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The One Where Chandler Writes Porn

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Monica’s cooking dinner over the stove while Rachel, Phoebe, Joey, and Ross are crammed together on the couch. “Y’know, you don’t think you’d need a set of knives that could cut through bricks,” Ross says while they’re watching a bad infomercial, “but when they throw in a whole ‘nother set for free...”

            “Anybody seen Chandler?” Monica asks. “He never misses our Friday night dinners.”

            “Maybe he has a date,” Rachel answers around laughter. “Oh man, I can’t even say it with a straight face.”

            Joey pouts a little. He doesn’t think Chandler’s that inept at dating, and maybe if he didn’t flail his arms so much or stumble over his words when he approaches a potential romantic interest he’d have more success. Because it’s not like Chandler doesn’t have any good points. He’s supported Joey financially for almost the entirety of the three years they’ve been roommates. That’s two good qualities right there: a steady job and a kind, giving heart. Take notes, ladies.

            “He, uh, he told me he had a thing tonight,” Joey says, rather unhelpfully. They’re all giving him variations of that “you dumb bastard” look, so he adds, “He’s havin’ dinner with somebody from work. I think it’s about some kinda promotion or pay raise or somethin’.”

            Monica stirs the spaghetti sauce, a thoughtful look on her face. “How come none of us know what Chandler does for a living?” she asks no one in particular. “We all talk about our jobs, except for him. Joey, does he say anything to you?”

            Joey shakes his head. “Not really, no. Which is kinda weird ‘cause I talk to him all the time about auditions and callbacks and what I do.”

            Rachel’s eyes go wide. “You mean you don’t know? How can you live with the guy for almost three years and not know?”

            “I dunno, how could you not know Ross had a crush on you since high school?” Joey shoots back, defensive.

            Ross puts his arm around her shoulders, and Rachel tries her best to look angry at both of them.

            “What if the reason he’s so secretive about it is ‘cause he works for the government or something?” Phoebe says. “Like, some super top-secret thing we don’t even know about.”

            Joey shrugs. “It’s probably just somethin’ really embarrassing, y’know, like”—he tries to think of something that might warrant Chandler’s level of secrecy but comes up short—“I got nothin’.”

            “At least tell me you’ve asked about it,” Monica says.

             “Yeah, a couple’a times. He’s real vague about it though, but it’s somethin’ to do with writing for the company he works for.”

            “Joey, are you up for a little reconnaissance?”

            He just stares blankly. No idea what that word means.

            “Do some snooping,” Monica explains. “Try to find out what he does. Aren’t you curious?”

            Joey does find it rather suspect that Chandler keeps so much of his job shrouded in mystery. It’s probably nothing ridiculously awesome like Phoebe suggested, but Joey’s always had a prickling of interest as to Chandler’s occupation. The fact that he always dodges the questions Joey asks about it or gives vague answers just makes Joey all the more curious.

            Chandler comes home later that evening while Joey’s kicked back in the recliner watching TV. “Hey, Joe.”

            “Oh, Chandler, hey, how was the thing?”

            “Good.” That’s all Chandler says about it before hanging up his coat and plopping down in the chair beside Joey. “What about you? Did you just sit here all night?”

           “No, we all had dinner at Monica’s, remember?” Joey waits until Chandler gets settled in before he asks, “So, hey, how come you never talk about work?”

            Chandler grabs a beer out of the fridge. “I don’t know, I guess...there’s nothing to talk about. I don’t go to work, so it’s not like I can come home and bitch about annoying co-workers, y’know?”

            “Well, yeah, but...what about the job itself? Like isn’t it boring sometimes or hard or anything?”

            Chandler moves back to his chair and lifts an eyebrow at Joey. “What’s with the sudden interest in my career?”

            Joey shrugs in a way that’s too controlled. “It’s just...we were talkin’ over dinner and we realized that none of us really know what you do. Everybody else talks about their job or people they work with, but you don’t.” Another shrug. Joey’s trying way too hard to be casual here. “We just thought it was weird, is all.”

            Chandler sits next to him, pops the beer open. “Maybe I’d rather talk about other stuff. Maybe my job just isn’t something I’m deeply invested in like you are with acting or Monica is with cooking or Ross is with dinosaurs.”

            Joey finds it difficult to argue with that logic. “Well, can you at least tell me what your job is so I don’t feel like a total idiot who doesn’t know what his roommate does for a living?”

            Chandler looks as if he’s thinking it over—what the hell is there to think about?—before he answers, “I compile the budget and spending figures for a publishing house.”

            “See, that wasn’t so hard!” Joey congratulates him, patting a hand on Chandler’s shoulder. “No wonder you don’t talk about it; that sounds boring as hell.”

            Chandler gives him a little smile before turning his attention to the TV.

            Joey’s still a little curious though—and a bit suspicious, if he’s honest about it—and luckily for him Chandler’s gone when he wakes up in the morning. There’s a message scrawled in Chandler’s messy handwriting on the Magna-Doodle:

Went to the store. Be back soon. 

            Joey thinks this is a prime opportunity for some, as Monica put it, reconnaissance. Chandler’s computer sits in plain sight on the bar. Joey considers opening the lid and browsing through some of its files. Maybe it holds more information on Chandler’s work, considering that’s, y’know, where he works. Chandler’s absurdly protective of this thing, rarely seen without it. He’s always told Joey never to touch it, and Joey’s heeded him, not particularly interested in the thing to begin with. But since Chandler’s so secretive...

