Pete/Roger request! Written while sleep-deprived, heck yeah!
This is for griseldajane! Enjoy and I hope you like it! <3
(I apologize for being shameful and doing these requests out of order. I am working diligently on the list, never fear.) (:
Also it’s kind of late and I did not look over this very carefully for typos. My bad. xD
Title: Smash The Mirror
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Roger
Time Period: 1969
Word Count: 4074
Warnings: Angsty Roger, moody Pete, lots of fabulous gay sex
Disclaimer: I write this crap for free. I do not intend to exploit the Who (in the financial sense, anyway) and have no legal rights to them.
Summary: Oh my WHAT WHAT another Tommy-related fic. Do forgive me. Or don’t, because you’re too busy reading the sexiness of the Great Gay Love Story Of Our Time to be bothered with this fic’s similarity to other fics you may have read. Pete and Roger. OTP. Happy reading!
Roger wasn’t one to chase what he wanted. What was the point of wasting all that time and energy when it was so much easier to let his quarry come to him? He reasoned that it was obviously more efficient to lure in the prey than go running after it. That way, there was no doubt that he himself was desired. And there was nothing wrong with wanting to be desired, was there?
He could not deny, however, the tiredness he felt at always being in control. He bit back the uncertainty and played the man every time, having no other choice. Sometimes in his most vulnerable moments, while sharing a bed with a woman whose name he may or may not know, let alone remember the next morning, his mind would slip, the reins would slacken, and he would wonder how it felt to be the one possessed, penetrated, dominated. If the girl was drunk and pliable enough, he could get her to do things to him-be the one on top, yank on his hair-and it was in these moments, when he could lie flat on his back and shut his eyes and helplessly let his mind wander, that unbidden images would filter into his mind and bring him to the most powerful climaxes he’d ever had.
The more he tried to be alluring, wearing tighter jeans and open, revealing jackets while performing, letting his hair grow long down his back, shifting the emphasis of his onstage movements from his feet to his hips, the more he was rewarded: by some miracle of good fashion choices he had become something of a sex god overnight. Among his bandmates, it was the attraction of light ridicule, and Pete was the worst, teasing him and taunting him until it seemed for a tense while that Roger’s transformation would only bring out the worst in their relationship. Things had been perfectly all right until now, and all of a sudden they were a quarreling couple, alternating between snippy arguments and frigid silences.
“What did I do?” he lamented to John backstage one night, after putting everything he had into another performance of Tommy, only to have Pete stalk curtly past him to retreat to wherever Pete went to be moody. Roger was sure that Pete was a drama queen in utter denial. At least Roger didn’t pretend that he was being flamboyant for the sake of artistic expression.
John gave him one of those gentle once-overs that conveyed, You’re exasperatingly thick, aren’t you? Roger could stand these looks because they were usually followed by actual advice, and not just meant to make him feel like a monstrous idiot, as Pete was so fond of doing.
“You won’t rightly know, will you, unless you ask His Royal Ponce about it,” John said simply.
“But-really, what do you think it is?” Roger pressed.
The bassist’s face pinched into a faintly uncomfortable expression, a variant of the one he often wore when being asked a stupid or awkward question by a press reporter.
Without warning, Keith piled into the backstage area with all the energy of a hyperactive dog, colliding in a purely intentional way with the back of John. The bassist barely wavered in his stance, the only change being the dawn of a smile on his lips.
“Hullo, dear friends all,” he announced as he leaned into John’s body, effectively aborting any serious exchange John and Roger might have had. He grinned at Roger, then glanced around for any sign of the band’s fourth constituent. “Damn it, he’s gotten away again, hasn’t he?”
Roger rolled his eyes. “Indeed.”
“Shall we hunt him down and mob him?” Keith said brightly.
“He’s caught on to your act by now, Moonie,” John said.
Keith waggled his eyebrows at the singer. “John’s got a point. Your turn, Roger.”
“My turn to what?”
“Get him out of his bloody room!”
“But-”
“Best of luck,” Keith said. John offered his own version of this sentiment in the form of a slightly wan smile as the drummer began to push him forward. “You know where to find us.”
“Have a good time,” Roger said dully, watching them leave through the side door and climb into a waiting car. In all the most frequent tour stops, Keith had long since staked out the best bars and taverns.
By no means was Roger obligated to take up Keith’s challenge and play supportive mate to Pete’s moping self. He could get in the next taxi and make his way to the bar just as easily. But somehow he found himself sitting in the back of a cab, destination bound for the very person who was giving him so much grief. The taxi ride gave him a good amount of time to accumulate all of the stored resentment and bring it to the tip of his tongue, ready for detonation. He wasn’t a chaser. He wasn’t an aggressor.
But maybe, just maybe, if they could be alone, Roger could finally make it happen. He didn’t have much of a plan besides standing there and looking sexy, though. He knocked on the hotel room door before he had a chance to chicken out.
Pete’s first words to him were: “Oh, it’s you.” Flat and dull as the expression on his face. By now Roger had learned to read this as Pete’s I-have-something-to-hide attitude.
