2Leather2Dildos

2leather2dildos @ 2008-03-01T14:27:00

2008-03-01T19:27:43Z


What's going on?
You're living in America at the end of the millennia. . . and you're not alone. Alphabet City We're in the year 1996 and the colorful residents of the East Village in Manhattan are facing the issues which challenge poor Bohemian artists in the mid-90s. Drug abuse, HIV, prostitution, starvation, death, life, and love. However, they find that they aren't alone, friends are all around, and there is always coffee to be drunk, issues to be discussed, and art to be created, good and otherwise. Come join our cast of canon and original characters, featuring a strong sense of community and creativity and find that you're not alone either. We began as a post canon Rent fandom game, but in the past two years have become a real life game which is set in New York's East Village. At the time, it was a grim slum, full of drug dealers, prostitutes, and poor bohemian artists. But beautiful things often come of darkness and our world is peopled with just such creative folk. The question is, is your character strong enough to flourish, or will he or she become another bleak statistic?
Who can join?
Alphabet City is open to writers 18 and older.
Characters wanted/needed
Any Original character, aged 15 and over who can possibly be found in an artist's slum in New York City is eligible and welcome, regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation, gender identity, etc. Canons:Benny Coffin is open and has a wife and new baby daughter waiting for him.
About the board/community
We've been running since May, 2006, solidly active every night. Since that time there have been over 150,000 posts and countless characters, OC and canon, set up on that board. We are a welcoming group of writers, who are always willing to work new people into our plots. In July of last year, we set up on phpBB to have freedom of expression. Each approved character is given his/her own subforum in the character information section, where backstories, photos, and other information may be stored. We boast a premium cbox which is usually quite active and friendly, photos of many of the mentioned locations, plus a newly opened cafepress store. Come and see, we're just the best RL RP on the net!
Important information
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Fic: Scorching Hot

2007-05-15T20:47:58Z

Author: Stephanie
Pairing: Mark/Roger, straight up with no mess.
Title: Scorching Hot
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3610
Summery: This is the best way to spend Pride, ever.
Note: For Krissy, without whom the joys of Mark's sex life would be far more joyless. And because I couldn't writing vikings. This fic made little or not attempt to be plotful. It's a guilt pleasure fic for a friend, not meant to represent the characters entirely correctly. Also, it's a PWP. You get the point, right?

(Scorching Hot)

Broken Halves

2007-05-14T04:34:23Z

Disclaimer: It’s not mine. Thank you Jonathan Larson.

Word Count: 4,635

Genre: Romance/Angst

Pairing: Mark/Roger both friendship and slash

Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Is *always* appreciated

Warning: Some language and about a page of smutsiness 0:) (handjobs)

Summary: Pre-Rent, Roger rips Mark’s scarf

Author’s Note: I posted a different version of this on ff.net, but that one was definitely much more pg rated… I like this version a lot better and thought I would post it here.

Cross posted… sorry!

Mark could only watch helplessly as his roommate was reduced to nothing but a pawn of withdrawal. Sickness toyed with his body, transforming him from a screaming infant with no control of his bodily functions into a wild lunatic with enough strength to fulfill eight men. Being in the same room as Roger was dangerous –any little thing could set him off.

Mark did his best to keep him comfortable, but Roger’s once docile manner had become wildly unpredictable. He would have much preferred acting as if Roger didn’t exist if it weren’t for the thin walls, which allowed the pathetic whimpers and moans to echo throughout the apartment. They were impossible to ignore.

Each time Roger yelled or got sick Mark felt the walls press in a little closer around him. The longer he tended to his sick roommate, the more restrictive his sense of personal freedom became. Mark was past any escape; he had to experience Roger’s withdrawal firsthand, as if it were his own. Everyone else had run away, leaving him to take care of the fuck up. Mark had nowhere to run to and was left to clean up the mess.

The rare opportunities to collect footage that arose were the only thing keeping him sane. He took advantage of every opportunity that presented itself to get out into the city. Once Mark was sure that Roger was safely locked inside his bedroom, he slipped out into the grimy East Village streets for a few precious moments of freedom. When he was outside he was a man with a life and a purpose, as opposed to a cringing wet nurse that had no idea what the hell he was doing.

“Roger?” Mark called softly, tapping on his roommate’s bedroom door, trying to gauge what kind of mood he was in. He had spent the last half hour holding a can of soup over the stove with a gloved hand in an attempt to make dinner for “the creature.”

The only response Mark’s arrival instigated was something between a whimper and a growl leaving him with nothing to determine his state of mind. Bracing himself for the worst, Mark pulled on the scarf that was already tightly around his neck to preserve the little body heat he had left, and entered the room with the lukewarm soup. After all, he was the one left with the responsibility to make sure that Roger ate and took his meds.

“Roger it’s me,” he said making sure to speak quietly. The man who once screamed into a microphone amidst a torrent of guitars, bass and drums now burst into tears at any sound louder than a whisper. “I made you some soup. It’s kind of thin, you should be able to keep it down,”

Gathering his courage, Mark pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside. Roger barely moved except to turn away. Life had been this way ever since April died. Roger refused to do anything but wallow unless it was screaming at Mark or spewing the latest contents of his stomach across the freshly cleaned sheets that Mark had just stretched across his dirty mattress. He had lost all interest in the people and hobbies that had controlled his life for years.

Roger was sitting on his bed staring blankly at the filthy window, clothes billowing around his shrunken frame. Mark approached slowly with the soup in hand, coming to a halt in front of the musician.

After it became clear that Mark wasn’t going to leave until he had received at least some sort of acknowledgment, Roger reluctantly shifted his gaze. Black smears surrounded emerald green eyes making them seem more piercing and vibrant than ever.

“When was the last time you slept?” Those smudges were definitely not makeup.

Roger simply shrugged and returned to his absent staring.

“Here,” Mark said. “I managed to scrounge up enough money for chicken noodle,”

Tentatively, Mark sat down next to his roommate and held out the soup waiting for Roger to take it. The musician made no move to accept the food that he had slaved over, he merely watched warily, still refusing to speak.

Stubborn asshole

“Come on, before it gets cold,” Mark said pushing the bowl into frigid hands, wincing at how much he sounded like his mother.

Roger’s gaze moved to the piss-colored liquid decorated with the few pathetic vegetables floating amongst equally sad chunks of pale flesh. Finally, a trembling hand grasped the spoon and raised the nourishment to his lips.

The instant the soup entered Roger’s system, what could only be described as some sort of spell seemed to take over. He hadn’t been able to touch food for days without spraying it in half-digested chunks across the room, and now he was eating with the same reckless abandon that he once used to chase girls. It wasn’t long until the spoon was tossed aside and Roger simply lifted the bowl to his chapped lips, taking care that he sucked down every last drop.

Mark sat in silence and watched, taking the scene in. A sudden feeling of pride grew in his chest. Roger was eating –that had to be a good sign.

For the first time since April’s death, Mark allowed himself to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He had gotten Roger this far, he had brought him through the worst of withdrawal. Thanks to him, they were both going to get through this experience alive.

He sat there, a huge grin smeared across his face, drinking in the sight of Roger drinking in the soup he had provided.

“What?” Roger asked, speaking for the first time since Mark sat down, taking time out of his dinner to wipe a dirty sleeve across his mouth.