            Joey takes a seat at the bar and flips open the computer lid, only to be greeted with a log-in screen. The username field is already filled in, but the password field is blank. Joey ponders this for a moment. It can’t be something too difficult to remember, because he’s prompted to type it in every time he turns on the computer—and there aren’t any sticky notes nearby with cryptic number and letter combinations.

            So, the password is something simple and easy to remember.

            It’s probably not something too simple like “joey” or “chandler” because this is Chandler’s password, not Joey’s. Joey thinks about the things Chandler likes, what word or phrase might be the key. He goes with his first gut instinct and types “yasmine.”

            Joey laughs out loud in the quiet apartment when that actually fucking works.

            “Could you be any more predictable?” he asks with a chuckle in his throat.

            Joey doesn’t know how long Chandler’s been gone, so he assumes Chandler will come home any second now and quickly scans the icons on the desktop for anything incriminating. He’s disappointed to see that there aren’t any shortcuts to porn or even any games on here. Man, Chandler’s boring. Or at least really good at hiding his vices.

            Joey clicks open a document at random, figuring anything on here might be a clue in the right direction. It takes him a couple sentences to realize this isn’t a budget or spending figures at all—it’s a goddamn manuscript. Chandler must be writing a novel in his spare time. Joey feels a little hurt, because why hasn’t Chandler said anything about this? Why is he so paranoid and secretive?

            Joey clicks on another icon and pulls up what appears to be some sort of email correspondence between Chandler and his mother Nora. Joey feels a squeeze of protest in his gut that he’s reading a private discussion, but his gaze snags on the top left corner of the email where the date tells him these messages were exchanged last night—and Chandler responded this morning. Four sentences in and Chandler’s talking about a “new book” being ready by the summer, and what the actual fuck?

            Chandler writes books? For a living? That is the exact opposite of boring as hell. How can Chandler not be invested in that?

            Joey re-reads the email to make sure he’s not jumping to conclusions. They’re probably talking about Nora’s books, and Joey’s just making assumptions, but, nope—he reaches the end of the message and they’re undeniably talking about Chandler’s books. Chandler writes books.

            Which makes a lot of sense when Joey thinks about it. Chandler’s mother is an author. Odds are she knows plenty of publishing big-wigs and higher-ups. She probably got him the job at the publishing house too, which Joey’s starting to believe is totally bullshit, because Chandler is a goddamn author.

            If Chandler writes books, he must have written them on the computer. So if Joey found one incomplete manuscript on here, there must be completed ones too. He clicks through folders until he finds one containing a bunch of documents with ridiculous, pun-riddled names like “Calling Doctor Love” and “A Prescription for Passion.” Jesus Christ. Joey actually groans out loud. He’s seen porn videos with better titles.

            He logs out of the computer and shuts the lid before sneaking into Chandler’s bedroom. There’s a bookcase stuffed with books behind the headboard of the bed. Joey reads the spines of them, hoping to find the titles he’d seen on the computer. Most of Chandler’s collection is non-descript, an occasional few that Joey’s actually heard of, and about four or five thick paperbacks authored by a C.M. Big.

            Joey glares at the books as if they’ve personally offended him.

            C.M. Big.

            Chandler. Muriel. Bing.

            Joey is actually embarrassed for him right now.

            He grabs one of the books off of the shelf. He figures Chandler won’t notice the absence of one little book. They’re his own stories anyway; why would he be reading them? Chandler’s not that much of an egotist.

            Joey hears the sound of a key opening the front door. He scrambles into his bedroom to hide the book before Chandler can see him, shoving it underneath his pillow. Joey practically dives into the recliner, managing to look as if he hasn’t done a damn thing all day when Chandler swings the door open.

            “Joe.”

            “Hey, Chan.”

            “Did you just wake up?”

            “Yeah,” Joey says around a smirk. He’s really, really tempted to bring up the whole book thing, but he’s actually pretty curious as to what Chandler’s been hiding. He’d like to read at least one of the novels first before making Chandler privy to the fact that Joey knows his horrible secret.

            Maybe the books are just really, really awful, and that’s why Chandler lies about his job. They’re probably terrible, if the titles are any indication. Chandler has what seems like endless ammunition for jokes about Joey’s failed auditions and less-than-stellar roles; Joey needs more joke fodder in his corner about Chandler—the peacock story is beginning to lose its luster.

            He’s really going to enjoy this.

Joey makes sure his bedroom door is shut and that Chandler’s fast asleep in the other room before he carefully lifts up his pillow and takes the book out from underneath it. This is ludicrous; he feels like he’s eight years old again and trying to sneak his dad’s Playboys into his room. There’s probably not even anything dirty in this book, let alone any dirty pictures. Joey’s going to be really surprised if there’s any nudity in these pages.

            The plot is cliché and stupid: heroine meets hunky male love interest through a series of contrived coincidences. Joey finds himself rolling his eyes very often. The prose is bloated and so purple it’s practically ultra-violet. Joey’s no literature critic, but at least The Shining didn’t drone on and on about how attractive any of the characters were.