“If you’re trying to act normal, you’re overcompensating a bit,” he volleyed back. Pete was looking him up and down nonchalantly, but so obviously going over all of the details of Roger’s body that it made the smaller man shudder internally. He straightened his spine and tossed his hair away from his face.
“Do you need something?” Pete said brusquely.
“Do you?” Roger said. His own forehead wrinkled in confusion to match Pete’s. What had he just said?
“You’re the one knocking at my door,” said Pete.
You’re the one undressing me with your eyes, you lying git. “Well, may I come in?” Roger said pointedly.
“Um. Fine,” said Pete, shrugging and opening the door wider. He turned and walked away as Roger entered the room and shut the door again. The guitarist ended up at the far window, leaning listlessly back against the windowsill.
Roger cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry and his palms were sweating.
“So, you came here to…”
“Talk,” Roger said uncertainly. “Yeah. Talk.”
“Did you really. Should I be flattered or something that you’re gracing me with your presence?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I’m assuming your being here has something to do with you, as you’ve been holding the monopoly on self-righteous vanity for a while now.”
“Don’t talk to me about vanity, you sodding hypocrite. Don’t you dare spew this load of accusatory rubbish at me, as if you haven’t been showing off and talking nonstop for the past-” Roger already felt himself losing steam; he simply couldn’t spit venom into Pete’s face like this, especially with those eyes staring relentlessly back at him, holding all the answers yet showing him nothing.
“Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, then,” Pete said, his voice baiting and low. “Tell me, Roger. All that you’ve been meaning to say, but haven’t been able to because of me.”
Typical Pete: candid in public, cryptic in private, directing the conversation as he wanted it to go. Roger decided to go forward anyway, at the risk of walking into a trap. The way Pete was positioned, leaning back with his hands propped on the windowsill, the hinge of his hips pressing outward, casual and undeniably suggestive at the same time, made Roger wonder who was trying to lure whom.
“Well, I-I haven’t a clue why you’ve got to be so-so vile and shifty about how I look these days,” Roger stammered, feeling the heat gather in his cheeks. The shame was colored with anger as well-here he stood, out of words and vulnerable, and Pete had the nerve to look as unconcerned as possible with it all.
Pete shrugged. “It’s a good look for the band, though, isn’t it? Brings all the young girls to the shows.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Maybe I’m jealous? Is that what you want me to say?”
Roger bit down on the inside of his cheek. Coppery, bittersweet rage seeped into his mouth and he winced visibly.
“You’re so busy deciding what everybody else is going to say,” he said, “that you can’t even step back a moment and see past your own no-” Shit. Pete was smirking at him.
“I’m quite certain that I’m not the only self-preoccupied one. Nice try, though.”
“You really-bloody fucking hell, you think I’ve done all this because I’m obsessed with myself?” His eyes were wide, pleading, prompting Pete to fill in the rest, to come to him at last. “Why do I dress the way I do? Why do I sing your songs every single night? Why…why am I here right now?”
This outburst of genuine emotion actually seemed to have thrown Pete off.
“You think I don’t notice?” he said at last, quietly, with such a tone that made Roger want to go to him right now, break this barrier that was between them and fling himself fully into whatever lay on the other side.
“I was beginning to wonder…” Roger faltered.
“Keep talking.”
“Er-” Roger opened his mouth and felt like a dead fish, gaping stupidly, lungs empty.
“Roger,” Pete whispered. “Everything I have to say to you-it’s all there. It’s already been said.”
The blonde had a fleeting hope that they could just skip all of this, whatever it was that Pete wanted-poetry, was that what he wanted? Did he think Roger had secretly been writing some lovelorn rock opera for him?
“Well,” Roger said slowly, rolling the word around in his mouth, stalling and buying time. Pete didn’t move. The singer sighed and squared his shoulders. “I’ve tried to make you, er, want to do something, but it’s been the opposite, you know, with you pulling away.”
“Want to do what?”
“Want to…Pete, I-I want you.”
The silence in the aftermath of the words hung for an earsplitting interval between them, like a gunshot whose presence and absence rings out a thousand times over.
Pete was chuckling to himself, but it was a nervous, strangled noise; he was toying with his hair, looking down at the floor. Roger didn’t know what to make of it, so he just stood there, completely unnerved by the show of self-doubt.
“I can’t even believe it,” he mumbled. “That you would actually…why would you ever want me?”
The question was simple and bottomless at the same time. When fumbling around in his tormented brain for an answer, Roger could only come up with handfuls of feelings, glimpses, memories-the answer was too big, too obvious and too unfathomable for words.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m so afraid this isn’t real, that you’re not real. I’m just-”
“I’m real! Are you losing your mind?”
“Why, yes I am. Thank you for asking,” Pete said with a wry, self-conscious smile. He met Roger’s eyes and the smaller man felt ready to sink to his knees, to cling to the floor just to have something secure to hang onto. “Come here and show me you’re real.”