“You have your appetite back,” he replied, unable to hide his stupid grin.

“Yeah I guess,” Roger said. “For now anyways,”

“Are you feeling better?” Mark pushed. Roger seemed in a better mood than usual and could possibly enjoy participating in an actual conversation.

The look his roommate sent him was hot enough to burn. Mark could feel a searing heat stabbing at his exposed flesh, but was unable to decide whether it was from Roger’s expression or his own shame.

It was all too easy to forget just what his roommate was putting himself through. Roger wasn’t just trapped in the throes of withdrawal. He also had his girlfriend’s suicide and his own impending death to deal with all while enduring weeks of some of the most unimaginable physical and mental agony known to man. Why Roger chose to give up drugs two days after April died will always be a mystery.

Mark was sitting next to his roommate, lost in thought and fiddling with the ends of his scarf to ward off the awkward silence, until Roger shattered the fragile silence.

“What is with you and that thing?”

Roger’s naturally gruff voice startled Mark back into reality, the shock of his roommate initiating a conversation almost kept him from responding. Roger never voluntarily offered any dialogue. He usually just shook or nodded his head regardless of whether or not it was a yes or no question.

“What’s with what?” Mark said, finally.

“That,” he said, indicating his scarf.

“What about it?”

“I never see you without it,”

“Yeah well, I like it,”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I’ve just had it since I was fourteen. My Grandma gave it to me,”

“Were you guys close?” Roger asked between gulps of soup.

“Yeah, we were. She was actually closer to me than my parents ever were,”

“Really?”

“She just got me, you know? I never had to explain anything to her. My parents kept pushing me to do business and accounting, but she never did. When I told her I wanted to move to New York and be a filmmaker she gave me my Grandpa’s old camera,” Mark’s voice grew quiet. “She died a few months after she gave me this,” he said referring to the blue and white fabric wound around his neck.

Mark had no idea why he had suddenly dumped this sob story into Roger’s lap. He had only known him for little more than a month for Christ’s sake.

He had never had the desire to talk about his grandmother. It was easier to just remember her by himself. Until now, all he had needed was his scarf or the camera. They were always enough.

“I never had anyone like that,” Roger said, bringing all of the attention back to himself. “I never knew my grandparents and my parents were both selfish assholes,”

Mark didn’t know how to respond and just decided to remain silent.

“They were always too caught up in fighting and drinking and partying all the time to worry about me,”

“Sometimes I wish my life was like that. I was the center of my parents’ lives. Everything always came down to me and my career. I would have loved to just slip under the radar,” Mark offered, surprising himself by how much he meant the words.

“Yeah it really was great knowing how to take care of myself since I was five,” Roger said, with the familiar angry flames reflecting in his enraged irises.

“I–”

“It was fucking fantastic walking three miles through the city to get to school on the first day of 2^nd grade while both of my parents were off searching for the next high,”

Roger’s temper was growing at an alarming rate, leaving Mark at his mercy. He scrambled to find anything to keep his anger from fully erupting and was failing miserably.

“Roger I–”

“Throwing myself between my step-dad and my mother to keep him from beating her to death was really great too,” Tears of rage had suddenly appeared in Roger’s sunken, bloodshot eyes.

Having no idea what to say to calm him, Mark remained silent, continuing to fidget with his scarf in order to keep from making any more eye contact and further enraging his roommate.

“Yeah Mark, your life must have been so god damn tough back in Scarsdale, where your parents gave you everything you could ever want and made you the center of their lives,” he was pacing back and forth in from of Mark, his eyes wide and wild. “Wasting their money on an education you were too good for really was a fucking horrible thing for the bastards to do. What kind of parents want their kids to have a good life? You want to know how long I was in school Mark?” Roger yelled. “Do you!?”

Mark kept his head down, acting as submissive as possible, his hands diving into the scarf’s comforting warmth and texture. The truth in Roger’s words was to painful to accept, or even confront.

“I was in school for three fucking years before I left,” Roger had stopped pacing and was now standing over Mark, flecks of yellow spit were flying from his foaming mouth.

Mark couldn’t take any more confrontation or revelation and stood up to leave, angry at himself for getting his hopes up that the worst of withdrawal was over, but Roger roughly pushed him back down onto the bed.

“Jesus Christ, you have no fucking clue how good your life was. You’re just another one of those yuppie bastards that thinks the world owes them something,” Roger screamed. “So your parents didn’t understand you –big fucking deal! At least they cared enough to make an effort!” He was inches from Mark’s face now. “And your Grandma–”

“Shut up,” Mark said, finally standing up for himself. No one, no matter how much pain they were in had the right to talk about his grandmother, ever. He couldn’t let anyone tarnish the perfect memories he had collected of her.

“What’s the matter Markie, is the truth too much to handle?”

“Shut up,”

“No, I want you to hear this,” Roger said smiling sadistically.

Once again, Mark stood up to leave and resisted when Roger attempted to push him back down for a second time. He managed to press past his roommate and head for the door when the pressure around his neck suddenly grew considerably.

His lungs immediately began to scream for oxygen, as Mark felt himself being yanked back towards the bed by Roger who had fastened onto one end of his scarf.

“Sit down, I’m not done!”

Mark ignored the command and continued to resist, trying to pull his way out of Roger’s grasp. The grip on the other end of the scarf only tightened, causing the pressure around his throat to grow even more.

Ignoring the spots dancing in front of his eyes, Mark planted his feet and stood his ground. He wasn’t going to give in to Roger; he wouldn’t sacrifice his dignity so that his roommate could have a few pleasurable minutes of sadistic fun. He simply refused.

The pain had spread from his neck and lungs to his entire body from the lack of air, and still he wasn’t giving any ground. Roger increased his pressure even more, causing the world to grow even darker in front of Mark’s eyes.

Both men stood there for several minutes playing a mutated game of tug of war until the sounds of threads tearing ripped through the strained silence.

Suddenly Mark was on the ground and oxygen was searing through his starving lungs. He lay there gasping for several seconds, counting the number of breaths that tore through his sore chest, discovering a newfound appreciation for the ability to breathe. His head was pounding, making it quite difficult to piece together the last few moments of the struggle.

It didn’t take long.

Lying a few feet in front of him was half of the blue and white scarf that he had carried with him for so long. The other half was still tightly wound around his neck.

Roger was silent, staring open mouth at the scraps of fabric. Both men were too wrapped up in disbelief until Mark managed to pull himself up off the floor. He quietly left the room without once looking at his roommate, allowing the rest of his scarf to flutter from his throat onto the ground behind him.

There were so many emotions flooding his system that the only one he allowed himself to register was confusion. Mark had clung onto to that scarf for years. He wore it winter or summer, rain, snow, or sunshine. It had become a part of him, defined him. The scarf was more a part of him than his fingers or his ears could ever be.

Mark had had the scarf for so long that it had become almost like a direct connection to his grandmother. He was able to find the same comfort in its patterns and texture than he did from her compassion and understanding.

After wandering into the living room Mark sat down in the center of the ruined sofa, pressing his face into his palms. He felt naked and exposed without the comforting pressure of the soft material warming his neck.

