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it's a long hard fight (but i'll always live for tomorrow)

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There had been a lot of things, during the life of Queen, that John had not wanted to do. Around about half of those things had involved him wearing something he wasn’t comfortable in, and the other half was comprised of the music videos that had been getting progressively more intricate and ridiculous album by album.

(Brian had looked politely disbelieving during one of their more recent interviews, one of the few that they did together, as he’d insisted he had enjoyed precisely none of their music videos. Which, yes, okay. He would, in the privacy of his own mind, admit that he hadn’t exactly hated the production of the video for I Want to Break Free . But it wasn’t as if he was going to drop into an on the record conversation that, actually, no: he had very much enjoyed the I Want to Break Free music video and would quite happily turn up on set for all their upcoming video’s if only they could ensure that his boyfriend was dressed up in some kind of sexy roleplay outfit for each and every one. And also if they could then clear the set for an hour or so afterwards so that he could enjoy his boyfriend in said outfit.

“No,” he said, lighting a cigarette just for the pleasure of watching Brian’s nose crinkle at the action. “I can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed any of our music videos.”)

Staring despairingly at the costume hanging by the mirror of his dressing room, however, all of the previous monstrosities he had been cajoled into in the past seemed positively delightful. No, really, shove him an all satin three piece suit and twenty stage lights. He’d grow his fucking hair out again, just to complete the image.

He reached out, almost against his own will, and poked at the glittery disembodied horse head that was hanging loose next to the costume. His finger came back coated in silver dust and he sighed, already resigned to the knowledge that glitter would be covering every inch of him by the time this was over. Roger was going to throw a bitch fit once it inevitably transferred to their bedsheets.

“Uhhh,” said Ratty behind him, shuffling awkwardly in the doorway. “Costuming says to be careful with the head, the horn’s wobbly. Could break.”

“Wouldn’t that be a disaster,” John grumbled to himself, crossing his arms and glaring at the ensemble. For a second he toyed with the idea of snapping the damn thing off. His fingers twitched. He could, perhaps, use it as a weapon to stave off Freddie and Brian when they discovered his act of criminal destruction. The visual of Freddie’s face, disappointed and a little hurt, just about stopped him.

The problem was that Brian was encouraging this madness. Usually Freddie got some batshit insane artistic vision in his head and they all banded together to drag him back into the realm of ‘no, we’re not dressing as animals’. There was a balance. They all refused to take part in the nonsense and Freddie got to do cow ballet. By himself. He got to do cow ballet by himself , that was the important part. It was a system that worked. But Brian had gotten caught up in Freddie’s most recent bout of existential loneliness, for which John felt he could really only blame himself. He had known even as he’d booked the tickets that fucking off to Japan with Rog for a month was a bad idea. He’d known that leaving Brian and Freddie to sort out the details of the single promo and release was a bad idea; having watched them perfect the song painstakingly over the course of weeks, voraciously defending it at the slightest provocation. But, frankly, the only thing worse than Freddie and Brian at each other’s throats was Freddie and Brian at each other’s backs — they had an awful insularity that crept up out of bloody nowhere at the weirdest moments.

Not that, he supposed, as a member of the only actual couple in the band he could really complain about insularity, even though he did think that he and Rog made a good go of keeping their relationship out of band politics for the most part. He wasn’t, in all honesty, sure if the Hot Space fiasco was proof or disproof of that, however.

Regardless, they’d finished the videos for Radio Gaga and I Want to Break Free and then he and Rog had fucked off to Japan, spending an inordinate amount of time visiting, and revisiting, and revisiting the Meguro Parasitological Museum which had been the rather perfect match for their strange habit of frequenting weird museums and also Roger’s fascination for the biologically disturbed. There had been other museums of course, but the parasites had ended up being the favourite and the entire extended family and friend circle had received the traditional postcard — all, of course, with a scribbled dirty limerick from Roger and a hastily scrawled, and utterly insincere, ‘wish you were here’ from John.

And so, for his sins: disco unicorn.

“I’ll leave you to it, boss,” Ratty said, abandoning ship before John so much as had the chance to ask how the fuck the outfit was meant to be put on. John flipped off the closed door. Useless.