            As far as Joey can tell, the story seems to center around the flat-chested protagonist Chastity (really hammering in that virginity trope with all the subtlety of an atomic bomb, huh?) meeting the tall, dark and handsome love interest Dr. Drake Ramoray. He’s suave with the ladies, handsome, quick with a joke, attractive, and...well, good-looking. Joey thinks his liver would stage a revolt if he took a drink every time the book describes Drake’s physical appearance (or Chastity’s reaction to how attractive he is).

            He gets about fifty pages into the novel before it gets graphic and descriptive, and, holy shit, this is porn! There’s no pictures, but Joey can tell it’s definitely supposed to be dirty. And, yeah, there’s phrases like “rose-gold warrior” and “her womanhood” instead of “dick” or “vagina,” but it still counts.

            This must be the reason for Chandler’s secrecy.

            But...why? Sure, it’s silly and a little embarrassing (Ross would have a fucking field day with this), but if the girls knew Chandler wrote erotica they’d be fighting over who gets to date him first. Clearly he knows how to please a woman—hell, there’s stuff in here even Joey didn’t know about—and apparently a lot of women like this kind of crap, seeing as Chandler’s written more than one of these books. And Chandler knows that Joey is a pornographic connoisseur—obviously this would be something he’d enjoy.

            So why keep it hidden like a literal skeleton in the closet?

            It’s only six sex scenes later—and, Jesus, Chastity is flexible—when Joey’s finished with the book does he slowly begin to realize why.

#

Joey’s shouting “Chandler writes porn!” over and over as he bursts through the door to Monica’s apartment the next morning. “You guys, Chandler—he’s the—”

            “He writes porn,” Monica says, sounding unenthused. “We heard you the first ten times.”

            “No, no, no, you don’t get it!” Joey drops the book onto the kitchen table where the girls are gathered. “He writes porn for a living!” This is a very important distinction.

            Rachel picks up the book. “I’ve actually read this!” she exclaims. “This is the first book in the Drake Ramoray series.”

            Phoebe gasps. “Oh my God, I love those! They’re amazing!”

            “I know!”

            “It’s a series?” Joey shouts in disbelief. It seems sort of obvious in hindsight, given that all the books have cheesy, god-awful doctor-related puns for titles, but he didn’t think there was more plot to squeeze out of the already-thin premise.

            “What’s this have to do with Chandler?” Phoebe asks, oblivious.

            Joey has some sort of conniption while gesturing to the novel. “That’s—the—Chandler—That’s the porn I’m talkin’ about! Chandler is ‘best-selling author C.M. Big!’”

            They just stare at him in a way that manages to be judgemental and confused at the same time. Phoebe’s brow furrows. “Huh, you’d think we would’ve figured that out sooner.”

            “Okay, look, I know it’s crazy, but”—Joey grabs the book from Rachel and flips through it—“look at how Chastity describes Drake here.” His gaze drops down to read the passage: “‘He pulled his shirt over his head, and with an awed expression I watched his perfect body curl out of his clothes. My gaze slid down his naked, sculpted chest to the edges of his jeans. I looked up in time to see a smirk tug at the corner of his full, flawless lips. I couldn’t get used to how his features seemed almost too perfect to be real. His masculine beauty mesmerized me, robbing me of words as he moved closer. A few strands of dark hair fell out of place and dangled over his warm, bronze eyes.’” Joey looks at the girls and spreads his arms impossibly wide as if to demonstrate his point. They don’t seem to be following him. “‘Full, flawless lips’? ‘Masculine beauty’? ‘Dark hair’ and ‘warm, bronze eyes’?”

            Still nothing.

            Joey sighs. “C’mon, you guys! You need a picture? Chandler’s writin’ porn about me!”

            He really doesn’t appreciate the way they all burst into laughter at that; this is serious, maybe even life-altering information. They should all be questioning this right now. Chandler has been writing porn about Joey for God knows how long; Joey ought to be able to reap the benefits of all the fake sex he’s partaken in between the pages of these books.

            My God, he thinks, this is a series. He’s full-frontal in more than one erotic novel. This is officially a thing for Chandler, isn’t it? Buried amongst the awesomely-bad euphemisms and purple prose are all the things Chandler thinks about when he gets himself off, and, wow, Joey’s surprised that actually turns him on a little. Apparently he’s into creepy, indirect voyeurism himself.

            “Stop laughin’!” Joey whines. “It’s not funny!”

            “You have to admit it’s a little funny,” Monica says through snorting laughter.

            Joey just frowns in irritation and grabs a soda from the fridge, desperate for a distraction.

            “So, you really think Chandler’s writing about you?” Rachel asks with lingering amusement, flipping through the book and obviously trying very hard not to start laughing again.

            Phoebe’s still snickering behind her hand though.

            “And how do we know that this is actually Chandler writing this stuff?” Monica adds.

            “Okay, well, the name is kind of a dead give-away,” Phoebe says. “But you wouldn’t think so at first.”

            “I snooped around on his computer yesterday while he was gone,” Joey says, sitting in a vacant chair. “I found a bunch of manuscripts that had the same names as the books. And then I found some emails where he was talkin’ about his new book—”

            “There’s gonna be another one?” Rachel asks around an excited gasp. “Yes!”