A thousand disgusted groans, sighs of relief and screams of exasperation welled up in Roger’s throat. As soon as he closed the space between them, time and space stopped being relevant, and as soon as those broad, capable hands were on him, he felt more real than he ever had before. Lips parted and mouths met, and all of Roger’s shyness left him because all he wanted to do was show Pete, however he could, that he was his, and they were the same…
Such high-minded thoughts buckled and gave way to tidal waves of heat coursing through his body as Pete’s hands spanned the back of each of his thighs, pulling him upward in one concerted heave so that his feet were off the ground and his legs were cinched around the trimness of Pete’s waist. They leaned back, propped up by the windowsill, closer in body than they had ever been before, but their bodies knew exactly what to do with one another, it seemed: Pete’s fingers delving beneath the fabric of Roger’s shirt, painstakingly going over every notched vertebra, smoothing the soft skin in the small of the singer’s back, flexing over the shoulder blades and the supple muscles beneath the skin. Roger arched beneath the touch, eager to offer himself to Pete, to show Pete all that he had to offer. His own hands tangled instinctively in the dusky locks of Pete’s hair as their mouths moved together, and they reveled in the new taste as if taste had never meant a thing up until this instant. Roger realized that kissing was made for this; when there were no more words that could possibly be said, it was the logical next step, sealing and affirming everything they had said or could ever say. Also, he finally knew the secret as to how to shut Pete up.
The guitarist was probing his singer with lips and tongue and fingers, seeking out every possible dimension of him, fleshing him out with taste and touch. They were close, close enough to trade breaths and to feel their heartbeats reflected in the other man’s ribcage, but still not close enough. Pete took Roger’s lower lip in his mouth and tested it, alternating between caressing it with his tongue, sucking on it and nibbling and tugging on it softly with his teeth. He began to alternate hard and soft pressure as he sucked and Roger moaned and ground his hips into the biting hardness of Pete’s hipbones and the place between them where a new, straining hardness could be felt. One hand was removed from beneath his shirt and went to his hair, pulling on it to tilt his head back and expose his neck for Pete’s inspection. His moans, no longer stifled by another pair of lips, grew louder and more needy, his gyrations against Pete’s arousal more intense as the guitarist’s mouth found new tender flesh to exploit. He was being driven to madness by the clothing that still separated them and all the places Pete did not yet have access to were crying out to be examined. Without warning Pete was straightening up, bracing his laced fingers in Roger’s lower back and taking them both to the bed. Roger’s mass of curls arranged themselves to frame his face as he lay on the bed, and Pete raised his head and upper body to have a leisurely, hungry look at the prone figure beneath him.
“Am I real enough yet?” Roger said teasingly, arching his back a little and basking in the glowing, electric blue lust of Pete’s gaze. He himself was enjoying the view of the lithe form, wiry and predatory in stance, but with shoulders and waist and hips just narrow enough to suggest a bony, rough-edged tenderness. Pete’s legs were splayed to pin Roger’s legs open, his back arched in a resolute bow shape, almost as if he were shielding Roger from the world around them.
A set of fingertips grazed Roger’s knuckles and then Pete’s hand was guiding the blonde’s own hand, connecting two pieces of an electrical circuit and igniting them both into fluorescence as Pete pressed the singer’s hand to the stiff, tented denim between the guitarist’s thighs. Roger needed no further guidance and began to rub it, mapping it out in his mind, feeling his own arousal harden as Pete rubbed back against his palm.
“This is what you do to me,” Pete gasped. It was a glorious accusation for which Roger was glad to take full responsibility.
“Let me have a closer look,” Roger said.
Pete pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor, then retreated, rolling over onto his back. Roger followed him in a second, but the progress he was making with the zipper of Pete’s jeans was abruptly halted by a pair of hands on his wrists. “Hang on. Stand up and undress for me,” he said.
Roger watched Pete’s face as he obeyed, getting back to his feet and removing first his shirt, then undoing the hem of his pants. He recognized a more open version of an expression he had seen many a night when he glanced over at the guitarist in the band’s dressing room backstage whenever Roger was half-dressed or in the process of getting into his concert getup. The attention of the perfect audience emboldened the singer, and he wiggled his hips and inched the loosened jeans tauntingly slow down his body. Pete groaned aloud at the sight of Roger fully disrobed and the guitarist’s hands began creeping to the source of his torment. Roger leapt back onto the bed and pinned Pete’s arms at his sides. “I’ll deal with that,” he purred.
The task looked a lot more daunting once Roger had Pete’s trousers off. The singer had had some idea that Pete was on the larger side of average, but he hadn’t full-on expected this kind of challenge, especially as it was the first and most important challenge of this nature he had ever taken on. He gaped down at it for a moment.
“You’re-oh my God, Pete,” he said hoarsely.