Reluctantly he reached out to pull the trousers off of the hanger, giving them a quick shake to see just how much whining he was going to get from Roger once the glitter spread like a disease across all of the upholstery of the house. The answer was unsurprisingly: a lot.

He’d been vaguely hoping that Roger was going to barge in complaining about his own costume at some point, maybe even refusing to wear it at all, but was now resigning himself to the fact that Roger’s costume must not be nearly as bad. Or it was, but Roger was just as aware as he was that going head to head against Freddie and Brian wasn’t likely to end well. Chucking his t-shirt over into the corner of the room and kicking off his shorts he allowed himself to hope, however uncharitably, that it was the latter.

That was what partners were for, at the end of the day, wasn’t it? In sickness and in health. In ridiculous fucking costumes that absolutely no one in their right mind would consider appropriate for a ballad that was, in its essence, basically: Somebody to Love…. Revisited: I’m Middle Aged Now and Sad About It.

He cocked his head and considered himself in the dressing room mirror, stopping to prod at his belly before shrugging on the glittery, silver shirt-jacket contraption that had been left for him. Roger, melodramatic sod that he was, had had a crisis of confidence over aging a few months back all over a pretty young interviewer asking him is he was thinking about settling down and having a family any time soon now that he was heading towards his mid 30s. The fact that he’d been settled down for the last seven or so years hadn’t appeared to have crossed his mind before he’d descended into a downward spiral that had ended, rather fittingly, a couple of weeks later when that same interviewer had proceeded to offer him a blowjob at their wrap party.

John had been perhaps less than consolatory during the interminable weeks of Roger’s existential crisis and had merely enjoyed, while it lasted, Roger’s futile attempts to regain the physique of his twenties. There was really nothing more entertaining than watching the love of your life do laps of the backyard in the goddamn snow, Crystal sat on their patio next to the firepit shouting out a list of insults that they had all brainstormed together a few nights before to keep him motivated.

He’d been almost sad to watch Roger’s self confidence come flooding back with a flutter of eyelashes and a coy gesture towards the bathrooms.

(Almost. He hadn’t been sad, not at all, at the way Roger had ended the night fucking into him in one of those same ridiculously opulent bathrooms of the hotel. Bent over the marble sink with Roger’s hand fisting his hair to keep his head back, one leg propped up on the ledge as Roger urged him to, “Keep your eyes on us, go on. Take it all in.”

It wasn’t often Roger took control like that, not since the bluster of the earlier days of their relationship had faded into the quieter trust of asking to be looked after, and John knew when those times did come around to enjoy them as fully as he could. It was an easy enough task.)

Also, after spending most of his early twenties feeling awfully immature in the company of the other three (all of whom had experienced more, lived more, failed more) he was taking not a little joy from the fact that being the youngest was finally showing its perks. By the time he was having his first midlife crisis, Roger was almost certainly going to be on at least his second.

Anyway, the whole episode had meant that Roger had been looking particularly svelte for the I Want to Break Free video.

A bang on the door and a muffled yell of, “Hair and makeup in two!” had him hurriedly stepping into the pants. They were a right bastard and a half to get on, with weird tight paneled sections that were, of course, covered in glitter. Each tug to get them over his calves had more and more glitter collecting on his hands and at this point his only hope of surviving the next few weeks was that Roger was decked head to toe in glitter too. The shoes were, of course, silver and also covered in glitter. He was in the midst of pulling them on after confusedly contemplating the unicorn head again — he’d assumed on first glance that it was meant to, y’know, go on his head but it wasn’t any sort of mask as he’d first thought, and there was no strap so he wasn’t entirely sure what its purpose was — when Roger burst through the dressing room door mid-rant.

“I don’t have any fucking shoes,” he shouted, Crystal and Ratty trailing after him looking for all the world as if they were having the time of their goddamned lives. “I’m wearing a fucking hand-me-down from Fred’s ballet phase and I’ve got no fucking shoes!”

“Fuck?” said John, sat on the floor and doing battle with his shoes of which he should, apparently, be grateful for having.

“Fuck!” Roger agreed, collapsing against the dressing room table and taking in John’s costume.

