A/N: (WARNING) Good news, guys, we're gotten to the Dirty Sex Chapter. Turn back now, all of you who aren't comfortable reading this sort of thing, and the rest of you who have patiently awaited this I applaud you and reward you with boysex. ;) This was, honestly, my favorite chapter to write so far. So I hope you all enjoyed it as much as me.
Disclaimer: RENT I no own! Nor the idea of fellatio and or anal sex. *le sigh*
Chapter Ten: Please Take Me!
Mark was babbling, and he'd probably be more embarrassed about it if Roger's hand wasn't so close to right where he wanted it.
He couldn't exactly remember how they had gotten here. The room seemed to be spinning, just a little, and he could still taste alcohol in the corners of his mouth and on his lips. Why in the world had he ever let Collins get him drunk? Oh, right. Because he had hoped it would lead to something like... this.
It had all happened so fast. One hot, messy, out of control blur that he wouldn't trade for anything else in the world. He hadn't honestly expected Roger to react well to being climbed on top of and molested, let alone to reciprocate. But now his wrists are bound over his head by his own scarf and Roger is staring down at him like a piece of chocolate that he wants to suck on. Every second those green eyes bore into him, dark and lustful, he grows slightly harder, his cock throbbing between his legs and twitching at the feeling of Roger's teasing touches.
"P-please?" he tries, wondering if begging will get him what he wants. Roger is egotistical, and Mark has always been pretty sure that he would do anything for someone who stroked that giant ego of his.
He wants to giggle at how sexual that sounds in his head, and realizes belatedly how very drunk he is.
Somehow, he can't bring himself to care. Not when there are other, more pressing matters to focus on. Like the way Roger is looking at him as he curls his hand around his erection.
"Maybe... I don't know," Roger says lightly, smirking down at the rather desperate filmmaker squirming before him. Truth be told, Roger doesn't think he's going to last very long if Mark keeps this up. This is wrong, so wrong, but he can't stop thinking about it now. Not when Mark is stretched out before him, literally BEGGING for Roger to fuck him hard and fast and raw. His cock throbs at the thought, and he has to stifle a groan.
Roger has to be the one to take control of this situation. Mark is drunk and if he's not going to be responsible and just put him to bed, he ought to at least teach him a thing or two.
It's been a long time since Roger slept with a guy. The sensations- the stubble on Mark's cheeks rubbing on his jaw as he kisses him, the sharp angles and flat chest pressed to his rather than soft curves, the rough groans rumbling through Mark's body. This isn't at all like sleeping with Cherry, with any woman. He remembers it vaguely, a long way back, but now it's all rushing back and he remembers just what to do, just where to put his hands. He's nervous, but he's pretty sure he can do this.
Mark doesn't know that Roger was never the top in any of his male relationships. That's probably good. Roger doesn't want his roommate, his best friend- his lover?- to be nervous around him. It's not as though he doesn't know what he's doing- it's just that he's never done it before.
"Do you like that?" he asks softly, eyes sharp as they watch Mark's reactions. His hand strokes lightly up Mark's shaft through the thin material of his boxers, feeling it twitch and spasm beneath him. He feels completely in control, and it's a heady feeling. The other man tugs at his bonds uselessly, wrists twisting and delicious, frustrated groans spilling from his lips. It's a wonder that Roger has never tried getting Mark in bed before. Every one of his movements, his noises, they're perfect and mesmerizing and Roger wonders why he hasn't been jerking off to this boy since the moment he met him.
"Y-yes, yes..." Mark has his head tipped back, blue eyes fluttering closed, those white blonde eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. Fucking adorable. Roger shakes his head, trying to clear it and get back to the issue at hand.
"How about... this?" He twists his wrists, rubbing his thumb up on the underside of Mark's head in just the right way to draw a desperate groan and Mark arches his hips off the bed.
"Roger!" It's a squeak, and Roger's mouth curls into a triumphant smirk. He wants to make this man come undone before him, make him scream and groan and break down until he's nothing but a writhing body incapable of complete sentences, just Roger's name and various forms of 'please' and 'harder'.
