(no subject)

[bluetears07]

Title: Preoccupied
Fandom: Rent
Parings: Mark’s Camera/Roger’s Guitar, Mark's Scarf/Roger's Plaid Pants, Mark's Glasses/Roger's Man-Ring, Mark’s Camera/Mark’s Scarf, Mark/Roger
Summary: When Roger and Mark get a little preoccupied with each other their ‘accessories’ also get better acquainted.
Rating: Chapter Four: R
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: Not quite sure what inanimate object ‘dirty talk’ sounds like…but I’ll try. Washing Machines = Tacky Vibrating Beds. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Preoccupied

Chapter Four

Oh. My. God.

My Mark is filming soft-core porn!

That is the first thought that came to me as soon as my Mark pulled off the strange lens cap that he had decided to use, for the first time in his life, because of the tiny fracture in my lens. Swirling colors, all blue, white and red plaid blurring together in an orgy of laundry detergent and water. The clothing is all tumbled together into one mass, but the only thing that I see is the twisted, watered-down image of my ex-Beloved rolled up inside the right pant leg of the Plaid Pants, the tassels dangling outside the cuff. All I can focus on is the convex glass portal to an all encompassing Hell that my Mark has decided to film for some abstract, artsy reason I can’t remember, being a little too shocked out of my mind for a coherent thought.

It would be hypnotizing if it weren’t so nauseating.

“Make it stop, make it stop, please Mark!” I try to plead with my Mark, jerking and writhing restlessly in his hands. His grip tightens as he mumbles something to himself about my odd behavior, dismissing it as a mechanical malfunction he’ll have to look into later. I need to control myself. I swallow my anger, allowing my self one last whimper of “Mark” as he zooms in on the glass door of the washing machine. They really need to stop making these horribly sleazy washing machines with their insides showing for the entire world to see, especially on the ones that you pay for in quarters. I mean, how cheap and tacky can you get? At least there are no romantic pretenses to it I guess, just down and dirty to get ‘clean,’ as my Mark apparently thinks washing his cloths, mingling with his Roger’s mind you, will do. My silent soliloquy is unfortunately interrupted by a loud clanking noise, sounding something like metal colliding with metal.

“This should be enough for the dryer, right?” My Mark’s Roger. The entire scene shifts, swinging upwards, zooming out as my Mark turns me to where the musician has dumped a fistful of quarters onto the top of the washing machine. Slung over Roger’s shoulder is the worn strap connected to the acoustic guitar.

“Thank you,” I whisper relieved.

“No problem.” The same singsong voice replies, though sounding a little distance since he is pressed against Roger’s back, facing the opposite direction.

“Hey,” I reply quietly. I can’t help but think of my Mark’s bright smile from this early morning when he woke up next to his Roger for the first time, my sweet Mark sitting in bed for a quarter of an hour, watching the sun caress the planes of his Roger’s sleeping face. I look at Roger more closely, beginning to wonder why he would have brought his acoustic guitar with him. It’s obvious why my Mark brought me, seeing as how I am almost physically a part of him, but Roger usually only brings his guitar outside the loft for gigs at local nightclubs.

Bending his long legs at the knee, Roger easily hops up onto the washing machine, shifting the guitar around so it now is lying in his lap. Callused fingertips slide idly up and down the metal cords strung along the neck of the guitar. I wince as a torrent of jealousy flares up. Shifting my gaze away from the acoustic I glance up at Roger. The tip of Roger’s nose, along with his cheeks are flushed a delicate pink that reminds me of my Mark whenever he is out in the cold too long with me. He must have been outside playing for quarters to pay for this trip to the Laundromat.

“You okay? It’s pretty cold out there,” I asked, genuinely concerned, the cold perhaps warping the already worn and slightly abused, or ‘loved’ as I would like to think of it, wooden body of the guitar.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” The acoustic replies as Roger slips the strap off his shoulder and sets the acoustic on another dormant washing machine next to his thigh. Something in his demeanor changes as I feel him look at me more closely; looking through my lens like Roger does when my Mark is filming him. I suddenly realize what my Mark always gets flustered whenever his Roger does that; it’s rather intimidating to be flattened with one glance from another person, or object in my case. There is a long pause before he speaks again, carefully choosing his words. “I’m sorry you had to watch that, you know Mark’s just being ‘artsy’ or something.” I find myself lost in the warm tones of his voice; alternating like a slow rhythm encircling my mechanical body with a sweet embrace his nonexistent arms could never do justice to. It’s ridiculously sweet the way he is trying to comfort me. I can’t even remember one time when my ex-Beloved, no, my Mark’s scarf, tried to comfort me when I was feeling down.