“I’m supposed to be some kind of tinfoil equine, I think,” John said, patting the horse head that was sat next to him on the floor. The horn wobbled worryingly.

Roger’s lips twitched.

“Horny?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow, nodding at the head.

“Fuck’s sake,” Crystal swore, his gleeful expression quickly disintegrating into his usual resigned annoyance at Roger’s refusal to acknowledge that there may be people in the room who preferred not to think about their bedroom habits. This was despite the fact that somedays John was fairly, and vaguely uncomfortably, sure that Crystal knew more about his sex life than even he did. He went to leave, tugging at Ratty’s shirt to get him to follow him out of the door.

John snorted, tugging up the last zipper on the back of his shoe which, as it turned out, camouflaged into the glitter panels on his trousers, and stood. Glitter fell from him in handfuls.

“Fucking hell,” Roger ground out pissily, shoving himself away from the table and gesturing at John violently. “We’re never gonna get that out of the fucking carpet, are we?”

John held out his hands, they were coated: “Nope.”




Roger was slumped against him, now wearing the doublet that accompanied his leotard, and glowering at Freddie as he listened to the director intently. Brain was stood beside Freddie with his fucking skull guitar and nodding along to whatever the ponce was rattling on about.

“I’m going to kill him,” Roger grumbled, pulling again at the oversized ruff Freddie had nagged him into wearing.

(“Rog, you can’t not wear part of your costume! It’ll throw the entire artistic vision into disarray,” Freddie huffed, reaching forward with the ruff in a manner that John could only call threatening. “I’m wearing mine!”

“I don’t see a ruff on you anywhere, mate,” Roger shot back, ducking back and out of Freddie’s reach quicksmart. John shifted backwards too. He loved Rog, he did, but he knew him as well and he was not being used as a shield in this particular fight. He didn’t need Freddie deciding maybe the ruff suited him better.

“Not a ruff, no,” Freddie said with a roll of his eyes and a dramatic gesture to himself. “But I’m wearing my costume, am I not?”

“Yeah,” said Roger, pursing his lips as if in thought for a moment. “Funny that, actually. Your one has shoes, where’s my shoes?”

Freddie sighed and put his hands on his hips, careful not to crumple the ruff, “Shoes don’t go with your outfit, darling. It would ruin the line of—”

“My ankles?” Roger interrupted, squinting at him and putting his own hands on his hips. John tried not to laugh at the picture they made, the both of them dressed in leotards and facing off like a pair of lizards.

“The outfit ,” Freddie said insistently, frowning just a tad. “Roger, come on,” he continued, his voice softening ever so slightly as he held the ruff out again. “It’s just for today.”

Roger stared at him silently for a long moment, just long enough that John wasn’t quite sure which way this was going to go. He’d either give in, as he usually did whenever Freddie let a bit of vulnerability seep into his posture in public, and wear the damn thing, or he’d refuse and drag them all into a torturously long day of filming that would result in a video which had Freddie complaining each and every time he saw it that the ‘artistic vision was off balance’ or some such shite. Roger darted a quick look at him, stood determinedly out of reach in all his silver splendour, before slumping.

“Fine,” Roger growled, leaning forward and snatching the ruff out of Freddie’s hands. He shoved it roughly around his neck and struck an exhibitory pose aggressively. “Happy now?”

“Perfectly happy, darling,” Freddie said with a clap of his hands, all previous hints of vulnerability clearing like smoke in the air.

“Fuck you,” Roger hissed, not entirely unlike a cat.

“Not in front of Deaky, sweetheart,” Freddie shot back with a grin and a wink. “Maybe later.”)

“No you’re not,” John said simply.

“No,” Roger sighed, looking all the more irritated for it. “I’m not.”

“Because I’m going to kill him first,” John continued, shifting uncomfortably against the pillar he was propped up against. Glitter, it had turned out, was much like sand. It got everywhere very quickly and once it got everywhere it began to itch like a motherfucker.

You got beard burn between your arse cheeks exactly once before you learnt not to let it happen again, and John had done very fucking well up until now in avoiding that itching sensation. Razors and lotion aplenty. He was more than a little displeased to find himself experiencing it again, and this time without any of the fun.

Roger was watching him as he shifted, brow furrowed as the cogs turned. John waited.