"Good boy," he practically purrs, eyes half-hooded as he crawls down Mark's body, still lightly stroking him. The fabric beneath his fingers is growing sticky with precum, and that only makes his grin wider. Mark WANTS him, and nothing could possibly turn him on more. "What do you want?"
"Roger f- ffff-" Swallowing, Mark tries again, feeling overheated and frustrated. He wishes Roger would get on with it, but he can't help but love every minute that those calloused fingers touch him, every minute Roger watches him avidly. He hopes he's enjoying the fool he's is making out of himself. "Just- fuck me. Fucking- Nnngh!"
"What about-" Roger's sentence is cut off as he closes his mouth over the bulge in the front of Mark's boxers lightly, mouthing over it, tongue pressed- hot and damp- to the underside of Mark's shaft. The filmmaker swears loudly as he bucks off the bed again, towards that sinful mouth of Roger's. His mind spins with dirty, dirty images that- for once- he's not ashamed to be having.
"PLEASE!" he practically shouts, glasses sliding down his nose as he stares down at Roger's bleached hair. The guitarist curls his fingers in the waistband of Mark's boxers, starting to slowly, torturously drag them down his thighs and clean off his legs. The blonde fur on Mark's legs scratches at him, reminding him once again how very male the person he has in bed is.
Hmm. Not that he objected... Especially when Mark was already begging, already making him so very hard that he was tempted to grind down on the mattress.
Of course, he couldn't do that. Mark had to think he wasn't nearly as desperate as he actually was. If this was going to go down, he had to be in control because Mark very obviously wasn't.
And can he blame him? Mark probably hasn't been laid in months, years maybe- and Roger is completely dominating him, taking advantage in the most delicious way possible. It was dangerous, the way the thought of it, just the mere thought, made his gut twist and coil hotly.
Forbidden fruit indeed.
Deciding to give Mark what he wants, at least for the moment, Roger sucks the head of his cock gently into his mouth, tongue laving at the slit and tasting his precum, salty and bitter. It was perfect the way that Mark moaned his name. Fucking perfect. Roger shuddered, feeling the sounds go right through him from his ears to his cock in a matter of seconds, taking most of the blood not occupying his brain with them. Encouraged, wanting to rock this sheltered filmmaker's world- his filmmaker, he reminds himself, his Mark, and God it feels amazing to think that without trying to hide from himself about it- Roger grips his hips tightly, pressing them back onto the mattress hard enough to bruise and making sure that Mark is effectively held captive before angling his head and bobbing his head down, little by little.
Mark forced himself to keep his eyes open as he watched, awed and incredibly horny, as his cock disappears inch by inch into the songwriter's mouth. His tongue is dancing along the shaft and toying with the head and God, this is even better than how Maureen used to do it, so SO much better than his hand could ever be- his thoughts are cut off as Roger's throat is suddenly tight around his head, a swallowing motion causing it to convulse and suck him in in a way that makes him scream.
"ROGER GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" Okay, so he isn't at his most articulate, but he's drunk and Roger is hot and he's been featuring in his fantasies for far too long for him to object.
They're both men, after all. Men know sex. Men ARE sex. They know what they want, they know what feels good, and they know what to do to get it. Mark and Roger might be best friends and they might love each other to death but that doesn't mean they can't fuck for fun.
Except that Mark doesn't want it just for fun.
And neither does Roger.
But he's willing to disregard that for the moment if it means Roger will keep doing that thing with his tongue.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
Roger never thought he would find something as addictive as heroin, but with Mark panting and begging and screaming his name- and they're e not even fucking yet- he thinks that he might have.
It's more difficult than it should be to pull away. Mark protests immediately, loudly, his adam's apple bobbing as he sits up and begins struggling against his bonds, babbling pleas and offers for later and even a few threats if Roger will just continue NOW, let him CUM. The green-eyed man has to force himself to do it, though- if not, his filmmaker is going to cum far too early in the game. And he can't have that.
No, the fun has only just begun.