“Yeah,” I answer back in a short monotone voice, unsure how to react to this sudden flood of warmth that the acoustic has sent coursing through me, he cares about me. In the background I hear the quiet buzzing of my Mark and Roger as they have some inane little conversation about the odd scent of the laundry detergent they chose from the cheap vending machine.

“Hey, come on,” the acoustic tries again. I hear an odd note in his voice that tugs my attention back to him a hundred percent. “I know how I can make all better,” there is a definite sexual undertone to his voice that I can’t help but pick upon. Oh, he certainly has learned quite a lot from his Roger. Especially that little purr that Roger does when he wants something he knows he should not have. I know this because my Mark has a slight obsession with that sound, imitating it as best he can whenever he jerks off to the thought of Roger. Though I guess he won’t need to do that much any more, at least not without the real thing mewling for him.

“Really?” The fresh film inside my body reels as I reply with the same flirtatious and playful inflections lacing my voice.

“Mmmhmm,” he hums with that sweet purr in his voice, a low note resonating deep inside his wooden carved body. I can almost feel the vibrations coursing through my sprockets. “Tonight,” the acoustic begins murmuring as my film starts to speed up, almost doubling over. “After the two Boho boys are fast asleep,” my loose screws are nearly rattling as I tremble in my Mark’s steady hands. “In the dark loft, you all bathed in pale moonlight and flickering candles,” His grip tightens as I strain to hear the final notes of the acoustics ‘love-song.’ “I’m gonna turn your crank, tweak your loose little screws so fucking hard that you won’t be able to film straight for a week. My whole body covered in a thin sheen of freshly spilt film.”

“Woah,” my Mark gasps holding me together with his hands as I nearly spring open right there in the Laundromat.

A loud click draws the attention away from me.

“Ooo, Mark, spin cycle!” Roger yelps ecstatically, his voice distorted as the vibrations rattle his lithe body. Pulling myself together I look up at Roger, away from the acoustic guitar who most certainly has nearly snapped a G string. There is an odd glint in Roger’s eye that sends a chill through me. “Hey, Marky, you know what would be fun?” I can hear the obvious teasing voice that Roger uses with my Mark from time to time when he wants to get a particularly physical reaction from my normally calm filmmaker. My Mark stands up as Roger slips off the washing machine in a slow, strangely seductive motion. He quickly glances around the nearly empty Laundromat, eyes passing over the only other person, a woman sitting alone mumbling to herself about an annoyingly resilient stain. I watch as Roger turns his back to my Mark, bending himself over the public appliance, pressing his palms flat against the top of the rumbling washing machine. “To fuck on a washing machine while it’s on,” he asks glancing over his shoulder at my Mark with a feral grin, wiggling his hips enticingly.

“Behave.” My Mark’s chides, though a grin is in his voice as his arm lightly hits his Roger’s side before he leans up for a quick kiss.

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A soft, incessant jiggling sensation travels throughout my entire body, pulling me out of the early evening nap my Mark and I had fallen into on the old couch. Resting on the slight incurve of my Mark’s stomach, my lens is almost pressed against the material of his sweet natured and strangely asexual sweater. I feel the soft rhythm of my Mark’s breathing become shallower. He’s waking up. It takes a few moments for me to focus, zooming in and out several times until the image of skin and worn denim material comes into view, nice and crisp and clear. However, the only thing I can see is a rather large bulge of my Mark’s blue jeans.

That’s odd.

What part of my Mark’s body would be that swollen? He didn’t get hit in the leg recently, did he?

“Mark,” my Mark’s name is a low moan in the back of Roger’s throat. I would-be blush hearing the lust thick in Roger’s voice. Two large hands, one finger bearing a silver ring that I know for a fact belongs to Roger, slip up over the bulge, pressing hard against the skin beneath. Fingertips trail over the rigid arch, a large amount of the jean material moves out of my sight as Mark’s legs fall open. Suddenly I see Roger’s mischievous face grinning at my Mark and me.

“Woah!” I yelp in surprise, jumping back slightly, finally putting two and two together. “Umm, hello, Roger.” I mumble rhetorically as Roger continues to feel up my Mark’s erection through his jeans. I try to zoom out as best I can and I notice the acoustic’s strap digging into Roger’s shoulder. “Acoustic…?”

“Mark,” Roger whispers again, his lips parted as a tongue slips out to wet his lips as he moves closer to my Mark.

“Yeah?” His voice is muffled.