“Oh,” Roger exhaled, drawing out the sound as a grin crept its way onto his face. “You alright there, babe?”

“No,” John bit out uncomfortably, shooting a quick glare at an extra who had begun to wander a little too close to the two of them. He didn’t give a fuck if there was an exposé in the next fan club newsletter about how he was a rude bastard, he wasn’t about to start making small talk while surreptitiously clenching his arse cheeks in an attempt to relieve the ever present itch.

“Want me to kiss it better?” Roger said, sly smile firmly in place as he turned inwards to lean against John more fully.

“You’re wearing a leotard,” John said flatly, tilting against Roger just enough for his thigh to rub lightly against his cock as he turned his head to meet his gaze evenly. “Do you really want to play this game?”

Roger’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as he leaned in further. John noted his pupils were dilated, and quirked an eyebrow as he got close enough for Roger’s breath to warm the skin of his own lips.

A loud laugh, female and too close, had Roger leaning back again with a sigh and a completely unsubtle, even with the added cover of the doublet, adjustment of the crotch of his leotard.

“I guess not,” he said, expression settling once again into sullenness as he turned his gaze back towards Brian and Freddie. Or where they had been stood before, at least. Now it was just Brian stood there with a young woman fiddling about with his bloody skull guitar, laughing gaily at something which, John could tell you right now and for free, was not funny.

“Ooh,” muttered Roger, glaring at the two of them. “I’m Brian May and I ponce about with a fucking glorified banjo.”

“You think he calls it Chrissie?” John said, also watching the two of them engage in what could be called, if you were pissed off and unable to engage in any physical affection with your long term partner while it was being played out in front you, light petting.

“What?” Roger said, looking at him with confusion. It was a better look on him than the scowl.

“Well, he plays it enough, doesn’t he?”

“Fuck,” Roger spluttered, a short bark of laughter punched out of him as he blinked at him somewhat owlishly. “Where’d that come from?”

John shrugged, letting himself sink further into a sulk as he glared out and over at Brian mulishly. He was aware that he was projecting his general discomfort onto him because he was the only one in sight, Freddie having fucked off with the director — most likely, he thought morosely, to come up with new ways to torture them — while he was caught up in Roger. He was also aware that he had made a distinct pact with himself not to concern himself with the going ons of Brian and Freddie’s love lives, and that he was taking cheap shots he wouldn’t ever actually say to Brian’s face. Probably. Maybe. It really depended how long this shoot went for and whether or not he managed to get his hands on some booze.

But after the fiasco with Roger and Freddie getting absolutely plastered in the prop car for the Radio Gaga video he himself had banned alcohol on set. Trying to corral Roger into behaving on set while drunk off his arse was hard enough, but attempting to coordinate a drunk Roger while an equally drunk Freddie encouraged him was nigh on fucking impossible. There was a reason John generally tried to make sure he was drunk first in group situations, not last.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Roger contemplating him, completely unsubtle as he clearly considered how to drag him out of his sulk. He opened his mouth only to shut it again with a click as another extra wandered down the stairs within earshot, sighing instead.

“Fuck it,” he grumbled, taking his weight off of John’s arm and grunting at the line of glitter that was now plainly visible down the side of his leotard. “I’m gonna shove some fucking shoes on, Freddie can kiss my arse.”

“More likely to kick it, I think,” John replied, and despite the fact that Roger had done absolutely nothing to lift his mood he found himself smiling anyway.

“That’s why I’ve got my big strong…” Roger trailed off briefly, eyeing the horse head which had been dropped with absolutely no care onto the floor. “Sparkly centaur? Whatever, that’s what I’ve got you for.”

John kicked the head, and it tumbled over and down the steps that they’d been standing next to. Despite this abuse, and the worried gasps of a few of the crew at the bottom of the stairs, the unsteady horn remained secure: “You can count on me.”

“Fearless,” Roger sniggered, and turning to the side poked at this belly. “If the giant prawn asks where I’ve gone, tell him I’ve gone to take a shit. Wouldn’t want to ruin the lines of the fuckin’ outfit.”

“And they say romance is dead,” John said drolly as Roger began to descend the stairs, heading illicitly for the dressing rooms.