            “Not the point right now, Rach!” Joey growls.

            Phoebe’s grinning in a way that makes Joey dread her next words. “So, wait, if Chandler wrote these books and based Drake Ramoray off of you...does that mean he wants to have sex with you?”

            He really should not have taken that huge gulp of cola. He sort of chokes on it as it goes the wrong way down his throat.

            Monica shakes her head, trying to hide her grin with a hand. “Oh my God.”

            “Or maybe he wants you to have sex with him,” Rachel adds.

            Joey gives her a look that says “shut the fuck up,” but they’re all far too amused to drop the subject.

            “Oh my God!” Phoebe yelps in sudden realization. “Does that mean Chastity is supposed to be Chandler? Chastity, Chandler. Maybe there’s a connection!”

            “I think Chandler wants a connection between his ass and Joey’s—”

            “Okay, new topic!” Joey shouts, standing up from the table, because this is the exact conversation he did not want to have. Apparently, the girls have chosen to find this funny forever. “So, how ‘bout those Knicks, huh?”

            “Maybe you should read the rest of the books,” Monica suggests, completely ignoring his incredibly smooth segue, “just to be sure.”

            Joey laughs harshly in his throat. “Oh, no, I see what you’re tryin’ to do. You’re just tryin’ to traumatize me even further by makin’ me read three other books with me and girl-Chandler havin’ sex!”

            “Four,” Rachel corrects him.

            Goddamn it.

            He’s not going to pretend like he’s not curious to see what depraved shit is in the other four books. But now that he knows—or at least has strong suspicions of—the identities of the characters, slogging through these things is going reach entirely new levels of discomfort and awkwardness; it’s like walking in on his parents having sex. Except instead of his parents, it’s him and his roommate that he absolutely hasn’t thought about fucking every now and then.

            This is the most humiliating, degrading thing that’s ever happened to Joey—and his ass has literally been rejected to play the role of an actual, real-life butt.

#

Joey spends the next couple of days reading the rest of the Drake Ramoray series, because he clearly never wants to sleep easily ever again. There’s no putting this one back in the closet, so to speak. If Chandler thinks about Joey when he comes, Joey needs to know exactly what images are buzzing around in Chandler’s brain so he can either never perform them again—or so he can perform them all the time. He’s leaning toward the second option, mostly because he loves making Chandler squirm.  And there’s a small, vocal part of him that wants to take that to another level and give Chandler an amazing, squirmy orgasm, wants to make his toes curl and his head tip back and his spine arch up off of the mattress while Joey’s fucking into him. He wants to feel Chandler’s hands dragging down his back, wants to hear what his name sounds like when Chandler’s moaning it over and over into his mouth. 

            He keeps reading to find out if Chandler wants those things too.

            It’s not exactly difficult to hide his reading habits from Chandler; Chandler’s too busy typing away on the keyboard to notice that Joey’s been staying in his bedroom an awful lot recently. In the instances where Joey ventures out for food or bathroom breaks, Chandler’s either perched at the bar with his computer or locked inside his room. And, okay, all those times when Chandler had slammed his laptop closed and shut himself away inside his bedroom make so much more sense now.

            Now that he knows about the, uh, inspiration for Drake Ramoray, Joey’s starting to notice details in the books that he hadn’t picked up on at first. Like how Chastity, the awkward, sardonic protagonist, is clearly supposed to be a female version of Chandler, right down to the third nipple; Joey’s ashamed of himself for not catching that until now. Drake’s swanky bachelor pad is obviously their apartment; there’s even a scene where he teaches her how to play pool before having sex up against the table, and—

            Joey nearly throws the book across the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Because that’s the sort of thing he has to say out loud. Chandler’s not even being subtle anymore; this is ridiculous. How many times has Joey fantasized about bending Chandler over the foosball table and fucking him until he can’t make words anymore? Too damn many.

            He refuses to jerk off to the written word. Even when it encapsulates a number of his fantasies involving Chandler. Nope, no way.

            ....

            Okay, maybe just this once.

Joey presents his thorough “Chandler is C.M. Big” theory to the girls later that week after he’s finished the series. They’re each giving him their own version of that “I think you might have been dropped at birth” look he knows so well, but after he’s showed them all the facts, they start staring and blinking in horrified silence.

            Phoebe tries humor. “So...Chandler’s the girl?”

            Rachel gives a strange little laugh. “I think you’ve read more books this week than in your entire life, Joey.”

            Monica’s still a little skeptical. “I’m not gonna say you’re wrong, because the evidence is really piling up, but...if Chandler actually wrote these books, how come he isn’t dating more? I mean, did you read them?” She blinks in realization. “Why am I not dating him?”

            “Yeah, you’d think he’d brag about it,” Rachel says. “That’s like if I was a porn star but didn’t bother mentioning that to get guys.” She notices Joey’s glazed-over expression at that mental image. “Aaand we lost him.” She claps her hands in front of his face. “Joey!”

            Joey startles back to attention. “What?”

            “So does Ross know about this?” Monica asks.

            “No, no, you guys! Chandler can’t know that we know!” Joey says with a touch of panic. “He kept this a secret for a reason. How do you think he’ll react if he finds out we all know?”