He slides back up Mark's body, hands roaming lightly over his now sweat-damp skin, lips following behind. He wants to map out his blue-eyed, innocent Marky's body before he corrupts it, makes it his own. Like a king in his kingdom, he needs to know the land before making any serious decisions.
He tells himself that it's not because he wants to hear more of those delightful little gasps and groans, the muffled squeaks of pleasure, the tiny murmurings of his name.
He tells himself that, and anyone with eyes could see right through it.
One hand automatically goes to Mark's pale white ass, squeezing one globe and scraping his inner thigh lightly with his fingernails on the way back up to his navel. It occurs to him, as he looks up to where Mark has now given up on struggling and gone back to simply laying back and enjoying the ride, that Mark is vulnerable. He's stretched out completely naked and bound in front of his roommate, every scar and blemish on his body exposed- a freckle on the highest part of his thigh, a thick, jagged scar across his calf that makes Roger frown- out in the open.
It hits him then, full force, how much Mark Cohen trusts him.
"God, Mark," he hears himself whisper, sounding reverent. Glancing up again, he meet's Mark's azure eyes and finds himself almost lost in them before he tears his gaze away for the sake of both of their sanities. "God."
"S'not my name." Sarcasm, thy name is Mark. Roger growls low and long, seductive and nearly feral, catching the younger artist's attention again.
"Don't be a smartass," he advises him, that wandering hand happening to brush across the oversensitive tip of Mark's still saliva-covered cock. The desired effect is achieved. Mark sucks in a sharp breath, going completely still as if moving will scare Roger off. Like a skittish animal. Like a wild thing. It would be absurd, except for the fact that Roger IS acting like an animal right now, and not in a bad way.
"O-kay…" he eventually breathes, so light that the guitarist wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been listening for it. For a first time, this is going so smoothly it's almost hard to believe.
Roger reaches over and knocks on the wooden nightstand three times without bothering to explain to Mark what's going on, reaching inside for the small tube he was searching for.
He doesn't want to jinx this. You don't jinx what you've been waiting for forever.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
Mark has never felt half as appreciated, interesting, worshipped, as Roger is making him feel right this moment. It's like one long, extended fantasy of his- the kind you spend hours lying in bed thinking about whenever you have the time, like lazy Sundays or rainy days or even on sick days. This is one of those surreal fantasies, yes, the ones that he woke up sticky from and had to change the sheets and quietly sneak them out of his room and all the way down the stairs and down the street to the Laundromat before Roger notices because he'll never live it down.
His wrists are starting to chafe, but that's not bothering him as much as Roger's slow pace is. He was serious when he said he wanted to get fucked; he's not about to take it back, not now when he's so close he can almost taste it.
The touching, though. The licking and sucking and biting. Roger is a tease, a FANTASTIC, WONDERFUL tease. And he loves it as much as he hates it.
Every second is beautiful torture and he wonders if he'll even survive. Mark doubts that there's any feeling in the world that compares to this one, the feeling of Roger taking all of this extra time to pay special attention to him.
Until that hand is back wrapped around his length tightly, thumb teasing the head, and Roger's fingers have somehow become slick and cold as they press up against his puckered entrance. THAT feeling is entirely new, and he can't really be sure if he likes it. He's too shocked. Mark has, obviously, thought about gay sex before. A lot. He did his fair share of jerking off to porn as a kid, and as an adult he no longer always felt the need to resort to printed images or crappy-quality videos of two nameless people having scripted sex. But somehow, it had slipped his mind that someday it might be HIM doing this.
Him beneath another man, being thrust into slowly and deeply, clutching onto them for dear life as they plunged into him.
Well. That was certainly eye-opening.
"R-Roger-" he squeaked nervously, licking his lips in a nervous gesture. It was becoming a habit now to twist his wrists each time something surprising occurred- and Roger was just full of them. "Roger I don't know wh-what to do-"
"Shhh, Mark. Come on. Don't you trust me?" Roger raises his bleached head and looks right in Mark's eyes, piercing him with those darkened green eyes, the pupils dilated with lust. Lust for Mark…. The filmmaker shuddered and nodded without even having to think. "Then relax. It's me, Mark. Would I hurt you?"