Roger laughed, spinning around to take the stairs backwards and blowing him a kiss.

He didn’t fall and crack his head open, but John almost wished he had so they could have had an excuse to leave.




“Roger,” said Brian as Freddie thanked the crew profusely, the photographers packing up their gear from the final promo shots. “Where did you have your shoes stashed? You got them on right quick, mate.”

Roger, already tugging impatiently at John’s hand as if John wanted to be there any more than he did, froze. “Uh,” he said, eloquent as ever.

“Fuck off, Brian,” John scowled, ignoring the taken aback look on Brian’s face at the undeserved remark. He took over from Roger and began tugging him from the room instead as Roger called out apologies to Brian all the way.

John dragged him by the hand through the corridors until they reached his dressing room, and slammed the door closed behind them. Roger could wear some of his spare clothes for the trip home, he didn’t particularly care. He just wanted to be done and at home, and out of this fucking horseshite costume.

Pun fully fucking intended.

“Y’alright, Deaks?” Roger asked quietly, unbuttoning the doublet surely and quickly as John stalked over to the clothes rack where someone, probably Ratty given the worried glances he’d been chucking his way as the shoot had dragged on and fucking on , had put his own clothes on hangers for him.

John worked his jaw frustratedly as he wrestled his shirt from the hanger, ripping it off and ignoring the brittle crack of the plastic breaking. So long as his shirt wasn’t ripped, he honestly didn’t give a damn. Looking at his shirt, however, he saw the way his manhandling had transferred the glitter from his palms onto the nice, clean, not silver material and felt the frustration bleed out of him only to be replaced with a sudden onset of exhaustion that he’d been keeping at bay with bullheaded annoyance at everything and everyone.

“Fuck,” he groaned, stumbling back to lean on the dressing room table. He dropped his shirt to the floor and pushed the balls of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, remembering too late, again, the glitter. “Fuck,” he repeated, horrified to hear a tinge of hysteria lacing the edge of his voice.

“Hey, hey,” Roger said, tone soft and smooth. The soothing tone John had never heard him use with anyone else, a tone just for him. There was a muffled click, a moment, and then Roger’s hands on his waist. “You’re alright, we’re done now. We can go home, watch the fuckin’ seventeen hours of Antiques Roadshow you’ve had the cleaner setting the VCR to record while we’ve been away, yeah?”

John snorted, letting his hands fall down to match on Roger’s waist and his head onto Roger’s shoulder. Of course, instead of meeting Roger’s shoulder he got a face full of fucking ruff.

“Fucking hell,” he swore, straightening up again. Roger was watching him with that same careful consideration as before. Roger always looked at him as if he was worth being delicate with in a way that had made him so, so defensive in the first months of them being together. Back when he’d had a chip on his shoulder about being the youngest and capable of taking care of himself, before he’d learnt what a goddamn blessing it was to have someone who wanted to take care of you even when they didn’t need to. “I told her not to tell you,” he muttered, trying for normalcy.

“The stack of tapes you left on the coffee table before we left gave you away,” Roger said, deftly tucking one of his hands under his top to smooth his thumb in soft circles over his hip. “Thought it might be Doctor Who, but you left too many tapes for that.”

“Clever,” John murmured, feeling the tension leech out of him as Roger reached up with the hand not still rubbing softly over his hip to tug at the zipper hidden under decorative silver roping down the centre of his chest.

“That’s me,” he said with a smile, ducking in quickly to ghost a chaste kiss against John’s lips. John found himself, unexpectedly, leaning in eagerly for more which earned him an even wider smile. “Thought so,” Roger said softly even as he leaned backwards.


And then Roger was on his knees.

“Rog,” John said hurriedly, even as his cock twitched. Seven years together and the sight of Roger looking up at him with hooded eyes still got him with the programme pretty fucking quickly. “The door.”

“Already locked,” Roger said, reaching to undo his fly and shove his trousers, along with his boxers, half way down his thighs.