            “So you’re not gonna say anything to him?”

            “Oh, I am, but you guys can’t.”

            “Why not?” Rachel whines.

            “‘Cause I’m the one he’s writin’ porn about!” Joey says like it’s obvious.

            “What’re you gonna say?” Phoebe asks.

            Joey hasn’t thought that part through too well yet. He shrugs, says, “Well, I dunno. Maybe I’ll just tease him about it, make it seem like it’s not a big deal.” He breathes out a small sigh. “If he felt this way about me, why couldn’t he just tell me, y’know?”

            “It’s Chandler,” Monica says, as if that explains everything—and it sort of does.

            “Maybe you could frame it like...like you’re interested in him,” Phoebe suggests. “That way he won’t know that you know, and you can still find out what’s going on.”

            Joey thinks that one over. “So, what, you think I should flirt with him?”

            “Yeah!”

            “And what are you gonna do if he actually does something about it?” Rachel asks.

            Joey scoffs. “C’mon, he’s not gonna do anything but get sexually frustrated and add more porn in his next book.” Joey really doubts that Chandler’s going to make a move on him, because, seriously, it’s Chandler.

            But if he does? Joey thinks he’s ready for that. He’s not going to turn down great sex, and he’s read enough of Chandler’s books to get a pretty good idea of what Chandler might like in bed. Hell, if Chandler is as attracted to Joey as his purple prose suggests, Joey could probably just make Chandler come by kissing him.

            Why does that turn him on so much?

            Chandler’s watching TV in the living room that evening when Joey steps out of the shower with nothing but a towel around his waist. He strolls across the room as if this is completely normal behavior for him—and it sort of is—cutting in front of Chandler’s line of sight. Chandler makes an abortive sound in his throat, like he wanted to make words but they gave up and went home. His fingers dig into the leather armrests of the recliner.

            “So, you’re, uh, you’re naked,” he manages to say.

            Joey thinks he could fry an egg on Chandler’s face right now. “Yeah, and drippy.”

            “And—and drippy, yes, I, uh, I noticed that too.” Chandler wets his lips, lets his eyes rake over Joey’s body in a way that almost makes Joey feel violated. “Why?”

            Drake Ramoray speaks every line like it’s a dirty joke only he’s privy to; Joey cranks the seduction in his voice up to eleven. “Does it bother you?”

            Chandler actually squirms in the chair, shifting his thighs against each other before crossing his legs. “Just a bit, yeah.”

            Even through Chandler’s pajamas, Joey can tell that he’s hard already. There’s a curl of amusement on Joey’s lips when he says, “Really? You got a little crush on me, Chandler?”

            Chandler gasps in horror. “Wh—what? No! That’s ridiculous!”

            “Aw, c’mon, you can tell me! You know I’m totally okay with the gay thing.”

            “There is no ‘gay thing!’” Chandler grits out, crossing his legs again and folding his arms over his chest.

            Joey smirks. “You gotta admit you got a quality—”

            “I do not have a quality!” Chandler seems to find it impossible to even look at Joey anymore.

            “Oh, really? ‘Cause I don’t think you’d talk so much about a guy’s ‘naked, sculpted chest’ or his ‘masculine beauty’ unless you had a quality!”

            Chandler twists his head in Joey’s direction, his expression absolutely scandalized. “What? What are you talking about?” There’s an edge of squeaky terror to his voice now.

            “Why don’t you tell me, C.M. Big!”

            Chandler gasps aloud and leaps out of the chair, his limbs flailing in every direction. “How did you—Who told you—No!”

            “I thought we were friends! The least you could do is tell me you’re writin’ porn about me!”

            Chandler’s eyes go comically wide, and all the color drains from his face. Joey thinks he’s going to do something loud and flaily, but instead Chandler just rushes across the carpet in a panic and shuts himself in his bedroom. 

            Chandler has opted to flee from their conversation. That’s the first time this has ever happened.

            Joey decides to put some clothes on before trying to coax Chandler out of his room; Chandler will probably find it easier to talk if he’s not staring at naked Joey torso. He throws on an old t-shirt and some pajama pants, knocks on the door to Chandler’s bedroom. “Hey, Chandler, c’mon, let’s talk about this.”

            “No.” Chandler sounds absolutely mournful in there, as if someone has actually died.

            “Chan...” Joey tries the doorknob, finds it locked. “Chandler, c’mon. Talk to me. Please?”

            Joey stands there feeling like an idiot for what feels like an eternity before he hears Chandler’s footsteps on the other side of the door. The door inches open, and Chandler’s staring at the floor with the most tragic expression on his face. “Look, Joe, I already know what you’re gonna say, so just—”

            Joey chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

           “Yes, I do,” he says furiously. “I know I’m disgusting, perverted, a terrible friend, however you wanna put it. The sooner you leave me alone, the sooner I can get my stuff together and leave.” Chandler swings the door shut, but Joey stops it with his hand and lets himself inside.

            “Leave? What? No! I don’t want you to leave! You’re my best friend!”

            Chandler turns around to face him, earnest hope in his eyes. “Still?”

            “Of course!” Joey can’t understand why Chandler thinks this would be a deal-breaker for him.

            Chandler sighs tragically, sitting in the middle of his bed with his legs tucked underneath him. “You get why I couldn’t tell you, right? About my job?”