He sat there in silence for an indeterminable amount of time, allowing the anger to build. The rage and hate were quickly and easily directed at Roger. After all, he was the reason that Mark had lost the very freedom he had come to New York to find. It was because of him that he could never leave the loft for more than a few minutes at a time. He was the reason Mark was freezing to death and locked in a constant battle with hunger. Everything he had always had to go straight to Roger. His whole life had become centered around caring for this almost-stranger that he happened to have the bad luck to share an apartment with.

Deep down, Mark knew that he was over reacting. He should understand that Roger wasn’t in his right mind, that pain and sickness were still dictating his actions, but he didn’t care. The scarf had represented the few things from his life at home that he loved and now it was destroyed.

And so was he, Mark was done.

He had pushed himself far past the limits during his brief stay in the city, and it was time to go back home. He just couldn’t do it anymore.

Roger’s bedroom door suddenly flung open and the musician stormed out into the living area of the apartment, heading straight for his guitar, taking care to avoid Mark’s hard eyes. He moved with the reminiscent grace of his previous glory days, navigating through the clutter with natural feline agility.

Roger picked up the dusty instrument and, without hesitation, ripped off one of its strings with a quick, strong, jerk of his arm. Clutching the string, he quickly retreated back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him so Mark would know that he was not welcome –not that he was planning another social call.

Mark didn’t care what the hell Roger was doing now, he just wanted to get out. Without a word to Roger or a definite plan, he threw open the first suitcase he found and began throwing his belongings inside.

Roger was on his own now.

A few minutes later Mark had gathered most of his possessions and had arranged them somehow to fit inside the one piece of luggage when Roger suddenly reemerged from his room, coming to a stop in front of the failing filmmaker.

“What are you doing?” he asked his eyes jumping from the almost-full suitcase to his stone-faced roommate.

“Packing,” Mark said without looking up.

“Why?”

“I’m leaving,”

“Oh,” Even from the corner of his eye, Mark could see Roger’s face fall. “Because of me?”

“It’s everything,” Mark replied, wishing he had the strength to hurt Roger as much as he had hurt him.

“Oh, well… here,” Roger said holding his arm out.

In his hand he held Mark’s scarf, both pieces reattached.

Mark starred open mouthed for several seconds before gingerly taking the material and inspecting it. His hands immediately began to lovingly caress the material, investigating the lumpy, uneven seam that connected the two torn ends.

“Sorry,” Roger said when he saw Mark examining his handiwork. “I didn’t have any thread,”

It was then that Mark realized that Roger had sacrificed his guitar in order to sew the scarf back together.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Mark whispered while his fingers rejoiced in the comforting presence of the scarf’s fabric.

“Yeah Mark, I did,” Roger said. “I lost it, and I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay, I get it,”

“I’m just so fucking frustrated with April, with the drugs, with everything-”

Mark interrupted his roommate by turning and pulling him into a tight embrace. He would normally never act in such a direct manner but he needed this. They both needed this. Roger latched on immediately, pulling Mark close and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder.

For the first time since the day of April’s death, Roger opened up and wept. He pressed Mark against him and allowed the pain to fall from his eyes. Mark held him just as tightly, trying to give him as much comfort as his small body could provide.

“I don’t want you to go,” Roger muttered into his neck.

Mark didn’t hesitate in his reply. “I won’t, I’m going to stay here with you,”

All thoughts of the scarf and their previous fight were forgotten as the two friends stood there embracing.

“I’m not going anywhere Roger,”

No sooner had the words left Mark’s mouth then he felt himself pulled even tighter into Roger’s chest. Rough lips suddenly began to work at the soft skin around his throat, sucking and nipping his neck that was already starting to bruise. A light electric current spread from Roger’s lips through Mark’s entire body, accompanied by deep sense of comfort.

Mark never thought to question their actions, he just instantly gave into the sensations and turned his head to give Roger a better angle.

Warm breath swirled around Mark’s ear as Roger began lapping at his jaw line, licking and sucking his way up and down, sending waves of heat racing through his blood stream. Roger’s warm tongue prodded at the skin, following the curves of Mark’s face, leaving behind a soothing trail of warmth.

Without realizing it, Mark whimpered softly, igniting Roger’s aggression. He was quickly being pushed and guided towards the torn couch on the other side of the room without once breaking contact with the other body that was still tightly holding him. Roger easily knocked Mark back onto the worn cushions before collapsing on top of him.

Mark felt a strong knee work its way in between his legs while Roger’s arms came to rest on either side of his head. Chapped lips suddenly crashed onto his own sending a new wave of sensations racing through his system.

Feelings he didn’t know he possessed rushed forward as his roommate’s tongue furthered its exploration inside his mouth. Mark wanted Roger, he wanted him very badly.

While his mind was still trying to comprehend what exactly was happening, Mark’s body quickly began to respond. The warm tongue was massaging his teeth, cheeks and gums, causing Mark to squirm delightedly beneath Roger as he did his best to reciprocate. Thin arms wrapped around the ex rock star’s neck, pulling him closer into him while his tongue forcefully began to swirl around inside of the other man’s mouth, savoring each new taste.

The knee between Mark’s legs suddenly moved upwards, increasing pressure on his growing organ. A loud moan encouraged Roger further. He hesitated for only a second before sliding his hands beneath Mark’s sweater and lightly caressing the sensitive skin with heavily calloused fingertips.

Invisible patterns originating from Roger’s magic fingers and were seared into Mark’s flesh as he writhed underneath the pleasure. He involuntarily began to grind his hips into Roger’s strong knee, searching for friction, begging for it.

All thoughts of the struggles from previous weeks were forgotten as Mark’s fingers tangled themselves in the fabric of Roger’s sweatshirt and struggled to pull it over his head. He needed to see skin, to feel its heat.

Once Roger relinquished the thick fabric, Mark tore his mouth away from his roommate’s and attached himself to the soft skin of his chest. A deep moan erupted from Roger’s throat and vibrated in the filmmaker beneath him.

Large, sinewy hands suddenly began to tear at Mark’s clothing, trying to free him from the restrictive material. Mark was only too happy to oblige. He broke apart from his roommate long enough to strip himself of his shirt and pants, leaving only the thin material of his briefs clinging to his midsection.

After he was free, Mark wrapped himself up in Roger, pulling his entire body between his wide open legs. Even through the thick material of his sweatpants, Mark could feel Roger’s new found body heat. It was a nice change to the frigid, corpse-like temperatures that the musician had been donning over the last few weeks.

It wasn’t long until all clothing had been shed, and they became a tangled mess of skin, sweat, heat and moans.

Mark was repeatedly grinding his hips up into Roger’s, spasming with pleasure each time their cocks brushed against each other. He was just short of screaming in ecstasy from the electric contact. The short, hard nub that was Mark’s nipple was engulfed in Roger’s mouth, heightening the incredible sensations.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed before he felt one of Roger’s hands travel across his chest and down his stomach, lightly fingering the sparse hairs that were scattered across his body, before gently grasping both of their cocks in one fist.

Mark dug his fingers into Roger’s back, a desperate attempt to cling to the sanity that the pleasure was attempting to rip away from him. He screamed into his roommate’s shoulder before gently sinking his teeth into the soft flesh.

Roger moaned once again and squeezed his fist sending another jolt of pleasure racing through their entwined bodies.

Both men’s breath was coming in short, shallow gasps as their bodies absorbed every movement. The olive green in Roger’s eyes had all but disappeared under a hood of lust. There was nothing outside of the couch, outside of the moment, outside of each other. Disease and death didn’t exist. The here and now were the only things that mattered –regret could come later.