Amazed at the transition from dark and sexy to soft and comforting that Roger has managed to pull with his voice in the space of ten seconds, Mark tries to obey. He really tries. He finds it difficult to convince his body that nothing is wrong and nothing is out of place, but eventually he manages to allow his muscles to unfurl and he sags against the bed, doing all in his power not to clench his muscles as Roger presses one finger up inside of him.
He focuses on the ceiling, not too fond of the semi-painful and extremely awkward feeling of being penetrated, and begins to count the cracks. They are sloppily fixed with some of that putty stuff that Collins had gotten for free off of one of his students in exchange for pot, the off-white of the ceiling more obvious against the blinding white of the putty slathered on thickly where the rain used to drip through. In April, when the showers were heaviest, every pot and pan in their possession would be sitting somewhere in the loft catching raindrops as the trickled through the cracks in the roof. He and Roger would sometimes, when they were really bored and uninspired, sit on either side of one and count the number of drips from noon until four the next morning, pausing only for bathroom breaks and to go get food to bring back to the dusty floor beside the water-filled pot. Mark smiles at the memory, his glasses sliding further down his nose. He would fix them, but he doesn't have the use of his hands.
By now, Roger's middle finger is pushed up all the way inside of him. He has a brief hysterical moment in which he thinks about how Roger has, technically, already 'fucked' him, before he calms down enough to nod at Roger's expectant gaze. This isn't so bad, really- the stretching is awkward and painful at first, burning really, but Mark knows that there are pleasure sensors in people's assholes- more so in the male's than the female's- and that he's going to find his if it's the last thing he does.
"Can I move it around?" Roger asks bluntly, curling the tip of the finger in question just slightly. It makes the strawberry-blonde wince, but at the same time he wonders what that other more pleasant twinge was. It had been small and maybe not obvious, but it had been there.
"Fuck- Roger, just, do what you have to do already!" he managed to hiss out in frustration, knowing as soon as the words leave his mouth that his roommate is going to take advantage of this someday in the future and possibly today. Tonight. Oh, God, what if it happened? What if they really…?
Mark can't say that he'd object- even sober he had admitted to that. But he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Roger didn't want him as much as he wanted HIM, wanted those guitar callouses all over him and that gelled, bleached hair tickling his cheek and his neck as he kissed it.
"Alright." Roger isn't talkative, and considering what Mark knows about Roger's bedroom skills (a painful amount, seeing as he's been living with him in this loft for years and the walls are paper fucking thin) this is way too unusual. Wondering what exactly could have changed, Mark makes the mistake of looking down again and watching as Roger intently stares at his own finger being slowly drawn out of Mark's ass before being pushed back in forcefully, making him choke on a grunt of pain.
"Ow-" he starts to complain, swallowing down the temptation to back down. He knows that if he doesn't go through with this now- and God does he want it, has wanted it- he might never get another chance. Taking a moment to adjust again, the burn-stretch-pain beginning to subside, he slowly nods and mumbles his confirmation. "More."
If this is the first step to being fucked, Mark wonders why anyone ever has sex. It's awkward and uncomfortable; the only reason he hasn't yet freaked out over the entire thing is because this is Roger he's watching finger fuck him, adding a second before his very eyes and slamming them up into him, making him gasp and groan. It doesn't feel good, not at all, and he's beginning to wonder if maybe this gay thing is a fluke after all when Roger begins the angling.
His hand explores the different angles at which it can thrust downwards, some making the filmmaker wince and squirm and others just feeling odd and making off-putting squelching noises that he'd rather forget. Subconsciously, he spreads his legs wider for Roger, allowing him better access and bucking his hips up. Despite the fact that he's being invaded by a strange appendage, Mark can't help but be excited. His fantasy is coming true. Roger cares about him. Roger WANTS him.
Roger has him.