            “Yeah, if you told me you wrote porn I’d be buggin’ you every day wantin’ to read it!”

            Chandler’s mouth is a grim line. “Exactly.”

            “So all that stuff about not bein’ invested in it was total crap, huh?”

            Chandler squirms in a way that answers Joey’s question.

            “How come you couldn’t just tell me?” Joey asks, because he might as well be up-front about this.

            “You just said you wouldn’t leave me alone until I showed you—”

            “No, not that. I mean my, y’know, involvement in your books.”

            “Because you’d want to read them,” Chandler says with an uncalled-for amount of sass.

            Joey moves a little closer, standing at the foot of the bed. “And you were afraid, what, that I’d find out you wanna have sex with me?”

            Chandler gives him a look that’s insultingly condescending. “That may have been one of my motivations.”

            Joey shrugs. “Why? You didn’t think I’d be sorta flattered—in a weird way?”

            Another “you fucking idiot” look from Chandler; there’s a lot of vitriol to this one, though. “Maybe if I was Phoebe or Monica or Rachel, sure! Look, Joe, I appreciate that you’re trying to cheer me up, but it’s not working.”

            Joey sits on the bed across from Chandler and lays his hands on his shoulders. Chandler goes stiff under the touch. “Do you think about me like that?” he asks in what he hopes is a soft, soothing tone, but there’s an edge of desperation there that Joey hopes Chandler can’t hear.

            The moonlight cuts across Chandler’s face and makes him look impossibly fragile. Blood pools beneath his skin as he looks away. “I—I might...think about it sometimes,” he mumbles, but it’s quiet enough in the room that Joey can hear him without any trouble. He shuts his eyes in pain, his mouth scrunched up like he’s been forced to eat something bitter and foul.

            Joey feels like he’s been told he just won the lottery, because he knows how to do this. He’s great at sex anyway, and reading Chandler’s books has given him a manual on what to do in bed with Chandler. “Do you want to do it now?”

            Chandler breathes out a shuddery gasping sound when Joey sort of squeezes his shoulders. “If—if you do, yeah.”

            Joey grins. “Alright, great. Get naked, I wanna see you.”

            Chandler blushes at that like a goddamn schoolgirl in a particularly graphic sex education class. He looks down at his clothes as if he’s surprised to be wearing them. A few seconds pass by where nothing happens, then Joey’s reaching for the hem of Chandler’s t-shirt, pulling it over his head before Chandler’s pushing his arms down in a struggle.

            “Chandler, I’ve read your porn,” Joey says flatly. “Nothin’ surprises me anymore.”

            Chandler lets out a chuckle—Joey’s not sure what that’s about—and lets Joey strip him of his shirt. Joey pulls him closer by his shoulders, latches his mouth to the side of Chandler’s neck and sucks the skin there. Chandler groans a satisfied sound at Joey’s ear, and then Joey’s mouth travels south to the juncture of Chandler’s neck and shoulder. His teeth clamp down, gentle but still enough to leave a mark, and Chandler tips his head back, his hands sliding over the span of Joey’s back and fingers knotting in his t-shirt. Joey feels himself shiver at the way his name sighs out of Chandler’s lips like a trail of smoke, husky and thick.

            He lets his mouth roam over skin, open around a nipple. Chandler’s hands tighten wherever they’re gripped, and Joey’s name comes quicker and breathier as Joey grazes his teeth over the perked bud. Chandler wraps his legs around Joey’s waist to pull him closer, which ends up with Joey sort of falling on top of him. Chandler stares up at him with wide blue eyes, his lips uncoupled. Joey really wants to kiss him, but if Chandler just wants to get fucked he’s not going to waste time with that.

            Joey slides his hands down Chandler’s sides, smooths them under the waistband of his pajamas. Chandler sucks in a gulp of air, his chest hitching a little as Joey slides him out of his pants and tosses the clothes onto the floor in a heap. His palms skim over the smooth skin of Chandler’s thighs for a moment before Chandler’s wrapping his hands around Joey’s biceps.

            “Joey,” Chandler breathes out,  “you know I’ve never...” He makes a face, trails off.

            “Relax, baby, I know what I’m doin’.” Joey digs behind the headboard for the lube, because after discovering the books in here he knows where Chandler hides this crap. He finds the bottle, gets two fingers dripping wet, and sits on his knees between Chandler’s open legs. Chandler slowly hooks a leg over Joey’s shoulder to pull him closer, making it easier for Joey’s fingers to slip inside of him. Chandler cries out something that sounds like “fuuuuuh-ahhh” and Joey smiles despite himself, gripping Chandler’s thigh a little tighter as his fingers stroke and press. “Is this what you like?” Joey asks in a low voice, holding him in place even as Chandler’s hips are rocking against his hand. “You want it slow, so I can take you apart piece by piece?” Joey’s only got two fingers in, barely past the nail bed, and Chandler already sounds like he’s dying. It is embarrassingly easy to get this guy off; Joey assumed someone who writes porn for a living would have a higher tolerance for this kind of stuff.

            “God, Joe,” Chandler groans, his hips pushing forward and his eyes squeezed shut.