They lay together on the couch completely immersed in each other. Roger never lost his grip, and held on until Mark was sent into oblivion. He repeatedly squeezed and released, along with the occasional pump of his fist, all while their two cocks were tightly pressed against each other.

It was too much.

A white light suddenly began to flash in front of Mark’s eyes as he exploded into Roger’s hand and was completely sent over the edge into total darkness.

For the first time since he arrived in New York, Mark was able to slip into a complete and total, mind-numbing, sleep. There were no dreams, no worries to haunt him, only rest and relaxation.

He awoke several hours later to find himself alone, naked and freezing on the couch. The memories took a few seconds to flood his mind, almost overwhelming his senses. Mark couldn’t create a single, uniform thought. All he could think of was an unending list of questions.

He’s sick.

Did we?

Could we?

Am I?

What now?

Mark found Roger a few minutes later, hiding in his bedroom staring out the same dirty window where Mark had first approached him only a few short hours before.

“Hey,” Mark said.

Roger merely tossed his head in acknowledgment.

“Are you hungry?”

Mark took the quick jerk of his head to the left as a negative.

He stood there for a few awkward seconds, debating whether or not to mention what had just happened between them before Roger spoke up.

“I shouldn’t have done that,”

“Done what?” Mark asked, playing dumb.

“I was just scared you were going to leave, and the withdrawal and… I’m sorry,” Roger continued, knowing full well that Mark knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Oh… well I kind of figured that it had something to do with that,” Mark replied, doing his best to fight the tears that were building up in his eyes.

“I just miss April so much, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Mark’s voice had grown quiet, only a few decibels louder than a whisper. He turned to leave the room so that he could absorb the unintentional rejection that was inexplicably painful. Mark quickly bottled the pain and shoved it down, pushing it out of his mind and out of his heart, determined to keep it hidden from Roger at all costs.

“You know you’re my best friend right Mark? You’re the only one who has ever stuck with me… I don’t want to mess it up,” Roger said, interrupting his exit.

“Yeah Roger,” he sighed. “I know, you’re my best friend too,” without looking back at his roommate Mark left the room, gently closing the door behind him and wiping away the single tear that had managed to escape from their wire rim prison.

Equinox

2007-01-13T03:46:24Z

Author: Emily (rufuslove)
Title: Equinox
Pairings: Mark/Roger, (Collins/OC?)
Rating: NC-17 for like, two paragraphs.
Word Count: 1703
Warnings: Boysex.
Summary: Mark throws a party. People get drunk and hit on Roger. Mark isn't happy.
Comments: First time I've ever published anything NC-17. I'm rather pleased with myself (*smuts*) and comments are really appreciated, because it's my first time.

The party was actually quite a success. Tipsy twenty-somethings milled about, girls’ shrill laughs rising over the buzz of the full room and the sound of the music Mark had chose. Roger tapped his foot and took a deep sip of cheap beer. Collins burst threw the crowd, giving a throaty laugh and throwing one arm over Roger’s shoulders. Roger smiled and looked at him sideways.

“Roger, you old bastard, the joint is jumpin’!” Collins boomed, slapping Roger’s ass. “Great party you got here!”

“Hello, Collins,” he answered with a sigh, “How much have you had to drink so far?”

“Not enough, my friend!”

“And it’s Mark’s, actually.”

“What?” Collins said, clearly more focused on the Italian boy with tight jeans who was smiling at him from across the room.

“Mark’s party. He had the idea, he planned it, he did everything. You’d be surprised what I had to do to get on the guest list!” he joked. Collins chuckled and winked suggestively. Roger smiled and Collins turned around too fast and spilled beer on Roger’s sweater, strolling with forced casualness to the Italian. “Good for him!” he called back over the guests’ heads.

Roger was surprised. Collins was right; it was a good party. Mark was uncool, no matter how you look at him, but somehow he had managed to overflow the apartment with people who were, well, cooler. Roger regretted laughing at him when he wanted to throw a party without letting Roger plan the whole thing; Mark had really come through. And even by Alphabet City standards, having a spring equinox party was a pretty cool idea. Where was Mark anyway?

Roger had another beer or two, chatting amiably with a band of “modern gypsies”, marijuana-addled hippies with wore long skirts and linen. He discussed the historical relevance of Iggy Pop with some college girls Mark knew through an old high school friend. They played with their hair and smiled, batting their eyelashes. He was sure they thought it made them look alluring and intriguing; Roger thought they looked young and inexperienced. He excused himself, but it didn’t take very long before another group of girls found him. He stayed just long enough to be polite and left again, scanning the party for Mark. He wasn’t that tall, but his blond hair usually stood out, even in crowds like the one that filled his apartment. He thought he spotted someone by the window and craned his neck, pushing through the crowd and trying not to lose sight of the blond head but it was really hard to see ov-

“Excuse me, cutie, where’s the bathroom?” A drunk girl smiled as she pressed up against him, lids drooping. Roger was surprised, and glanced back over to the window. The hair he had been following was gone. He sighed and pointed.

He checked everywhere, looking for the host of the gathering. The sofas were un-Mark-laden; the kitchen was a Mark free zone. He caught sight of a sock on the doorknob to the shared bedroom.

"Hey,” He shouted, “Hey! Who’s in my room?” He pushed through the door. The sock on the door was so university. Besides, he didn’t want strangers getting busy in his bed. He flung the door open without knocking.

“Who the f- oh.” He said. “Mark! I’ve been looking for you.” Mark was sprawled on the bed, facing the ceiling, an empty plastic cup in his hand dangling over the edge of the mattress.

“Leave me alone.” He said, dropping the cup and rolling over. He crossed his arms over his chest, grabbing handfuls of his sleeves and pulling tight.

“Marky? You feeling sick?” Roger asked, pouting sympathetically and kneeling by the bed. “You okay?”

"I said leave me alone.” Mark repeated, shrugging one shoulder and shifting deeper into the bed.

“Marky?”

“Not now, Roger.”

“Mark, talk to me. What’s up?”

“Oh, like you don’t know.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing, okay, Roger? I’m onto you. And I’m not happy.”

“Mark, what are you talking about?”

“Ever since I had lunch with Maureen you’ve been trying to make me jealous!”

“Jealous? Marky, is that what you think this is about? That I’m trying to make you jealous?” Mark rolled over to face him, his puppy eyes set to ‘stun’. Roger smiled at him and searched his eyes for a clue.

“Well, you are. Making me. Jealous.” Mark said softly, dropping his eyes and biting his knuckle. “You’re not trying?”

Roger lay down on the bed next to him and looked Mark in the eyes. “No. But I’m sorry anyway, for whatever it was.” He put an arm around Mark and hugged him closer. Mark ran his arms around Roger’s chest, breathing deeply and calming down. “Maureen was telling me about when she was with Joanne, and how over-protective she was. She couldn’t take it anymore. And you… well, I know you can’t help it, but girls just fly to you. And it’s not like you’re completely gay. You could fall for them. And I don’t… want. That. I want… you.”

Roger smiled and kissed Mark on the top of the head. “I want you too, Mark. I like you better.”

“They were very pretty girls, you know.”

“Oh, I know…” Roger teased. Mark beat a fist against his chest softy.