“You know what they say about men with large noses,” Pete said drily. “If you don’t want to, er-”
Roger shushed him and went to work on the issue with a courage he didn’t know he had. A great deal of it, he discovered, was learning how to do it without gagging. His eyes watered a little as the swollen head brushed the back of his throat, but he kept on, trying to concentrate on the reality that Pete was in his mouth, under his spell, at his mercy; with little bits of whispered advice interspersed with louder groans and cries of nonsensical encouragement, Roger quickly built up a technique, using both of his hands to compensate for what his mouth couldn’t handle. He soon had Pete’s shaft coated so well that he could move his lips and fingers up and down the length of it with relative ease. The blood pounded feverishly in his head and he could feel a knot forming where he was straining his back as he leaned meticulously over, flicking the head and the delicate opening at the tip, pumping the shaft with his hand and his mouth working in tandem. He was beginning to speculate the possibility of passing out when Pete inadvertently saved him, grasping him by twin handfuls of golden hair and gently lifting his head upward. Roger gasped for air.
“Are you all right?” Pete said, stroking the sides of Roger’s crimson-tinged face. The blonde could only manage a breathless nod in reply.
“I can’t wait any longer,” the guitarist continued. “I want you now.”
They shifted their bodies without having to think about it, lining themselves up perfectly, gazing into each other’s faces from their respective vantage points. Pete was on top, Roger beneath him, both breathing rapidly but steadily, pausing to reconcile the fantasies they had both entertained for a ridiculous number of years with the reality now mirrored in one another’s faces.
“You have no idea-” Pete began.
“Pete, this is-” Roger started at the same time. They both broke off their words and grinned a little dazedly at one another.
Their gazes remained locked together as Pete moved into position and pressed himself carefully to Roger’s entrance. There was no question of when or how, no stopping for the pain or the uncertainty-from the moment they had first made eye contact, they had been progressing to this very instance, and each of them had known it, been ready for it on some level. Now it was happening. Pete bit his lip and forced himself to hang on as he found a taut, narrow reception inside of Roger, groaning at the painful pleasure of being clenched in a grip a million times tighter than a fist, and Roger tensing as he tried to weather the sensation of being torn in two, of being turned inside out, of being possessed in a way he had never been before. He watched from some far-off prison of pain signals as Pete’s face contorted in ecstasy, taking secondhand pleasure in the sight of the man he desired now taking such satisfaction in Roger’s body. A hand was reaching down to pull him back up, back into his body; the hand was grasping him firmly around the girth of his own shaft, reeling him back in with each stroke to be engulfed by pleasure once more.
It could have lasted forever, or an hour, or the time it takes to sneeze for all Roger knew; all he knew was Pete, losing himself and feeling the final boundaries between their bodies dissolve as they arced perfectly over the peak of their lust, and they were one throaty cry, one roiling concentration of bliss, one single point of light and heat, and then they were two again, bare-skinned and spent and slick with sticky moisture. He felt a set of lips graze his forehead, then the weight of the bed shift a little. He automatically turned his own body to stay as close to that essential heat as possible.
The two of them ended up laying on their sides, facing each other in the messy remnants of what had once been a nice, neat hotel bed. After a time they found their voices again.
“Pete,” Roger said, stroking the other man’s palms with his fingertips. “What are we?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Good God, what does that mean?” Roger could tell that he was, in fact, seriously pondering the question even as he derided it. The blonde waited patiently for his response. “I, er, can’t really ask you to marry me, darling, seeing as I already am.”
Roger scoffed. “Forget that nonsense and let’s run off together.”
“We sound like such a pair of sods right now,” Pete groaned.
“You always sound like a sod.”
“Don’t even start with me. Your interviews make me want to stick my head in a pot of boiling water.”
“Yeah, well, your interviews…What was it, now…’I had my first fuck on the floor of my mother’s drawing room’ or something like that,” Roger said gleefully. “Can you imagine how many people threw the magazine down right then and ran screaming-” He twisted away to dodge Pete’s palm from clamping down over his mouth. “I bet everybody went instantly raving mad-”
“I would quote something ten times more insipid of yours back at you but I can’t bring myself to do it; your quotes are just that bad.”
“At least I talk somewhat normally. You try to sound like a bleeding philosopher all the time. Pete, you prig, if you can tell the entire Western world straight out about your awkward adolescent sex life, why the hell couldn’t you just…” Roger trailed off with a muted exhale in silent wonderment of their entire history up to this culminating encounter.
“I only said those things to you because I wanted you to stop dithering about and just say it to me already,” Pete said with a tired kind of honesty.
“You know, Pete, if your intricate verbal cleverness fails to work for you sometimes, it might in fact have nothing to do with the other person.”
“Oh, yeah?” Pete said mock-threateningly.
“You’re such a bloody genius, how can you stand it? You’re too brilliant for your own good,” Roger said innocently.
Pete wrapped him in a rib-cracking embrace and blew into his ear. Roger let out a muffled shriek and struggled to get away. All he succeeded in doing was to pull Pete on top of him.
“Fucking hell, you’re going to make me hard again,” he growled.
“Rest assured-or rather, don’t,” Roger said, licking his lips and wriggling a little beneath the supple weight of Pete’s body, “that you’re not going to be getting much sleep tonight.”
