from Collins' last visit. Collins himself only stayed long enough to see their drinks poured before he left. Things went south, literally, from there.

Roger was good and drunk himself, but Mark was a great deal more soused. He was rambling about something that was apparently funny, because Roger remembered laughing. What he didn't remember was Mark laughing with him. Mark was instead staring perplexedly at him, almost pouting, and if Roger had had one less drink he might have taken the dilated pupils and rapid breathing as warning signs. Instead he only stared confusedly back. When Mark didn't seem to be moving, he decided to pour himself the last of the vodka. That was when Mark jumped him.

Roger's memories after that were a little more hazy. He remembered the clash of teeth and tongues and mouths, and hearing breathy moans he'd deny to his deathday were him. He dimly recalled that one of his hands was in Mark's hair and the other wrapped around his waist, but about then was when he heard Mark growl. His blood promptly decided to vacation south.

Somehow they managed to topple over onto the couch, Mark bearing the brunt of both their weights. Roger remembered how he wriggled against him, trying to get comfortable against the springs and lumps, but after that it was all friction and heat and slick skin beneath his fingers when he thrust them under Mark's shirt. They pushed against each other, bumping and grinding and moaning, not having the prescence of mind to undress. Roger remembered Mark's long fingers burried in his hair while his other hand squeezed Roger's ass.

And then with barely a warning he toppled over the edge with a cry. He was vaguely aware of a difference in the change of lighting outside himself, but nothing could compare with the light show underneath his eyelids.

They lay tangled on the couch, breath slowing, and Roger remembered the feeling of Mark's fingers carressing his cheek. He remembered opening his eyes and having the distinct impression he was blind. Then he was able to make out Mark's shadowy outline with the light from the waning moon.

"Did you turn the lights out?" he distinctly remembered asking.

Judging by the way the shadows on Mark's face changed, Roger guessed Mark was smiling. "Power must have blown."