“Shut up, Rog.”

They lay there for a moment. Mark listened to Roger’s heartbeat through his chest. They closed their eyes, smiling and feeling quiet. Roger tilted his boyfriend’s head up and kissed him quickly. It made a smooth smacking sound and Mark smiled up at him.

“Ready to go back to your party?”

“I suppose.”

“Not yet?”

“Maybe.”

“Because, you know, there’s still a sock on that doorknob.”

Mark’s eyes dropped into a menacing squint and his smile turned predatory. He rolled on top of Roger, kissing him hard and sliding a hand under his sweater and up his chest. Roger grinned through the kisses.

“You seem in control right now”, he muttered as Mark worked his mouth down Roger’s neck.

“Hey, it worked for the party.” Mark laughed as he pulled his shirt off. He dipped his head and sucked hard on one of Roger’s nipples, enjoying the shudder that passed through his lover. Roger rolled him over and undid the button on his corduroys, noticing Mark’s growing erection. Mark sat up, watching as Roger spread his legs and knelt between them. He saw Mark watching him and kissed him, one hand on the back on his blonde head, and lay him back down on the bed. Mark lifted his hips as Roger slid his pants down just far enough for his cock to spring out, and Roger lowered himself parallel to the bed to kiss Mark as he stroked him into a full hard-on. Mark’s head spun with Roger’s touch. He was so lucky; holding hands made him giddy, and feeling Roger’s thumb over the head of his dick was dizzying. Roger’s lips with soft and full. Mark ran a hand through his boyfriend’s hair. It was thick between his fingers.

Roger pressed their chests together, rolling his hips off to one side to leave room for his hand on Mark’s cock. He moved slowly, softy, and Mark remembered all the reasons he was with him. Usually, he was a ball of sexual energy, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, but then along come moments like this one. Roger was butterflying kisses down his jaw and his hand felt firm around his member, twisting slowly up and down. Mark’s breath grew shorter and faster and he started to leak into his boyfriend’s hand, gripping a hand full of Roger’s hair and kissing him passionately. Roger bore down on top of him, dancing his tongue deep into Mark’s mouth. Mark moaned and the sound went right to Roger’s cock. Mark felt Roger’s erection grow against his thigh and reached down to knead him through his jeans. Roger’s breath caught and he moved faster on Mark’s member, tilting his hips in circles to meet Mark’s hand. He tightened his grip on Mark’s cock as he neared his orgasm. Mark came gracefully and beautifully, shooting an arch over his stomach. Roger unbuttoned his pants and pulled his cock out just before he came. Mark’s eyes danced over Roger’s body, [placing a hand on his chest and kissing him lightly. Roger pulled them closer and they lay together for another few minutes.

“What would I do without you?” Roger asked, whispering more to the silence in the room that protected the lovers from the guests than to Mark. Mark kissed his shoulder and stood up, pulling his pants on and handing Roger his belt. Roger did his pants up but stayed in bed, watching Mark dress. Mark smiled and bent to kiss him again, softer and lighter, and held out a hand to help him up. Roger pulled his shirt on and opened the door, slipping out seemingly unnoticed.

“Heh heh!” boomed a voice from the side of the door. “Gotcha!”

Roger smiled and shook his head, snatching the sock from the doorknob. Collins was crouched in front of the bedroom door, holding Mark’s camera and sniggering loudly and he caught the lover’s entrance on film.

“Hey!” Mark yelped, flushing a deep pink, rushing to their friend and missing the camera by inches. Collins stood up, holding the camera just out of Mark’s reach. “That’s mine! You’ll break it! How much film did you waste? Rog, help, he’s gonna break it!”

The Italian boy walked by and said something to Collins, who dropped the camera and followed him away. Mark fumbled and caught it, blushing and hugging it close to his chest. “Happy Equinox to you, too!” he shouted to Collins.

Roger leaned against the doorframe and watched as Mark put the camera back and made the rounds again. He smiled and hugged and made nice to all his extended friends and friends-of-friends. He lingered with the gypsies, greeting the last one with a kiss on the cheek.

Roger pushed through the crowd and pulled mark away. “Mine!” he hissed at the girl, kissing Mark fiercely and lacing their fingers together.

“So, Marky!" He said smarmily, "Introduce me to your friends!”

Thanks for reading!

Twist - Making Moments Last

2007-01-12T13:38:57Z

TWIST by Kaye

YES it is Mark/Roger.
YES it is slash.
YES it begins Pre-RENT.
NO this is not going to be short. Word Count is 2,109.
YES I would love reviews.
YES this is also on ff.net.
YES it is below the cut.

Making Moments Last (Chapter 3/?)

Airy sounds, then the train doors slide open. Mark takes a deep breath. Stepping out of the train gives him both relief and anxiety. Those euphoric moments – those mind-blowing kisses and the nerve-splitting moans – resonate in Mark’s head. He pauses for a moment, standing awkwardly in the middle of the platform. People brush past the filmmaker, who stands oblivious to the world and thinks whether or not he should go through those gates. His hands are both full. One is supporting the green sling bag flung over his shoulder, and clutched on the other hand is the spare subway ticket, just in case he changes his mind. The shrill voice of his mother continues to haunt him and he uneasily follows the crowd of people flocking towards the gates. Mark reached the stairs, climbed them upwards, and took a heave of the cold air. Greenwich, being a neighbour of the East Village, seemed pretty much the same, save for the scarcity of squatters leaning on walls and sleeping on the pavement.

Mark finds himself lucky to spot a crumpled twenty half-buried in a small lump of snow in the ditch on the side of the road. He slowly picks it up, smoothens it, and stows it in his pocket. A few steps ahead Mark stops by a small newspaper stand to ask about his sister’s location. Two bucks for bottled water… five if he was gonna ask without buying. Mark buys the water. His sister’s apartment was going to be a two-minute walk from where he stands, and Mark is relieved because it is good news for him; in two minutes he would be on his sister’s couch watching television and eating potato chips. Great. Then, he would gain a hundred pounds in that house by living off Heineken and Lay’s every damn day.

Great.

When Roger returns to his apartment, he finds his fists pounding at the window. His skin begins to crack and blood creeps out from his knuckles as the glass of the window begins to crack open. Tears run down his cheeks, his blazing green eyes pretending that the window is Mark. How dare he just let the guy leave like that? He just fucking stood there. Roger knows that he could have done something, like buy another ticket with some of the money he nicked and catch the next train, get off at Greenwich and plead that Mark stay with him longer… like in the movies. But fuck no, he isn’t queer like that. But because those thoughts were just racing through his head, Roger asks himself… is he?

From the moment he saw the filmmaker Roger had already felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins. He had thought that pretending not to know where Greenwich was would be an excuse to have to spend time and get to know the guy, probably, and it had worked for the night. Today, however, there was no longer an excuse for Mark to stay at the loft any longer. That message with Mrs. Cohen’s shrieks just made everything worse. Fuck Mark for giving her the number. So, what, now Mark’s gone, and he most likely won’t return to the loft.