“We’ve got some catching up to do,” Pete agreed.
(I apologize for being shameful and doing these requests out of order. I am working diligently on the list, never fear.) (:
Also it’s kind of late and I did not look over this very carefully for typos. My bad. xD
Title: Smash The Mirror
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Roger
Time Period: 1969
Word Count: 4074
Warnings: Angsty Roger, moody Pete, lots of fabulous gay sex
Disclaimer: I write this crap for free. I do not intend to exploit the Who (in the financial sense, anyway) and have no legal rights to them.
Summary: Oh my WHAT WHAT another Tommy-related fic. Do forgive me. Or don’t, because you’re too busy reading the sexiness of the Great Gay Love Story Of Our Time to be bothered with this fic’s similarity to other fics you may have read. Pete and Roger. OTP. Happy reading!
Roger wasn’t one to chase what he wanted. What was the point of wasting all that time and energy when it was so much easier to let his quarry come to him? He reasoned that it was obviously more efficient to lure in the prey than go running after it. That way, there was no doubt that he himself was desired. And there was nothing wrong with wanting to be desired, was there?
He could not deny, however, the tiredness he felt at always being in control. He bit back the uncertainty and played the man every time, having no other choice. Sometimes in his most vulnerable moments, while sharing a bed with a woman whose name he may or may not know, let alone remember the next morning, his mind would slip, the reins would slacken, and he would wonder how it felt to be the one possessed, penetrated, dominated. If the girl was drunk and pliable enough, he could get her to do things to him-be the one on top, yank on his hair-and it was in these moments, when he could lie flat on his back and shut his eyes and helplessly let his mind wander, that unbidden images would filter into his mind and bring him to the most powerful climaxes he’d ever had.
The more he tried to be alluring, wearing tighter jeans and open, revealing jackets while performing, letting his hair grow long down his back, shifting the emphasis of his onstage movements from his feet to his hips, the more he was rewarded: by some miracle of good fashion choices he had become something of a sex god overnight. Among his bandmates, it was the attraction of light ridicule, and Pete was the worst, teasing him and taunting him until it seemed for a tense while that Roger’s transformation would only bring out the worst in their relationship. Things had been perfectly all right until now, and all of a sudden they were a quarreling couple, alternating between snippy arguments and frigid silences.
“What did I do?” he lamented to John backstage one night, after putting everything he had into another performance of Tommy, only to have Pete stalk curtly past him to retreat to wherever Pete went to be moody. Roger was sure that Pete was a drama queen in utter denial. At least Roger didn’t pretend that he was being flamboyant for the sake of artistic expression.
John gave him one of those gentle once-overs that conveyed, You’re exasperatingly thick, aren’t you? Roger could stand these looks because they were usually followed by actual advice, and not just meant to make him feel like a monstrous idiot, as Pete was so fond of doing.
“You won’t rightly know, will you, unless you ask His Royal Ponce about it,” John said simply.
“But-really, what do you think it is?” Roger pressed.
The bassist’s face pinched into a faintly uncomfortable expression, a variant of the one he often wore when being asked a stupid or awkward question by a press reporter.
Without warning, Keith piled into the backstage area with all the energy of a hyperactive dog, colliding in a purely intentional way with the back of John. The bassist barely wavered in his stance, the only change being the dawn of a smile on his lips.
“Hullo, dear friends all,” he announced as he leaned into John’s body, effectively aborting any serious exchange John and Roger might have had. He grinned at Roger, then glanced around for any sign of the band’s fourth constituent. “Damn it, he’s gotten away again, hasn’t he?”
Roger rolled his eyes. “Indeed.”
“Shall we hunt him down and mob him?” Keith said brightly.
“He’s caught on to your act by now, Moonie,” John said.
Keith waggled his eyebrows at the singer. “John’s got a point. Your turn, Roger.”
“My turn to what?”
“Get him out of his bloody room!”
“But-”
“Best of luck,” Keith said. John offered his own version of this sentiment in the form of a slightly wan smile as the drummer began to push him forward. “You know where to find us.”
“Have a good time,” Roger said dully, watching them leave through the side door and climb into a waiting car. In all the most frequent tour stops, Keith had long since staked out the best bars and taverns.
By no means was Roger obligated to take up Keith’s challenge and play supportive mate to Pete’s moping self. He could get in the next taxi and make his way to the bar just as easily. But somehow he found himself sitting in the back of a cab, destination bound for the very person who was giving him so much grief. The taxi ride gave him a good amount of time to accumulate all of the stored resentment and bring it to the tip of his tongue, ready for detonation. He wasn’t a chaser. He wasn’t an aggressor.
But maybe, just maybe, if they could be alone, Roger could finally make it happen. He didn’t have much of a plan besides standing there and looking sexy, though. He knocked on the hotel room door before he had a chance to chicken out.
Pete’s first words to him were: “Oh, it’s you.” Flat and dull as the expression on his face. By now Roger had learned to read this as Pete’s I-have-something-to-hide attitude.