“When?” John asked, hands gripping the edge of the dressing table tightly as he tried to maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

“Earlier,” Roger replied, hot breath ghosting over his cock as he looked up at him. He looked ridiculous. He’d taken the doublet off, sure, but John’s minor breakdown had apparently interrupted him before he could untie his ruff. Looking down at him, black leotard and oversized ruff, John wasn’t sure he’d ever been as in love before. “Like you said, I’m clever,” he said with a wink, moving to grip John’s dick. “Yes?”

“When’s it ever been no?” John asked, groaning as Roger quirked an eyebrow at him before suckling on the head of his cock, his hand still holding him firmly. He rubbed his thumb along the vein that ran along the underside, flicking his tongue along his slit and coaxing him to hardness, all the while keeping his eyes on him.

“Well,” said Roger with a shrug, a string of saliva hanging between his bottom lip and John’s cock as he let him go with an obscene pop. “You never know.”

Fuck, ” John swore as Roger took him deeper into his mouth, all warm heat and soft tongue and— “Fuck, Rog,” John said, reaching down to cup Roger’s jaw as he felt himself growing fully hard against Roger’s tongue. Roger hummed, moved his hands to John’s thighs, and bobbed his head to take him fully until he could feel his head against the back of Roger’s throat.

The fucking ruff was crinkling up against his thigh. An inconvenience, apparently, to Roger. He inched back an inch or so before ducking right back down again, nose pressed firmly against John’s pelvis as he took his hands off his thighs to reach back and untie the ruff.

“Shit, Rog,” John groaned, taking his hand from his jaw and moving to help. “Do you need a ha—” Roger cut him off, hollowing his cheeks and letting his teeth scrape just lightly against the base of his cock. John shuddered, throwing a hand back to grasp at the table again.

The ruff now off, chucked impatiently behind him, Roger moved back again to tease John’s head. Hand around his cock again, he gave a few strokes as he suckled the head softly once more. Then he pressed a thumb just lightly under his foreskin before rocking back onto his heels, ”What do you want.”

“You,” spilled out of John’s mouth before he could stop it, softening Roger’s eyes as he looked up at him from his knees.

“Obviously, babe,” he replied, his voice the exact kind of husky it only ever took on after he’d had John’s cock in his mouth or hours of overdubs ticking over by the deck, ducking to lick a stripe up the underside of his cock before continuing to stroke him. “But, I mean: do you want to fuck my face, or do you want me to get you off?”

And, see, what John meant to say was not: “I wanna fuck your face.”

But what John meant to say and what he actually said were two very different things.

Roger shuffled forwards again and clasped his hands behind his back. John noted with amusement that he had glitter lining his jaw and on the tip of his nose. With a wink he said, “Thought so.”

Which, well. Sometimes he really was just asking for it.

The dynamic, always fluid between them, shifted.

“Open up then,” he said, letting go of the table once more. One hand went to grab at the back of Roger’s head, fingers clutching roughly at his hair, as he tapped at his bottom lip with the index finger of the other. Roger did so, tilting his head up just slightly and sticking his tongue out pornographically. “Grab my ankle if it’s too much, yeah?”

Roger nodded.

It was strange, John thought, giving his cock a quick tug as he ran the head along Roger’s tongue. It was strange how your partner knew exactly what you needed when you had no idea, and vice versa. Roger whined, high in his throat, as John teased and pulled against the grip he held on his hair to try and lean forward. In response, John pulled his head all the more further back.

“God,” John breathed, watching Roger’s eyes go wide as he all but begged silently. “You’re gagging for it, Rog.” Roger squirmed on his knees, tongue still out as he watched him. “It’s alright,” he said, letting his head fall forward again and bringing his cock to rest on his tongue. “I’ll take care of you, yeah?”

That said, he gave a shallow thrust, groaning as he watched Roger’s eyes flutter.

“Eyes on me,” he said, angling his next thrust so he could feel himself against Roger’s cheek as he tapped it as if Roger wasn’t paying attention. Roger’s eyes opened again, and he pulled against the hold John had on his hair once more. “Jesus,” John swore softly, keeping his thrusts shallow even as Roger fought to take him deeper. There was something to be said for letting momentum build, he thought, though Roger rarely agreed.

Roger whined again.

John rocked forward again, just a little deeper this time, letting Roger acclimate. Roger was of the opinion he could take more than he could, faster than he could, almost all of the time. John was of the opinion that Roger should be patient and grateful for what he got.