The musician freezes for a while, staring at his bloody knuckles. Deep crimson flowed from his hands, and Roger runs over to the bathroom to wash them. The sink is stained a pale red and Roger wraps both knuckles in old bandages he finds lying on his bedroom floor. He dampens his hair under the showerhead as well, but not his whole body because he might freeze to death. He feels weak, and one should not be surprised because of all the pain he just allowed himself to go through; it was unnecessary. Roger trudges to his bed and takes a second to glimpse at the clock. It is only eleven o’clock, and yet Roger’s nostalgia seems to be unmatched with anyone else. As soon as his knee grazes the mattress, Roger’s eyes are instantly flushed with tears. Last night was fucking amazing. Roger still can’t believe that Mark could leave just like that. He feels betrayed. Mark… the jackass. Well, he still has an hour and something to decide. That’s an hour and something of inner anguish for Roger. Fucking whore.

As soon as his head touches the pillow, the tears stop and Roger sinks into an unfeeling void.

Mark finds himself on Cindy’s doorstep. His redhead brother-in-law opens the door and greets him. Mark fakes a smile and enters once invited in. He sees Cindy, who gives him a thwarted look for being there later than expected. His eyes fall on her twelve-year-old son, the one with the bar mitzvah tomorrow. Mark sees himself in the young boy, who shared the same stringy blond hair as him. He attempts to make a cute greeting to his scrawny nephew, but it backfires when the kid calls him immature. Mark shrugs and asks for a drink. Of course, he isn’t given alcohol because of the population of children at the event. Suddenly, maybe the young boy isn’t anything like him after all. From what Mark can recall, he had sent tons of invitations to his classmates for his bar mitzvah, but hardly anyone came because the even coincided with the popular girl’s birthday party. Barely anyone he was unrelated to was actually at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Centre that day, save for Rabbi Himmelfarb and his daughter, Nanette. When That’s What Friends Are For played, the song had to be changed because Mark had no real friends to speak of, let alone anyone to dance to that song with. The memories still haunt Mark today, to his dismay. How fucking refreshing.

Mark barely lasts five minutes in the house before asking to be excused. Cindy aggressively grabs his arm.

“Oh no you don’t,” she sneered. “You’re always skipping our family gatherings, but not this one.”

Mark sighs. What the hell is he thinking, anyway? He can already imagine himself re-entering Roger’s loft. He already has the key, even though he is still hesitant of using it, since the two had only met yesterday. The events that have occurred during the past 24 hours alone are already more than Mark can handle in that given period of time, and it’s hard for the young filmmaker to keep up with such a pace. Scarsdale was so much more peaceful, but then his memories there were not the kind of blissful childhood memories everyone longs to have. In terms of his social health in his adolescent years (and maybe even until now), the status is at rock bottom. Of course, it wouldn’t be too surprising, because Mark’s paroxysmal, hyperactive gestures, incoherent rambling and that annoying messenger bag he always carries around aren’t the most pleasing to most people. Nanette is an exception.

Here in New York, Mark has plans. He has plans of making different memories to look back to. He has plans of finishing a film, et cetera. He definitely doesn’t want to waste his Brown degree on sticking to the same lifestyle he has lived with for the past twenty-two years. He doesn’t want to screw up these plans, because that would just be utterly depressing for him. Plans. Mark makes sure that the word sticks to his brain so he doesn’t swerve from his actual goals in this city… this so-called “city of sin” as his mother would put it. Whether or not Mark would succumb to the “sin” of this city was no longer an issue. He already did last night.

It takes a matter of seconds when Mark finally decides to assert himself. “I’m out.”

Cindy runs up to him. “What the heck are you doing? You can’t skip this!”

“Watch me,” the filmmaker says proudly at his older sister and marches out of the living room.

Mark is rarely this deviant towards his family. In fact, Mark Cohen grew up as a lap dog to his mother and sister, but his ticket would be expiring soon and he doesn’t want to stay in this boring shit hole any longer. He picks up a few bills splattered all over the doorstep by a generous guest (actually, no, the man just dropped them, but Mark takes them anyway) and marches out of the vicinity towards the same Subway station that he had come from only minutes ago. He just can’t stand those people anymore.

He has a train to catch.

When Mark arrives, Roger is wasted in his bedroom. Mark doesn’t know whether he should wake the sexy bitch up or just wait for him to wake up.

“I’m back,” Mark says, though the primary intention is that it is only mumbled to himself, but the mere sound of his voice caused a certain Roger Davis to suddenly awaken. His piercing eyes shoot up at Mark instantly, his body jolts upwards and he suddenly tackles Mark to the ground in a sharp move. Mark lets out a soft groan from the collision between his head and the hardwood floor.

Roger doesn’t waste a single moment when he snaps his jeans button right off. His eyes are ablaze and his hair turns into fire, and everything about him evolves into sex and lust and discontent with the previous night and the morning that the mere minutes spent without Mark had pushed him into withdrawal. And the scrawny young man’s sudden return was relief. It’s a fucking cocaine trip, and the musician could no longer keep himself from every single thing he has been itching to do, as if the few minutes without Mark caused him to grit his teeth and scratch himself senseless. Well, actually, it’s more like punching the wall until his knuckles are bleeding and numb, but the man was illin’ for Mark and it was more than evident in his face and actions. The zipper was already down and Roger hastily undressed himself, while still on top of the filmmaker. The movements were just so abrupt that Mark could barely keep up. Mark gasped once the musician’s boxers were already at his ankles. The mass between Roger’s legs was now massive, hard and ready to drive into Mark.

Mark succumbs to the power of this city of sin.

He does so with a smirk, biting his lower lip and undoing his own trousers. Roger does the honour of pulling them down, and Mark turns around so his chest is pressed against the cold floor. There is definitely a lot of pain, especially with his growing erection being flattened and frozen. And the pain becomes excruciating and yet pleasurable, when Roger takes possession of the filmmaker and enters in full force. No lube, no condom, nothing. It was all Roger – raw and rough and so fucking mind-blowing that he had to cover Mark’s mouth with his raw, rigid hands to muffle his screams. It would take a while before Mark would be able to master the act of taking possession of him, the musician thought, and so he just continued to take pleasure in and on the young filmmaker, glasses now down to his scrawny nose. The smaller man is even unable to move his hands to fix them; the weight of Roger on top of him is too damn heavy to take, but is so in this infuckingcredible way that just causes Mark to submit himself. Roger rides Mark until he comes, and when he is tired he pulls the naked man up, noticing that the floor under him is damp.

The musician smirks and picks up Mark’s fallen glasses, returning them to the filmmaker lightly, as if he didn’t just fiercely fuck the hell out of the guy. And when Roger bends down, he feels Mark’s eyes upon him, stalking his naked body as it bends over to collect he black-framed lenses. The filmmaker can’t help himself, anyway. The other guy is just so damn beautiful. Upon receiving his glasses and placing them back on, the men fall silent, naked, in the cold room. That is, until Mark finally makes a move, taking Roger’s mouth in his, playing with his own tongue as it intertwines with Roger’s, and they play with each other with their own form of the tango, and his hands touch Roger hard, just about as raw and rough as the musician’s rock-hard erection as it moved in and out of Mark’s tightening ass.

When Mark finally stops, he speaks again, only the second sentence spoken since his return. “I’m back,” he repeats.

“I know,” Roger says in return. “I know.”

comments? any guesses on references? chapter one = moulin rouge. chapter two = brokeback mountain. chapter three = ?

love,
kaye

Twist - Definite Chemistry

2007-01-11T13:05:43Z

SORRYSORRYSORRY
I totally forgot about posting the fic on this sight. Shoot me.