“If you’re trying to act normal, you’re overcompensating a bit,” he volleyed back. Pete was looking him up and down nonchalantly, but so obviously going over all of the details of Roger’s body that it made the smaller man shudder internally. He straightened his spine and tossed his hair away from his face.
“Do you need something?” Pete said brusquely.
“Do you?” Roger said. His own forehead wrinkled in confusion to match Pete’s. What had he just said?
“You’re the one knocking at my door,” said Pete.
You’re the one undressing me with your eyes, you lying git. “Well, may I come in?” Roger said pointedly.
“Um. Fine,” said Pete, shrugging and opening the door wider. He turned and walked away as Roger entered the room and shut the door again. The guitarist ended up at the far window, leaning listlessly back against the windowsill.
Roger cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry and his palms were sweating.
“So, you came here to…”
“Talk,” Roger said uncertainly. “Yeah. Talk.”
“Did you really. Should I be flattered or something that you’re gracing me with your presence?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I’m assuming your being here has something to do with you, as you’ve been holding the monopoly on self-righteous vanity for a while now.”
“Don’t talk to me about vanity, you sodding hypocrite. Don’t you dare spew this load of accusatory rubbish at me, as if you haven’t been showing off and talking nonstop for the past-” Roger already felt himself losing steam; he simply couldn’t spit venom into Pete’s face like this, especially with those eyes staring relentlessly back at him, holding all the answers yet showing him nothing.
“Let’s hear what you’ve got to say, then,” Pete said, his voice baiting and low. “Tell me, Roger. All that you’ve been meaning to say, but haven’t been able to because of me.”
Typical Pete: candid in public, cryptic in private, directing the conversation as he wanted it to go. Roger decided to go forward anyway, at the risk of walking into a trap. The way Pete was positioned, leaning back with his hands propped on the windowsill, the hinge of his hips pressing outward, casual and undeniably suggestive at the same time, made Roger wonder who was trying to lure whom.
“Well, I-I haven’t a clue why you’ve got to be so-so vile and shifty about how I look these days,” Roger stammered, feeling the heat gather in his cheeks. The shame was colored with anger as well-here he stood, out of words and vulnerable, and Pete had the nerve to look as unconcerned as possible with it all.
Pete shrugged. “It’s a good look for the band, though, isn’t it? Brings all the young girls to the shows.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Maybe I’m jealous? Is that what you want me to say?”
Roger bit down on the inside of his cheek. Coppery, bittersweet rage seeped into his mouth and he winced visibly.
“You’re so busy deciding what everybody else is going to say,” he said, “that you can’t even step back a moment and see past your own no-” Shit. Pete was smirking at him.
“I’m quite certain that I’m not the only self-preoccupied one. Nice try, though.”
“You really-bloody fucking hell, you think I’ve done all this because I’m obsessed with myself?” His eyes were wide, pleading, prompting Pete to fill in the rest, to come to him at last. “Why do I dress the way I do? Why do I sing your songs every single night? Why…why am I here right now?”
This outburst of genuine emotion actually seemed to have thrown Pete off.
“You think I don’t notice?” he said at last, quietly, with such a tone that made Roger want to go to him right now, break this barrier that was between them and fling himself fully into whatever lay on the other side.
“I was beginning to wonder…” Roger faltered.
“Keep talking.”
“Er-” Roger opened his mouth and felt like a dead fish, gaping stupidly, lungs empty.
“Roger,” Pete whispered. “Everything I have to say to you-it’s all there. It’s already been said.”
The blonde had a fleeting hope that they could just skip all of this, whatever it was that Pete wanted-poetry, was that what he wanted? Did he think Roger had secretly been writing some lovelorn rock opera for him?
“Well,” Roger said slowly, rolling the word around in his mouth, stalling and buying time. Pete didn’t move. The singer sighed and squared his shoulders. “I’ve tried to make you, er, want to do something, but it’s been the opposite, you know, with you pulling away.”
“Want to do what?”
“Want to…Pete, I-I want you.”
The silence in the aftermath of the words hung for an earsplitting interval between them, like a gunshot whose presence and absence rings out a thousand times over.
Pete was chuckling to himself, but it was a nervous, strangled noise; he was toying with his hair, looking down at the floor. Roger didn’t know what to make of it, so he just stood there, completely unnerved by the show of self-doubt.
“I can’t even believe it,” he mumbled. “That you would actually…why would you ever want me?”
The question was simple and bottomless at the same time. When fumbling around in his tormented brain for an answer, Roger could only come up with handfuls of feelings, glimpses, memories-the answer was too big, too obvious and too unfathomable for words.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m so afraid this isn’t real, that you’re not real. I’m just-”
“I’m real! Are you losing your mind?”
“Why, yes I am. Thank you for asking,” Pete said with a wry, self-conscious smile. He met Roger’s eyes and the smaller man felt ready to sink to his knees, to cling to the floor just to have something secure to hang onto. “Come here and show me you’re real.”
