A/N: Hey. Woah. ANOTHER CHAPTER. This one is actually a tiny bit graphic, only the first part but… I feel like I should warn you. Anyways. I hope you guys are still enjoying this! Thanks for the reviews I received on the last chapter! I love you all. *huggles* SO MUCH.
Disclaimer: … Did you hear? RENT isn't mine… I know. These are difficult times…
Chapter Seven: You'll Get Over It
Mark made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as he slammed his pen down on the table, flipping his notebook shut in a huff. Thinking about it now, distracting himself from his raging hormones by trying to write another one of his crappy screenplays wasn't the brightest idea. For once he was home alone, the entire loft dim and silent except for his own breath and the sound of his pen scratching on the paper, and yet here he was with a mind bursting at the seams with pornographic images of Roger.
There's Roger sliding his hands up his shirt, that same wicked grin on his face that he'd been wearing at the Life nearly a week ago; there he is capturing Mark's wrists and pushing him roughly against the wall, tongue at his ear, mouth hot and wet on his neck; and there, his personal favorite, is Roger standing over him, calloused fingers in his hair tugging insistently as Mark swallows around his cock, thriving off of those hoarse moans that remind him so much of Roger's stage voice.
He pushes his chair away from his desk, fed up with his lack of progress, and hesitates only slightly before popping the button on his pants. No one is home anyways, and fuck, he's been horny for a week, jerking off in the shower and trying desperately not to imagine his best friend. Needless to say, it hasn't been working, and now everything he tries to write is turning into a porno.
So really, this is for the sake of his writing. That's how he tries to rationalize it as he bites his lip, letting his eyes fall closed as his hand wraps around his throbbing erection. For the sake of his art- he needs to have a clear mind to create, doesn't he?
It doesn't take much of an imagination to conjure up Roger's naked body in his mind- it isn't like he hasn't seen it before, they've been drunk together too many times to count and there was that one time that they took the hot shower together, tired of bickering over whose turn it was. Mark stifles a groan as he rubs the pad of his thumb over his head, swallowing it down the same way he wants to be around Roger's cock, and FUCK that's it, Roger talking dirty to him while he sucks him off-
This fantasy rapidly morphs into a new one, another of his favorites, and he isn't about to complain when it's getting him off either way. In his mind, Mark can feel those calloused hands running teasingly over his skin, brushing past his nipples on their way down his chest and hardly even touching his skin as they reach his waist. He can see the smoky lust in Roger's eyes as he gives him that playful smirk, cocking his head to the side almost curiously. "Tell me how you want it, Marky," he taunts, fingers dipping only slightly into his waistband. "What do you want?"
Whimpering, Mark thrusts into his hand, leaning back in his chair and holding onto it with one hand to keep his balance. He's clutching it so hard that his knuckles turn white, teeth gritted against the moans rising in his chest. He doesn't want this to be over so soon, he has to hold on…
"Please!" his fantasy-self whines, hands tugging on the songwriter's bleached hair and Roger just laughs, dark and soft and low. "Touch me…"
"I don't think I got that," Roger murmurs seductively into his ear, thrusting his tongue inside and ohhh… "Tell me EXACTLY what you want. What do you want?" His hand dips further into the filmmaker's boxers, lightly grasping at his erection and eliciting a choked gasp. "This?"
"God YES!" He mouths the words in real life too, grip tightening around his cock as his pumping accelerates. Everything is Roger Roger Roger and his eyes are squeezed shut, images of his roommate flashing past in a blur of color and lust and he's already spilling into his hand, almost embarrassed at how little it takes. Unable to stop himself he groans, low and long, "Roger…"
"Yeah?" Roger's voice calls back from the living room and FUCK HE'S HOME.
Mark scrambles frantically with his pants, having trouble buttoning them and yanking on the zipper so hard it almost breaks. His eyes are so wide they feel like they're about to pop out of his skull and he hurriedly wipes his sticky hand on the nearest option, the bed, wiping off the residue of his guilt on the sheets before the rocker can walk into his room with a curious expression.
"Didja need somethin'?" he asks, tilting his head, under the impression that Mark had been calling him but the filmmaker just freezes like a deer in the headlights. He's still flushed and the sweat is still beaded at his brow, and he hopes to whatever God there might be that Roger can't smell sex on him. Mark just shakes his head vigorously after a moment, squeaking, and Roger's expression becomes an amused kind of confused. "Alright then… Anyways, Travis said to tell you the offer's still open…" The green-eyed man makes a face, and Mark wonders again why he ever tried to set him up with his drummer if he didn't like the idea.
"Oh." That's the only thing he can think to say right now, still blissed out from his orgasm and blood thrumming in his veins. "Well… Okay."
"What's that?" The guitarist is pointing at his hand. Mark has a brief moment of panic, wondering if he hadn't managed to get all of the cum off on his bed, but realizes after a split second that they're just ink splatters.
"I was, uh…. I was writing-" another split second and he decides that it might be best to keep the details of exactly WHAT he was writing to himself. God knows that Roger makes fun of him enough for being lonely and horny, he doesn't need to know the details. Especially not when the characters are starting to become startlingly similar to the two of them…
Roger leaves after a moment of awkward silence and Mark throws himself on his bed, groaning as he buries his face in his pillow. Fuck. He NEEDS to get over this. He needs to get over it, and fast.
Mouth set in determination, the ginger-blond rewinds his striped scarf around his neck in a less disheveled fashion and rolls his shoulders as he sits up and grabs for his notebook and pen from his desk, getting back to work.