TWIST by Kaye

YES it is Mark/Roger.
YES it is slash.
YES it begins Pre-RENT.
NO this is not going to be that long. Word Count is 1,711.
YES I would love reviews.
YES this is also on ff.net.
YES it is below the cut.

Definite Chemistry (Chapter 2/?)

Mark doesn’t remember the last time when he gazed into a guy’s eyes like he does now. In fact, maybe he’s never done this before. Neither does he recall ever catching that other guy staring at you back like Roger was doing. Neither does his mind recollect a single moment in the past when he felt electrocuted by such a stare. Mark looks away realizing that he may be staring for longer than normal.

“Umm, Roger…” Mark begins, but is silenced by Roger’s index finger on his chapped lips. For some reason, Mark’s glasses slide down his nose and Roger pushes them back up.

“I’ll take you to your sister’s place in a few,” said Roger’s hoarse voice in an unsuccessful attempt to sound soft. Mark pulls back and hurries to get to his stuff. Fuck you, Roger thought. He shows Mark that he feels a strong connection between them, and the filmmaker just wants to leave like that? It just doesn’t feel right to Roger. Heck, it isn’t just Mark who felt awkwardness last night; Roger felt it too. He still feels it, because never in the past has he felt attracted to another man like this. He’s a fucking rockstar. He’s got women in almost all directions and in fact, when he was in Los Angeles, the Well Hungarians got to sleep with at least five women a night. And now this… Roger can’t explain what he’s feeling right now… about Mark. Everything seemed so new to him. When he first saw Mark last night the first thing Roger thought was: he’s bloody gorgeous.

“Hey, about last night…” Mark starts again, emerging from behind the couch, but yet again Roger stops him.

“I’m not queer, Mark…” But was he? Roger wasn’t necessarily queer, maybe just confused, perhaps? Yeah, right, as if anyone still believes that kind of lame excuse.

“Neither am I,” mumbles Mark. “Whatever happened…”

“It’s nobody’s business but ours,” Roger finishes Mark’s statement for him. He shuffles out of the wooden stool he was sitting on and grabs his leather jacket. “We go now.”

Roger couldn’t have been more irate as he walked with Mark on the street. He doesn’t speak, but instead he stares blankly at his feet as he walks at double Mark’s speed. Mark simply trudges behind Roger, unable to keep up at such an early hour in the morning. Roger’s hospitality suddenly vanished and it begins to make Mark curious, curious and doubtful. Mark shifts his bag from his left shoulder to his right and jogs through the slow New York human traffic until he reaches Roger. Mark pulls on Roger’s coat with an unexpected force hard enough to yank the jacket off. Roger quickly spins around. “What the fuck is your problem? You wanna go to your sister’s house, right?”

“Yeah… I mean… no… I mean…” Mark can’t seem to think of anything coherent to say at the moment. For a second there he suddenly changed his mind about still going to Cindy’s place, but now he feels like he’s in a state of dilemma. Fuck this. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

“Right.” Roger snatches the jacket out of Mark’s hand. “We can take the subway.”

Mark feels like a lost cat in this big and buzzing city. He doesn’t know anyone (except for his sister and this grouchy man next to him), doesn’t know his way around and is still childishly amazed by the lights and sights and sounds of this place. Actually, Mark feels like an idiot.

The problem with Roger was that he always made spur-of-the-moment decisions he doesn’t even think about. Like saying that they’re taking the subway, for example. He was broke, and so was Mark. That means that they can’t use the subway, nor the bus, and especially not a cab. The only option left is walking, an essential part of New York living. It was exercise in moderation, but death when you're broke. Roger slows down and places a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder when he got ahead by a step.

“I’m broke.” Mark says. He knows Roger is broke. “I don’t wanna walk all the way there… I… do you mind if I could stay in your loft for a while longer?”

Suddenly Roger’s face lights up. He turns around and begins to walk in the opposite direction. Mark trails behind him. “Is-is that a yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” was Roger’s one-word reply. They were only four blocks away from the loft anyway.

The temperature was way below zero on the street, and Mark can’t help but shiver once they enter the loft. There was no heat, and it was actually warmer when they were outside. Mark flings his duffel onto the couch as he turns to Roger and whispers, “Thank you.”

Mark’s voice resonates in Roger’s ear, the sound reverberating throughout his body. All of a sudden, Roger pulls the smaller man closer and presses their lips together. Mark’s eyes widen at this feeling. Kissing Roger felt like heaven, but it was also different. He had never kissed a guy before he arrived here in New York, but as Roger’s tongue licks Mark’s lips he gives Mark a feeling that he’s been doing this for a long time. Kissing Roger is nothing like kissing Nanette. Nanette always seemed naïve even though she and Mark had been together for four months. Nanette was fifteen then. Twenty now, and she still kisses like that.

But Roger’s rough, chapped lips against Mark’s soft ones cause a certain friction that adds to the intensity of the moment as Mark gives in and opens his mouth to the musician. Hands travel down Mark’s back and he feels the tingle of Roger’s hands on his spine. Mark whimpers and pulls away to take a breather.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… was I moving too fast?” Roger says, only to be heard by Mark’s scarf snaking around his neck. Mark tugs at the ends and smashes their lips back together. Mark no longer cares if he still hasn’t brushed his teeth. Neither has Roger, anyway. Again Mark allows Roger’s tongue to enter his mouth like before. They even crash into the couch because Roger is too heavy for Mark to handle standing up.

Roger climbs on top of Mark pinning the smaller man down with both arms as his mouth travels down Mark’s neck. Mark’s red sweater gets in the way, so Roger sits back up and pulls Mark up as well, lifting the young filmmaker’s shirt over his head. He takes off his own shirt as well, and grabs the quilt sitting on the coffee table, hauling it over their heads.

Under the sheets Roger’s lips snake around Mark’s neck, teeth gnawing at the filmmaker’s fragile skin. First blood is drawn when Roger reaches Mark’s right shoulder. Mark groans; this was the shoulder where he had just slung his heavy duffel and his shoulder is aching from that. Roger retracts from that spot to let it rest, but he is met by Mark’s tight grip on his scarf, pulling him back in.

“Okay, if you wish,” Roger manages to mutter with a grin, before planting his lips back on Mark’s. He probably pushed too hard when he shoved his tongue back in, because once he does so, Mark stumbles off the couch and onto the floor.

The filmmaker quickly stands up. He grabs his shirt from one of the deteriorating arm rests of the couch and puts it back on. “I… I can’t do this… I said so earlier… (You said so too) I’m not… I’m not queer. I’m not gay, Roger. I’m sorry.” Mark stammers, his body shaking both from what just happened and the frigid weather.

Shit, Roger scolds himself. He said it as well, and yet he was the one who forced himself onto Mark in the first place, even last night. What should he do?

The phone rings. Roger’s hoarse voice on the answering machine sounds out: Hi, you’ve reached Roger and Tom. Leave a message. beep

“Mark… Mark, are you there? It’s mom. I’m glad you gave us this number. Cindy called. She said that you’re not at her place yet. What is that place you’re in right now? People are expecting you at Greenwich. Attend to them, for God’s sake! It’s her son’s bar mitzvah tomorrow and you’d better be there!” the shrill voice of his mother continues to taunt Mark even after the message ended.