A thousand disgusted groans, sighs of relief and screams of exasperation welled up in Roger’s throat. As soon as he closed the space between them, time and space stopped being relevant, and as soon as those broad, capable hands were on him, he felt more real than he ever had before. Lips parted and mouths met, and all of Roger’s shyness left him because all he wanted to do was show Pete, however he could, that he was his, and they were the same…
Such high-minded thoughts buckled and gave way to tidal waves of heat coursing through his body as Pete’s hands spanned the back of each of his thighs, pulling him upward in one concerted heave so that his feet were off the ground and his legs were cinched around the trimness of Pete’s waist. They leaned back, propped up by the windowsill, closer in body than they had ever been before, but their bodies knew exactly what to do with one another, it seemed: Pete’s fingers delving beneath the fabric of Roger’s shirt, painstakingly going over every notched vertebra, smoothing the soft skin in the small of the singer’s back, flexing over the shoulder blades and the supple muscles beneath the skin. Roger arched beneath the touch, eager to offer himself to Pete, to show Pete all that he had to offer. His own hands tangled instinctively in the dusky locks of Pete’s hair as their mouths moved together, and they reveled in the new taste as if taste had never meant a thing up until this instant. Roger realized that kissing was made for this; when there were no more words that could possibly be said, it was the logical next step, sealing and affirming everything they had said or could ever say. Also, he finally knew the secret as to how to shut Pete up.
The guitarist was probing his singer with lips and tongue and fingers, seeking out every possible dimension of him, fleshing him out with taste and touch. They were close, close enough to trade breaths and to feel their heartbeats reflected in the other man’s ribcage, but still not close enough. Pete took Roger’s lower lip in his mouth and tested it, alternating between caressing it with his tongue, sucking on it and nibbling and tugging on it softly with his teeth. He began to alternate hard and soft pressure as he sucked and Roger moaned and ground his hips into the biting hardness of Pete’s hipbones and the place between them where a new, straining hardness could be felt. One hand was removed from beneath his shirt and went to his hair, pulling on it to tilt his head back and expose his neck for Pete’s inspection. His moans, no longer stifled by another pair of lips, grew louder and more needy, his gyrations against Pete’s arousal more intense as the guitarist’s mouth found new tender flesh to exploit. He was being driven to madness by the clothing that still separated them and all the places Pete did not yet have access to were crying out to be examined. Without warning Pete was straightening up, bracing his laced fingers in Roger’s lower back and taking them both to the bed. Roger’s mass of curls arranged themselves to frame his face as he lay on the bed, and Pete raised his head and upper body to have a leisurely, hungry look at the prone figure beneath him.
“Am I real enough yet?” Roger said teasingly, arching his back a little and basking in the glowing, electric blue lust of Pete’s gaze. He himself was enjoying the view of the lithe form, wiry and predatory in stance, but with shoulders and waist and hips just narrow enough to suggest a bony, rough-edged tenderness. Pete’s legs were splayed to pin Roger’s legs open, his back arched in a resolute bow shape, almost as if he were shielding Roger from the world around them.
A set of fingertips grazed Roger’s knuckles and then Pete’s hand was guiding the blonde’s own hand, connecting two pieces of an electrical circuit and igniting them both into fluorescence as Pete pressed the singer’s hand to the stiff, tented denim between the guitarist’s thighs. Roger needed no further guidance and began to rub it, mapping it out in his mind, feeling his own arousal harden as Pete rubbed back against his palm.
“This is what you do to me,” Pete gasped. It was a glorious accusation for which Roger was glad to take full responsibility.
“Let me have a closer look,” Roger said.
Pete pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor, then retreated, rolling over onto his back. Roger followed him in a second, but the progress he was making with the zipper of Pete’s jeans was abruptly halted by a pair of hands on his wrists. “Hang on. Stand up and undress for me,” he said.
Roger watched Pete’s face as he obeyed, getting back to his feet and removing first his shirt, then undoing the hem of his pants. He recognized a more open version of an expression he had seen many a night when he glanced over at the guitarist in the band’s dressing room backstage whenever Roger was half-dressed or in the process of getting into his concert getup. The attention of the perfect audience emboldened the singer, and he wiggled his hips and inched the loosened jeans tauntingly slow down his body. Pete groaned aloud at the sight of Roger fully disrobed and the guitarist’s hands began creeping to the source of his torment. Roger leapt back onto the bed and pinned Pete’s arms at his sides. “I’ll deal with that,” he purred.
The task looked a lot more daunting once Roger had Pete’s trousers off. The singer had had some idea that Pete was on the larger side of average, but he hadn’t full-on expected this kind of challenge, especially as it was the first and most important challenge of this nature he had ever taken on. He gaped down at it for a moment.
“You’re-oh my God, Pete,” he said hoarsely.