It's an incredible experience, the first time Roger hits his prostate. It's just two fingers and one special angle, but when they jab down and pleasure jolts through him like a gunshot, exploding through his veins like hot shards of glass. This isn't pain anymore, this is pure, unadulterated ecstasy. A surprised groan is torn from him, almost a sob, and his heart nearly stops when he sees the triumphant smirk curling at the corners of Roger's lips.
"Oh holy FUCK Roger what-! WHAT IS THAT! There! Again!"
Mark finds himself babbling, his cheeks flushed and full of all of the blood that can't fit into his already throbbing cock. He wishes Roger would pay more attention to his neglected erection- as if on cue, Roger, leans down and licks over the head again firmly, drawing another moan from the shell-shocked Mark whose virginity, it seemed, was in grave peril. The things he's saying in his head have never so readily sprung out of his mouth, as if they had a life of their own, but Roger has always had this effect on him.
Fingers twisting and thrusting up inside of him again at the same angle, Roger simply leers up at him smugly, feeling as though he is on top of the world. Just like he's about to be on top of Mark.
God, he couldn't wait.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
It's just as difficult to tear himself away the second time Mark nears his orgasm, perhaps more so. Roger bites his lip apologetically, reaching back into his nightstand and rummaging around hastily. Mark is just begging to be fucked now, begging him with not only his voice but his eyes, the frantic motion of his hips. Roger wants to give him what he wants, and not only because he wants it too.
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered as he tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth carelessly, ripping it away and immediately rolling it onto his engorged shaft. He was so hard he could, debatably, cut through sheet metal with his dick- at least that's what it felt like. Roger ran a hand through his messy bleached hair, chewing his lip as he stared down at his roommate. Mark stared back at him, wide-eyed and trusting, innocent and so dirty at the same time.
Roger Davis was about to put another notch on his bedpost, have his wicked way- but this time, he was certain, it was really going to mean something.
He's sloppy, movements jerky and completely rushed as he applies the lubricant to his sheathed member, but that's not a big deal. He's got the condom and that's the important part- Mark was not allowed to get sick, to die, because of some surreal night they spent together, falling into bed in a matter of twenty minutes of their first kiss. And speaking of kiss, he has to crawl back up to hover over Mark and kiss him on the lips, soft and gentle and reassuring, just to be sure before they begin.
"You're going to be okay," he promises. "It'll feel good. Just, not at first. But I PROMISE, I'll make it good."
Mark simply whimpers in response, overcome with emotion and lust and mind foggy from the beer. He's never looked so fucking good. Roger takes moment to pull back and observe him.
He's a sight to see. Long and flawlessly pale, his hair's so fine and blonde you could hardly see them on his skin, Mark was almost like an angel. He wasn't perfect or smooth like a woman, no curves, all angles and bones and Roger was pretty sure he could count all his ribs- but then there was the taut muscles in his arms and legs, the trail of hair leading from his navel to his crotch, his flushed cock bobbing with each shallow, labored breath he took as Roger slid his fingers out of him and replaced them with the head of his cock nudging Mark's entrance tentatively.
He braced himself with one arm on either side of his head, the typical opening move, and watched Mark's face carefully as he lowered himself nearly on top of the filmmaker. Their bare chests touched, nipples brushing over each other, and both men felt their heart rates accelerate as a shudder passed through them. It was happening fast, so fucking fast, everything at once and Roger wasn't sure if that was exactly a good thing. Nevertheless, he angled his hips and slowly, gently pushed forward.
The head of his cock passed the first tight ring of muscle, sucked into that snug heat, and Roger had to suppress a heady groan. His eyes fluttered shut of their own accord as he pressed himself further inside, being engulfed by Mark's virgin hole as the young filmmaker bit on his lip til it bled and stifled his own needy, agonized moans. He wanted to say so many things. That he loved him, that he wanted this so much, that it hurt so much more than he'd been prepared for but it was worth it, worth the look on Roger's face-
He lost the battle quickly, a whimper escaping his throat, and he tilted his head back as his body fought with itself. Tense, and it hurt more- don't tense and be invaded further. But God, he wanted it more than he cared that he was being ripped in half, so he spread his legs and choked on a gasp and didn't make another sound of protest.