“What is Roger doing? I mean I know what he’s doing but,” I pause glancing down at Roger’s busy hands slowly unzipping the metallic fly of my Mark’s blue jeans. “Why?” My voice squeaked out the word.

“You’ll see in a second,” he whispers with a grin like the one Roger is wearing on his face.

“Mmm, Rog, feel sooooo good,” my Mark’s voice is thick with lust and sleep. I can tell he is still not yet actually awake. My little body shifts, falling of onto the side as he hips move up towards Roger’s hand, needing more contact in order to get off. His breathing is erratic, hips moving against Roger. “W-wha-” My Mark stutters before my world is thrown for a loop as my Mark nearly falls off the couch. “Jesus, Roger!”

“Which one?” Roger’s asks suddenly pulling away from my Mark, acting nonchalant, as if he had not just had his hands down my Mark’s pants. He turns around quickly, grabbing the Fender and holding it in one hand as he shifts the strap around his shoulders to display the acoustic. “Acoustic or the Fender?”

“W-what, why?” My Mark asks, still in a confused haze as he sits up on the sofa while zipping up his jeans.

“Because,” he draws out the word as he leans back in towards my Mark. “My little indie filmmaker,” an odd endearment that distracts my Mark as I feel Roger grab me. I feel my lens nearly crack wide open as callused fingers grip my sides, spinning me around so I’m facing my Mark. It’s a very rare thing indeed when I get to catch my Mark on film when someone else is behind my eyepiece, especially Roger. Though I don’t feel a hundred percent safe in the musician’s hands I remember that he is the one who handles the acoustic as if it were his first-born and I relax, well, slightly. “You are looking at the new permanent opening act at the Pyramid club on Friday nights.”

“Really?” My Mark asks with a half grin pulling at his lips.

“Really,” Roger confirms. My Mark is beside himself, looking up at Roger with the sweetest smile I have ever seen. While Roger is babbling on I watch my Mark stand up, moving off the couch so that he comes toe to toe with his Roger. “The club’s manager called while you were asle-” I giggle as my Mark cuts him off with a sweet, slow kiss that leaves the Pretty Boy Rock Star Roger Davis breathless.

You drop me, Roger, and I swear!

“Definitely the acoustic.” My Mark murmurs against Roger’s lips as he pulls away with a smile.

I couldn’t agree more.

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From where my Mark placed me on the old dresser, thankfully this time without my ex-Beloved wrapped around me, I can just barley make out the curving line of Roger’s back as he sits on the edge of the spring mattress. He’s faced away from me, towards my Mark’s prone figure, and is talking in a low whisper. I think I hear something about his show next Friday, needing my Mark to be his steadfast groupie or at least something to that effect. Roger’s slumped form becomes smaller as he dips down to place a slow kiss against my Mark’s lips.

I sigh softly. No matter how much I love watching these two, and it would be even better to film them, part of me is wishing that I were still on the old, duct tape couch next to the acoustic guitar.

However, my attention is drawn back to inside my Mark’s bedroom when I see Roger move again. He turns towards the small bedside table where my Mark normally places his glasses before going to bed. Roger does something with his hands; I guess that he is removing the band of silver from his long forefinger, before reaching over to pick something off the table. Despite the fact it’s dark in the room I still try to zoom in on his fingers to get a better look at what that strange boy is doing. I managed to focus my lens in time to see Roger slip the ring onto one of the dark frame’s thin wire earpieces.

At least someone is together tonight besides my Mark and his Rock Star Wonder Boy, Roger.

Watching Roger snuggle into the blankets behind my Mark, no doubt wrapping his arm around my Mark’s little waist, I hear a low grumbling filtering through the paper-thin walls. Scooting backwards as quietly as I can manage, thankfully the two lovebirds are so wrapped up in each other they would not hear me even if I fell off the dresser, I press myself against the wall. A beautiful singsong patter of mumbles is all I can hear, a would-be lopsided grin, the acoustic guitar. However, I hear a distinctly different voice joining the simplistic melody of the acoustic. The odd sound is followed by a low sound of scrapping against the panels of the loft’s hardwood floor. I strain to make out what the other voice is saying.

“We need to talk, now,” the unplugged twang of the Fender.

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AN: *ominous music* So I recently found out about an RP that I guess I have inspired called rent_objects and I was reading one of rabidfangirlism’s entries where the gals who RP were talking about making the objects into humans. Soooo, I tried to draw our favorite couple as human beings: Mark's Camera/Roger's Acoustic Guitar. Tell me what you think. :D