“You know what they say about men with large noses,” Pete said drily. “If you don’t want to, er-”
Roger shushed him and went to work on the issue with a courage he didn’t know he had. A great deal of it, he discovered, was learning how to do it without gagging. His eyes watered a little as the swollen head brushed the back of his throat, but he kept on, trying to concentrate on the reality that Pete was in his mouth, under his spell, at his mercy; with little bits of whispered advice interspersed with louder groans and cries of nonsensical encouragement, Roger quickly built up a technique, using both of his hands to compensate for what his mouth couldn’t handle. He soon had Pete’s shaft coated so well that he could move his lips and fingers up and down the length of it with relative ease. The blood pounded feverishly in his head and he could feel a knot forming where he was straining his back as he leaned meticulously over, flicking the head and the delicate opening at the tip, pumping the shaft with his hand and his mouth working in tandem. He was beginning to speculate the possibility of passing out when Pete inadvertently saved him, grasping him by twin handfuls of golden hair and gently lifting his head upward. Roger gasped for air.
“Are you all right?” Pete said, stroking the sides of Roger’s crimson-tinged face. The blonde could only manage a breathless nod in reply.
“I can’t wait any longer,” the guitarist continued. “I want you now.”
They shifted their bodies without having to think about it, lining themselves up perfectly, gazing into each other’s faces from their respective vantage points. Pete was on top, Roger beneath him, both breathing rapidly but steadily, pausing to reconcile the fantasies they had both entertained for a ridiculous number of years with the reality now mirrored in one another’s faces.
“You have no idea-” Pete began.
“Pete, this is-” Roger started at the same time. They both broke off their words and grinned a little dazedly at one another.
Their gazes remained locked together as Pete moved into position and pressed himself carefully to Roger’s entrance. There was no question of when or how, no stopping for the pain or the uncertainty-from the moment they had first made eye contact, they had been progressing to this very instance, and each of them had known it, been ready for it on some level. Now it was happening. Pete bit his lip and forced himself to hang on as he found a taut, narrow reception inside of Roger, groaning at the painful pleasure of being clenched in a grip a million times tighter than a fist, and Roger tensing as he tried to weather the sensation of being torn in two, of being turned inside out, of being possessed in a way he had never been before. He watched from some far-off prison of pain signals as Pete’s face contorted in ecstasy, taking secondhand pleasure in the sight of the man he desired now taking such satisfaction in Roger’s body. A hand was reaching down to pull him back up, back into his body; the hand was grasping him firmly around the girth of his own shaft, reeling him back in with each stroke to be engulfed by pleasure once more.
It could have lasted forever, or an hour, or the time it takes to sneeze for all Roger knew; all he knew was Pete, losing himself and feeling the final boundaries between their bodies dissolve as they arced perfectly over the peak of their lust, and they were one throaty cry, one roiling concentration of bliss, one single point of light and heat, and then they were two again, bare-skinned and spent and slick with sticky moisture. He felt a set of lips graze his forehead, then the weight of the bed shift a little. He automatically turned his own body to stay as close to that essential heat as possible.
The two of them ended up laying on their sides, facing each other in the messy remnants of what had once been a nice, neat hotel bed. After a time they found their voices again.
“Pete,” Roger said, stroking the other man’s palms with his fingertips. “What are we?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Good God, what does that mean?” Roger could tell that he was, in fact, seriously pondering the question even as he derided it. The blonde waited patiently for his response. “I, er, can’t really ask you to marry me, darling, seeing as I already am.”
Roger scoffed. “Forget that nonsense and let’s run off together.”
“We sound like such a pair of sods right now,” Pete groaned.
“You always sound like a sod.”
“Don’t even start with me. Your interviews make me want to stick my head in a pot of boiling water.”
“Yeah, well, your interviews…What was it, now…’I had my first fuck on the floor of my mother’s drawing room’ or something like that,” Roger said gleefully. “Can you imagine how many people threw the magazine down right then and ran screaming-” He twisted away to dodge Pete’s palm from clamping down over his mouth. “I bet everybody went instantly raving mad-”
“I would quote something ten times more insipid of yours back at you but I can’t bring myself to do it; your quotes are just that bad.”
“At least I talk somewhat normally. You try to sound like a bleeding philosopher all the time. Pete, you prig, if you can tell the entire Western world straight out about your awkward adolescent sex life, why the hell couldn’t you just…” Roger trailed off with a muted exhale in silent wonderment of their entire history up to this culminating encounter.
“I only said those things to you because I wanted you to stop dithering about and just say it to me already,” Pete said with a tired kind of honesty.
“You know, Pete, if your intricate verbal cleverness fails to work for you sometimes, it might in fact have nothing to do with the other person.”
“Oh, yeah?” Pete said mock-threateningly.
“You’re such a bloody genius, how can you stand it? You’re too brilliant for your own good,” Roger said innocently.
Pete wrapped him in a rib-cracking embrace and blew into his ear. Roger let out a muffled shriek and struggled to get away. All he succeeded in doing was to pull Pete on top of him.
“Fucking hell, you’re going to make me hard again,” he growled.
“Rest assured-or rather, don’t,” Roger said, licking his lips and wriggling a little beneath the supple weight of Pete’s body, “that you’re not going to be getting much sleep tonight.”
“We’ve got some catching up to do,” Pete agreed.