Perhaps sensing this, Roger paused and opened his eyes again, panting, thighs trembling as he stopped halfway in. "You okay, Marky?" he whispered hoarsely. Stopping was obviously taking its toll on him, so Mark nodded tersely, ignoring the tears forming in the corners of his eyes and clinging to his whitish eyelashes, ignoring everything but Roger and the way that his chest rose and fell with each pant.
"Just- go" he spits, gritting his teeth and bracing himself, and without hesitation Roger slams his hips up to meet his, fully sheathed and gasping out a groan of ecstasy- it sounded almost exactly like his stage voice and it made Mark's head spin, or maybe that was the dizzying agony of Roger rubbing up deep inside him, oh fuck it was too much-
He couldn't help the pathetic whimper that once again managed to leave his mouth. Freezing, he peeked guiltily at Roger hoping that he hadn't noticed his slip. He wasn't so lucky. The guitarist's eyes burned him with their intensity, and a hand was removed from his hips to stroke at his cheek lightly, moving over his skin lightly and soothingly.
"Shh, Marky it's okay… It stops hurting soon…" Those eyes close as Roger leans in and kisses him, gradually deepening it, thrusting his tongue gently into Mark's mouth the same way that he's thrusting his cock into his ass. And yes- Mark can feel it, feel himself relaxing, getting used to the girth of it inside him. He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, arching up into Roger slightly. The rocker grins against his lips and takes this as encouragement, thrusting slightly harder upwards into the same wonderful angle.
And from there, things happen very fast.
Mark groans gutturally as Roger's cock rubs up against his prostate, hips bucking wildly off the bed and wrists twisting violently. His mouth is open wide as he pants, head thrown back in ecstasy, a myriad of groans and pants and animalistic noises escaping him in a tidal wave, entire body thrumming with pleasure. His heart seems to be beating in time with his racing thoughts, more like a hummingbirds' than a humans' because he's practically vibrating with the sudden punch in the gut that was this new form of pleasure.
"ROG-" he chokes, unable to even finish the name before trailing off into a long groan. His eyes have fallen shut, sparks of bright light flashing behind his lids. It's unbearable, it's torture, he has to CUM or he might explode, implode, something is going to happen embarrassingly early but he DOESN'T CARE.
The pace is erratic, vigorous, Roger panting and sweat dripping from his brow as he thrusts into him again and again. The desperation in Roger's face, twisted up and intense, matches the desperation Mark is feeling and he moans out his appreciation.
Every thrust stings and brings a new wave of pleasure to soothe it.
Every spark of pleasure pushed him closer to the edge.
His heartbeat is in his ears, seeming to fill the room along with the slap of skin on skin and the pleading, breathless groans from both parties.
Over him, Roger is closing his eyes, hips jerking in a new, even faster pace that seems to Mark like it precedes the finale. He's been ready for almost a minute now, a long torturous minute that has him straddling that thin line between pleasure and pain and release and everything, and now he's rambling even in his head, but he can't stop, don't stop, don't stop-
"Don't stop, don't stop, don't STOP-" Somehow Mark's thoughts have started vocalizing themselves in a voice he can hardly believe is his. It's raw and pleading, high and low depending on when you listened, and his wrists are very likely going to be sore for weeks to come. Roger sinks his teeth into Mark's neck, sucking viciously and he cries out, tumbling over that hypothetical cliff.
Mark cums with Roger's name on his lips and Roger with Mark's in almost the same moment, Mark clenching his muscles and shooting his sticky white seed onto Roger's stomach and Roger deep inside him and for one moment, the entire world comes into focus and everything is perfect.
When Roger pulls out and collapses on the bed beside him, both of them out of breath, he wraps his strong arms around Mark and they huddle together, a blanket thrown carelessly over them as they fall asleep together.
It was just too bad that neither of them saw the tear in the condom as Roger disposed of it, throwing it to the floor, intending to walk all the way to the trash.
But for then. Just for then. Mark could fall asleep to the sound of Roger's heavy breathing with a grin on his face, hope strong in the front of his mind.