            Joey takes it all in with reverent awe before pressing his mouth to the skin of Chandler’s thigh, kissing a line up his leg. Chandler’s thighs are quaking, his throat choking out unintelligible praises cut through with Joey’s name. “Oh, I know what you want,” Joey purrs, touching him inside, slow and unhurried. Chandler whines and digs his heel into the sheets. “You want me to fuck you, don’t ya?” He grins at the way Chandler responds to the word, his hips jerking and his lower lip pulled between his teeth, then Joey strokes his thumb over his opening, and Chandler moans a needy, pleading noise. “I dunno if I’d fit, though,” he teases around a laugh when Chandler clutches around his fingers.

            There’s a wet trail of pre-cum on Chandler’s stomach that Joey thinks of licking away, but he doesn’t want to miss one moment of the way Chandler’s face is reacting to all of this. Chandler’s dick is hard and tight against his belly, and he reaches down to relieve some of the tension before Joey’s snatching his hand away.

            “Hey, c’mon, if you’re just gonna jerk off, what’s the point of me even bein’ here?” Joey chides, pinning Chandler’s wrist to the mattress and ceasing his strokes until Chandler seems compliant. He lets go, carefully, and brings his hand back to the curve behind Chandler’s knee. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you want.” Joey presses in a little deeper, slow and slick, because he wants to savor this, wants to coax the orgasm out of him with an expert hand. “My dick.” There’s no rush. He could do this all day if his own cock wasn’t rock-fucking-solid in his pants right now. “Why’d you write so many books about it if you didn’t want me to fuck you open and leave you sore?” Joey’s fingers ghost over a spot that makes Chandler’s spine arch off the bed. “Damn, baby, the things you let me do to you...”

            Chandler whines, his body taut and tensed, and he thumps his heel against Joey’s ass and says, “Joey, stop,” with so much authority that Joey freezes, as if all the arousal’s been cut out of him. He searches Chandler’s face for hints as to why this went wrong. How could Joey have managed to fuck up sex? He’s not exactly experienced with other men, but the mechanics here ought to be similar.

            “What’s wrong?” he hears himself say, and it sounds so damn sad.

            Chandler slides his leg off of Joey’s shoulder, shifts his hips a little so he can sit up. He tries to shield himself with his legs, suddenly self-conscious. “This isn’t you.”

            Joey shrugs, because he would’ve never thought about being this close to a naked Chandler if he hadn’t discovered the guy was writing porn about him. But it’s not like it’s unpleasant; he’s pretty fucking hard right now, and he hasn’t even touched himself. “Well, sure, I’ve never”—he gestures vaguely—“with a guy before, but—”

            Chandler’s shaking his head, cutting off Joey’s words. “No, I mean the way you’re talking. You’re being Drake, not Joey.”

            “I thought that’s what you wanted,” Joey says, tilting his head. He can’t make sense of why Chandler would write so many books about something that doesn’t turn him on. He feels thoroughly betrayed; he read all those goddamn things under the pretense that they held Chandler’s sexual secrets. Joey’s calling bullshit on this whole ordeal.

            Chandler shakes his head again and grabs a pillow from behind him. He shoves it in front of his crotch so he can sit up fully without Joey focusing on his absurdly hard dick. “No, Joey, those books are fantasies.”

            “Yeah, yours!”

            “No, other people’s.  Drake is supposed to appeal to an audience that wants that kind of thing.” Chandler glances away, his face hot with chagrin. “It was easy to go on about his eyes and his body and his smile when he—when he looked like you.” Chandler stares down at the pillow, his mouth an angry bracket. “I really wish I wasn’t naked for this conversation.”

            Joey’s still letting all this sink in. “So...you don’t want me to be Drake?”

            “I want you to be Joey.”

            Joey feels the wallop there, takes a few seconds to recover. Chandler’s watching him with curious eyes. Joey leans forward, his hands in the pillows to balance himself, and presses his mouth over Chandler’s. This is officially the weirdest first kiss he’s ever had, because it’s with Chandler, so he just sort of holds his mouth there and prays he didn’t breach some unspoken boundary.

            Chandler stays impossibly still for a moment, then he’s catching Joey’s lower lip between his teeth while his hands reach up to cup his jaw, and, holy shit, that’s really fucking hot. Chandler’s fingers curl at the base of Joey’s neck and slide through his hair. Joey hums a moan around the kiss, tilting his head a little to suck at the corners of his mouth. Chandler drags his nails over Joey’s scalp, and Joey just pushes harder, his mouth rough and wet and open over Chandler’s.

            “Don’t do this just for me,” Chandler says, pulling away. “You’re supposed to want this too.”

            Joey thinks about how Chandler sounded with his fingers buried inside of him. He thinks about how Chandler might feel around his cock, their bodies slotted together and moving in tandem. He thinks about waking up next to Chandler in the morning, dropping chaste little kisses over the bare skin of his shoulder to wake him up.

            Joey murmurs, “I do,” and then he’s kissing Chandler again, grabbing a handful of his hair while the other hand slides down his thigh to wrap around the curve behind the joint of his knee. Chandler gasps around his mouth as Joey hooks the leg over his shoulder. He grabs the pillow, moves to stuff it behind his head, but Joey’s scooting backwards on the bed, pulling Chandler with him and splaying him out on the mattress.