Maybe this time he'll be able to write something other than bad smut.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
He's not having much more luck two hours later, although at least this time it's simply writer's block. Roger is strumming at his acoustic in the living room, in the middle of composing some new song or other, and the sound is warm and familiar. After a while it morphs into Musetta's Waltz, much like all of his songs tended to do back before Santa Fe- the sound is so familiar and comforting that Mark wanders out to sit beside him, leaning his head on the guitarist's shoulder and closing his eyes.
"Did I invite you?" Roger asks, laughter in his voice. He doesn't make a move to dislodge his friend, instead setting the guitar down gently and moving one arm to wrap around Mark's shoulders lightly. This here, this is nice. It has nothing to do with either of their dicks, just the warm feeling Mark can't quite identify let alone begin to understand. He figures this question doesn't really deserve an answer and just nuzzles against Roger's arm, laughing.
"No, but here I am anyways," he teases just because he can. The songwriter brings his hand up to brush against his eye where the largest reminder of the attack the week before was beginning to fade, a smile playing on his lips. Mark has to struggle not to lean into that small touch, and he feels guilty all over again for thinking of his ROOMMATE that way.
"Well, maybe you're distracting me from my work?" Roger growls in his ear. That in itself is enough to make Mark half-hard again, but the way that calloused hand is creeping down his side isn't helping either.
Instead of acting flustered, Mark manages to snort incredulously. "Musetta's Waltz? Come on Roger, I know what the sound of you procrastinating is."
Roger mock glares at him, shifting slightly and putting Mark on edge- if he knows Roger at all, he knows that a wrestling match is about to ensue, and if Roger didn't already have an advantage he sure as hell did now when Mark was sporting an erection that he was under no circumstances going to let anywhere near his best friend- just as Mimi walks into the loft.
"Hey, guys," she says brightly, plopping down beside them on the couch. Mark breathes a sigh of relief, scooting slightly away from his friend and towards Mimi. "Doing anything fun today?"
"Does it look like it?" Mark asks, raising an eyebrow and gesturing to Roger's acoustic on the floor. The Latina sees it and rolls her eyes in empathy, having spent long enough with Roger to know how boring and moody he got when he was trying to write. Her painted fingernails tap on the filmmaker's arm as she pops her lips, cocking her head and glancing around for something to talk about.
"OH!" Suddenly she leaps to her feet, lithe and feline, and her finger is pointing directly at Roger. Brown eyes wide, she smiles a brilliant smile. "I almost forgot! Roger, I got you a date."
It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment that the bottom drops out of Mark's stomach- it might have been the moment those words passed their younger friend's lips, or it could have been when he saw the speculative look in Roger's eyes. Either way, he's having trouble breathing correctly. It's been a long time since Mark felt jealousy- that's an emotion that Roger practically has copyrighted around here- but here it is, sneaking up on him and giving him a firm punch to the chest, announcing its return.
As it is, he's helpless to do anything but sit back and listen to the words tumbling out of the Mimi's mouth, fast and excited. "My friend from work, Cherry- yes, that's her REAL name not her stripper name. She's single and looking and you're JUST her type. And if we all ganged up on Mark and made him try out the dating scene, then you can too," she adds, smiling at Mark as though he should be happy. As though he's getting his revenge for being pushed on all those blind date disasters.
And really, he should be. He should be really fucking amused with Roger's wrinkled nose right now, the uncomfortable way he's shifting around. Roger hasn't dated anyone since Mimi and it's been months. Mark should already have been pushing him into a club with the rest of the bohos to back him up, trying to get Roger laid at the very least. The problem is that now he wants to keep Roger for himself, and the way he sees it… That's being selfish.
It's never going to happen. He needs to get out of this… This unhealthy mindset and just move on already!
"What does she look like?" the guitarist asks guardedly, and Mark can understand why. Some of the women at the Cat Scratch these days are downright skeevy, probably crawling with diseases. Mimi may not have ever sold her body, but the same can't be said for every twenty year old stripper whose still got the energy to do that sort of thing.
"She's short, blonde, big tits, blue eyes," Mimi lists off, rolling her eyes. "You're such a pig. It doesn't matter what she looks like, Roger, I know you're going to like her! She's gorgeous and funny and she knows her way around a pair of handcuffs. And I know how you like those." The little flirtatious smile she adds at the end of that sentence makes Mark want to bang his head against the wall in frustration.
"Well… Alright," comes the gruff reply. "Maybe. But I make no promises about a second date."
Mimi squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. Normally Mark would be making sarcastic comments about the way her voice is piercing his eardrums, but right now he just feels numb and vaguely depressed. "You won't regret it!" she promises, flouncing right on out the door. Apparently she had gotten all she wanted.
Roger rubbed the remnants of her lipstick off his cheek, frowning after her. "Why does she STILL have our key?"
"Dunno," Mark mumbles, averting his eyes. He can't bring himself to look at Roger when all he can see is some buxom stripper in his lap, cooing at him as he kisses her on the neck.
DAMN his overactive imagination!
"I'm going out," he says, standing suddenly, and he doesn't care if he looks awkward because he always manages to make things awkward. Snatching his camera up off of the table where he left it, Mark is out the door in no time, biting his lip hard enough that it bleeds and leaving a confused Roger in his wake.
"But-" the guitarist protests, reaching after him, and withdraws his hand with a frown when the door slams. He can't figure out what's wrong with his roommate lately, but something is definitely up.
If only he could figure out what…