Roger hummed, and the vibration had John thrusting deeper again.

“You did that on purpose,” he panted, tugging at Roger’s hair just to see the way his throat stretched prettily. Roger, John’s cock resting heavily against his tongue, blinked up at him.

“Fine,” John said, slowly guiding Roger back down his cock under his nose was once again pressed against his pelvis and he could feel Roger’s throat swallowing around him. He held him there for a moment, letting him grow used to the feel of it again, before drawing him off. Roger’s eyes were still open, still watching him, though watery now as they always were when John used his mouth like this — even when they’d barely gotten started.

John smoothed his thumb across Roger’s cheekbone before moving to grasp at his hair with both hands. He gave him a moment, and then thrust again. Properly this time, all the way. And then again. When Roger made no move to grasp his ankle, he let himself enjoy it. Roger’s eyes on him, the way his knees were spreading slowly wider as if John couldn’t see what he was doing. The suction of Roger’s mouth, and the feel of his throat fluttering around him as he moved. John didn’t like to sell himself short, he knew he was good at sucking cock, but Roger’s mouth was bloody made for it. If they could bottle the feeling of Roger’s lips stretched wide around his cock, John was pretty sure they’d have world peace on their hands.

He let one hand fall from Roger’s hair to circle his throat, his thumb pressed high above his adam’s apple so he could feel himself as he thrust. He applied just the slightest of pressures to his neck, feeling Roger swallow around his cock, and against his hand.

“You’re so good to me,” John panted, his thrusts beginning to lose any semblance of rhythm as Roger took to flicking his tongue against his slit as he withdrew. “Fuck, baby, you’re so good to me.”

It was a source of continual embarrassment to him, the pet names that came spilling out during sex. Roger threw them out like sweets in the day to day, a habit he was fairly sure he’d picked up from Freddie during the decade or so they’d been attached at the hip. But John had never been fond of them, never finding that they flowed quite right. Until, of course, he was here. Something about Roger on his knees, or inside of him. Roger underneath him, or at his back. Roger licking into him, or holding him down.

Roger hummed again, and John’s hips stuttered.

“Shit, Rog,” John groaned, pressing him impossibly closer as his orgasm threatened to overcome him but not quite. “Fuck, fuck,” he exhaled, an almost sob as he untangled one hand from Roger’s hair to grasp from purchase against the table again. “Fuck, Rog. Rog, I can’t—” he was right on the edge, a hair's breadth from falling but he couldn’t quite get there.

And then Roger let his teeth catch just lightly against his foreskin in the next thrust and he was coming, harder than he could remember doing since the first time he’d had Roger’s mouth on him. Roger swallowed around him, staying still on his knees with John’s hand holding him down on his cock as he fought the initial fight between moremoremore and overstimulation that had his thighs trembling. Overstimulation won out, as it always did, and he tugged Roger back groaning as the sight as his cock smeared wetness down Roger’s chin.

“Come here,” he mumbled, leading Roger up and onto his feet with a hand under his chin. He kissed him, Roger falling into it easily and sloppily, “You’re incredible.”

Roger crowded him back fully against the table, bracketing one of his legs with his own as he rubbed against him, “Fuck, John. You have no idea how hot you are, no idea.”

“Hmm?” hummed John, ducking to kiss at Roger’s neck where he’d held his fingers only minutes before.

“I could have,” Roger moaned, hands grabbing at his arse as he ground his erection against his thigh. “I could have come from that alone. Just another minute, I swear.”

John bit down sharply, holding a tendon between his teeth. Roger stiffened against him immediately, shaking apart against him before slumping into him bonelessly.


“That about sums it up,” John laughed shakily, hand coming to rest on Roger’s waist in a parody of the position they’d stood together in before.

Fuck,” Roger repeated, breath panting out hotly against the soft skin under John’s ear.

“Yep,” John agreed again, his breathing evening out slowly as the feeling returned to his toes.

“No, you fucker,” Roger said, pinching his side as he pulled away, pulling a face as he took a step back. John could only imagine that the leotard didn’t feel all that comfortable right about now. “Look at me.”

John did.

“You’ve covered me in fucking glitter, you wanker!”