“Your mom’s right. You… you should go,” Roger suggests.

Mark nods reluctantly. “I know… I’m sorry to have overstayed.” He picks up his duffel again and walks out the door, the musician walking not too far behind him. They both quickly make their way down the stairs and out of the building.

It’s like déjà vu when they get back on the street, back where they were earlier. The crowd is different from how it was a half hour ago, but the same food stands, buildings and bums rest in the same places. This time, Mark walks ahead of Roger for the first few blocks, stopping when he no longer knew which way to go.

Roger walks past a homeless blind man and sneaks a hand into the cup, nicking a few bills. He jogs to Mark, waving the bills in front of the other man’s face.

“Where’d you get those?” Mark asks.

“On the street.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s for the subway, so we can get to your sister’s place faster,” argues Roger. “So shut the fuck up and turn left. Your mom is scary.”

Mark chuckles and does so, entering a subway station. Roger buys two single-ride tickets to Greenwich. He hands them both to Mark.

“You’re not gonna help me when I get there?” Mark asks, confused.

“I won’t have enough money to get back home. Just ask around. The other ticket’s just in case you change your mind… again.” Roger sighs. “It expires in two hours though. Um… I don’t know how to say this without sounding retarded, but—I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll… miss you too,” Mark mouths. “It was nice meeting you, Roger Davis.” The filmmaker turns around, steps toward the platform, and boards the next train. Roger just stands there to watch.

---LOVE, KAYE---

Fic: Sex Life

2006-12-03T01:51:39Z

Author: Stephanie (Gildedmuse)
Title: On Reflection of the Friendship and Sex (but mainly sex) of Mark and Roger
Chapter: Four: Jealousy, BDSM, and Utter Stupidity
Pairings: Mark/Roger, Mark/Roger/OMC
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 12,260 (no... seriously)
Warnings: Look, just.... don't read this if you don't know what anal beads are, Okay?
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that. Final chapter in the four part Sex Life of Mark and Roger series, divided into two parts.
Additional Chapters: Additional Chapters: One: First times and Blow Jobs, Two: Hand Jobs, Fucking, and Masturbation, Three: Dress Up, Scripts and Sickness

(The End)

2leather2dildos @ 2006-11-21T00:05:00

2006-11-21T00:05:43Z

Author: February (boho_dayz)
Title: First Time Pleasures
Characters: Mimi/Mark
Rating: R
Word Count: No clue
Summary: Smut
Dude this is my first fan fic so go easy on me please...

Mimi smoothed the hem of the satin kimono over her stocking-clad thighs. The stilleto boots pinched the balls of her feet, but if they did their job, it would be worth it.

Tonight would determine wherther Mimi and Mark were going anywhere at all. If he could resist this plan, there was no hope and she'd have to forget about him, despite the sparks.

Candles flickered on the counter, giving a soft glow to the loft. The drapes were drawn. Now if only the guest of honor would arrive then the seduction could begin.

A knock on the door.

"Come in" she called from the bathroom, while she did a retouch on her hair and lipstick. She took a good look in the mirror and laughed. No day but today.

Mark let himself in, dropping his jacket on the couch.

"Meemz?" He called "Where'd you vanish to?"

The door of the bathroom opened.

"I'm right here"

Heturned and all thoughts of anything else but her disapeared. Mimi stood there in a fiery red satin kimono thta barely reached her thighs. Black stocking blazed a shimmery trial down to a pair of black stilettos that gave her calves an additional curve.

He unglued the roof of his mouth to stammer "What are you wearing underneath that?"

A sexy laugh snapped his attention upwards. She gave him a sultry wink, reaching for the belt.

"I'll be happy to give you a peek, but only if you say the magic word..."

She teased the end of the tie at her waist. He swallowed hard.

"P-please?"

She shook her head. "

No peeking until you promise me that tonight you're going to take the plunge, be impulsive"

He nodded struck dumb by the fact that all his blood had already rushed south of his belt line.

When she dropped the kimono into a puddle of fabric at her feet, he groaned. A pair of barely there black panties. A matching push-up bra that did wonders to her breasts. And best of all a black garter belt with real stockings, the kinds he'd often fantisized about about but never had the chance to encounter in reality.

"Well?"

"I've died and gone to heaven" he chocked out

"You've got it all wrong Marky, theres no angels here"

Without consious thought he moved towards her. Candlelight flickered over he curves and tanned skin.

She closed the gap between them. She pressed her lips to his mouth and her lingery-covered body to his at the same time.

He gripped her hair in his hands, ravished her mouth. Nudging her against a wall, fitting his form to hers. She arched her spine, driving her hips forward, brushing those black laced panties against his jeans.

He plunged deeper needing more. He palmed her breast, and she encouraged him with a groan that vibrated though his mouth.

"Yes" she whispered, grinding her hips forward again.

He obligered her, thrusting his erection against her, loving the way she moaned and moved.

Mimi shuddered "Yes, Mark, More"

He lost himself completely then. Somehow her panties were removed, and she fumbled with the snap and zipper of his jeans. Shoving them down enought to free him. He inhaled sharpely "So wet"

"For you Mark, Oh I need more"

He reached for his wallet grabbing a condom.

She rolled it unto him, he gasped as she slowly rubbed against him.

Hicking her knee over his hip, she took him inside her in one easy movement. Her tight heat fried his brain.

She gripped his shoulders "Yes, harder"

She clawed at his skin, crying out his name, demanding more and more until she shuddered around him, keening her pleasure in an unbashful way that trggered his own orgasm. "Meemz" he murmured he took her down to the floor with him.

Their ragged breathing eventually slowed as they lay on the rug.

The full impact of what they did just hit Mark like a ton of bricks. So much for making a wonderful experience she'd remember forever. Hell he did her standing upo against a wall like a $10 hoe.

"Meemz...I'm so sorry"

A sharp pain in his shoulder made him yelp.

"Hey! Why you bite me?!"

"Because that was the best sex I've had in my life"

"Really?"

"Don't make it go to your head"

END!

2leather2dildos @ 2006-11-04T00:15:00

2006-11-04T05:15:08Z

We’re looking for fun and creative OCs and a new Joanne and Benny. Our old ones decided they needed to devote more time to her OCs and that’s cool, but it leaves us with no villain. So, if you’ve ever felt the need to kick some Boho butt (or, you know, not), come on over, we could use ya. However, while we love you young'uns (really we do), this community is geared entirely to the over 18-set. We’re active and fun and have a lotta cool stuff going on. So, if you've been wanting to come and RP with a slightly more "mature" group, come on over and fill out an application.
Click here to go to Alphabet City: http://z4.invisionfree.com/Alphabet_City/index.php?act=idx

Fic: Sex Life

2006-10-16T02:57:12Z

Author: Stephanie (Gildedmuse)
Title: On Reflection of the Friendship and Sex (but mainly sex) of Mark and Roger
Chapter: Three: Dress Up, Scripts and Sickness
Pairings: Mark/Roger (mentions of April/Roger and Mark/Maureen)
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 8,650
Warnings: Umm... Sex? Mark-in-a-skirt, if that frightens you enough to need a warning.
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that.
Additional Chapters: Additional Chapters: One: First times and Blow Jobs, Two: Hand Jobs, Fucking, and Masturbation

(Chapter Three: Dress Up, Scripts and Sickness)