            He loves the choked noise Chandler makes while he’s getting his fingers slick with lube again, the way Chandler’s twisting his hips and squeezing the pillow above his head. Joey strokes two fingers over him, pushing him open, and Chandler whimpers as his fingers move in little circles. Joey rises up onto his knees, rubs his thighs together to create some form of friction, because, goddamn, he is harder than he’s ever been in his life. Chandler’s moans are downright obscene—and he’s not even making words anymore, just rough, shuddery noises that are the hottest things Joey’s ever heard.  

            He slides his fingers in a bit deeper, to the second joint, and Chandler swears low in his throat and rocks his hips into Joey’s hand, his breaths coming in short little pants of air as his head tips back against the mattress. “Joe—fuck—I need”—Chandler groans, shoves into Joey’s fingers.

            Joey bites his lip and squeezes his thighs again. Everything past his waist feels like a string wound painfully tight. “I know what you need,” he huffs out, grinding against the air. His fingers tag something inside of Chandler that makes him gasp out a shivery sound and wrap his free leg around Joey’s hips. “I’ll make you come, baby, don’t worry,” Joey purrs, fingers stroking slow over the tight bud of muscle. Chandler’s eyes are dark and half-lidded, the flushed head of his dick leaking pre-cum over his belly; Joey’s trying not to focus on that, because he does not need to blow his load right now, not when Chandler’s this close.

            “Come on, Joe, please,” Chandler begs, his fingers clawing at the pillowcase while he rolls his hips. Joey smiles, settles back on his heels and slides his fingers in deep, and watches as Chandler falls apart in an agonizing stretch, every slow stroke and press of Joey’s fingers plucking at the strings of his orgasm until Chandler’s gasping and crying out and striping his stomach.

            Watching Chandler come is an actual experience; Joey thinks the earth may have shifted beneath him. Chandler’s shivering, tight around his fingers and sighing his name over and over as his legs try to pull Joey in closer. Joey breathes hot over the soft skin of his thigh, pressing hungry kisses there as he wiggles his fingers free. Chandler whines and reaches out for Joey with shaky hands, but Joey’s rising up onto his knees, shoving his pajamas and boxers down over his hips, and, God, his poor, neglected, swollen cock. He thrusts into his hand—the other wrapped around Chandler’s knee with an almost bruising grip—and it only takes about five quick jerks before he’s coming hard over Chandler’s stomach, one wet stripe catching the line of his chin and jaw.

            Chandler makes a groaning sound through his teeth, his legs tight around Joey’s hips, and Joey opens his eyes to take in the sight. Jesus fucking Christ, he is not prepared to see Chandler so utterly wrecked, his hair mussed and wild like it’s trying to escape into the pillow, his eyes stormy with satisfaction, and a smear of cum down the side of his face. Joey exhales a shaky breath, beyond wondering why any of this turns him on anymore. After a light-headed moment, he says, “Man, that was...that was somethin’.”

            “You came on my face,” Chandler says, like it’s salt in an already embarrassing wound.

            “Yeah, I did!” Joey grins. “How’s that for bein’ Joey? Didn’t see that in any of your books.”

            Chandler hides a little smirk as he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. “Told you they weren’t my fantasies,” he says, bringing his hand to his mouth and, holy fucking shit, Chandler’s licking up his cum. It has to be an act, Joey thinks. That awkward, flaily, incompetent-with-the-opposite-sex persona has to be an act Chandler’s perfected so no one could possibly suspect him of authoring porn. Because he’s not wincing or reacting to the bitter taste at all.

            Joey thinks Chandler could give life-altering blowjobs.

            “Hey, y’know, we could come up with stuff for the next book,” Joey suggests, still in somewhat of a daze. “Together.”

            Chandler gives a weak little laugh and sits up a bit. “Trust me, I have no shortage of ideas.” He tilts his head. “Oh, was that your way of subtly suggesting we have more sex? Because I am totally in favor of that.”

            Joey grins. “Well, both, actually.” Chandler rises up onto his knees to kiss him and drapes his arms over his shoulders, fingers curling in the short hair at the base of Joey’s neck. “Y’know, maybe there’s stuff you don’t even know you’re into ‘til you do it with me.” Discovering Chandler’s crush on him has given Joey a whole new realm of sexual activities to explore.

            Chandler’s mouth pulls up at the corners. “You sound like you have something in mind.”

          “Maybe a couple things...” Kissing Chandler is definitely on Joey’s list of “things he didn’t know he wanted.” Chandler kisses slow and tentative when he’s not on the brink of orgasm, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong. Joey slides a hand into Chandler’s hair and pushes him closer, shows him how to kiss like he doesn’t know how to stop.

            Chandler breathes in a hot flare over Joey’s lips. “I have a few things in mind too.” Joey captures his mouth again, traces his tongue over his lips and tastes the faint burn of salt on Chandler’s tongue.

            “Like what?”

            “Like, well...” Chandler smiles in a way that’s self-conscious before he lays his hands over Joey’s shoulders and pushes, pinning his back to the mattress. “Why don’t I show you?”

            Joey’s not going to protest against that; he figures that since the books are fantasy, then Chandler’s absolutely not going to be as awkward and submissive as his female counterpart.

             Joey loves when he’s right.