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roger
He doesn’t know how exactly he ended up this way, alone at the club bathroom with John fucking Deacon, his bandmate, his best friend. The only thing he remembers is pulling on John’s wrist, hearing his twinkling laugh behind him before he ushers him right into the stall with his hands against John’s shoulders. John was oddly pliant throughout the whole thing, and Roger’s mind is hazy and dizzy and it’s all cloudy except for the the sight of John in front of him, that seems to be crystal clear. It’s as if the world around him is merely a vignette, and his universe centres on John Deacon only, the bassist standing right beneath the spotlight, no doubt looking bashful as ever with that little crooked smile of his.
He feels his eyelids dropping down, but he keeps them open, letting out a deep breath when he sees John’s smile dropping, switching into a display of half-lidded eyelids and rose-red lips that look like they’re just begging to be ravished beneath the shabby bathroom lights. It’s purple, all over, but it somehow made John look a thousand times more... god, he doesn’t even know how to describe the way John looks right now.
He has always thought of John as beautiful—inside and out—and somehow when he has him right up close, he’s far more than beautiful, far more than the kind of beautiful that you see in magazines and described about in romance novels. John looks like something flawed, but perfect all at once—he really doesn’t know what to say.
He doesn’t know what drove him to drag John to the bathroom with him, perhaps it was the liquid courage, or perhaps it was the hypnotising way John moved on the dance floor with a coy smile on his face, as if he knows that Roger’s eyes are all for him. Perhaps it’s the gentle sway of his hips that sent him, or perhaps it was the twinkling eyes that just seemed to shine beneath the disco ball, or perhaps it was the way John spun around and let himself be absolutely free for the night. Even Freddie and Brian were laughing at him, the former whispering in his ear about how adorable their bassist looked tonight.
John looks like he’s as hazy and dizzy as he is, and the sight is absolutely petrifying. The glitter on John’s cheek are shifting aginst the light whenever he moves, ever so slightly, and it has got to be one of the prettiest things Roger has ever looked at. Roger feels like he’s freezing on his spot, eyes plastered onto the sight of John, right there against the wall with his head slightly tilted to the side, as if he’s suggesting a challenge.
Somehow John has managed to make him want to risk it all.
john
He feels Roger snaking a hand onto his waist, and the other one on his shoulder, before he pushes him against the tiled bathroom wall, making his head bump against the surface. It hurts, just a little bit, but something on his mind tells him that the pain amplifies all of this, making everything far more thrilling, and god, he’s going mad for it. He bites down on his bottom lip to muffle down his gasp at the surprise of it, and when he looks up, he sees the gorgeous blond smirk at him like he’s hell-sent, his eyes half-lidded and heavy as if he finds John’s desperation attractive.
It wrecks him.
roger
Fuck, yes.
John looks so absolutely wonderful, beautiful even beneath the shitty purple bathroom lights. He wants to see John’s skin marked with scarlet bruises, to make the other boy remember him for days. He doesn’t know if he could be capable of doing this without a slight bit of alcohol in his system, but all this haze, and John looks like a beautiful mess.
John looks like a dream, the best kind, and the stuttering of his heart doesn’t do him any justice in trying to drown down whatever it is that’s making his skin prick with heat and his toes curl. He feels like all he wants to do is to also drown John in it, to feel the same thing, to feel like he’s dying from how much he’s aching. The music from the living room is all muffled, and it only amplifies the breathless sounds of John, gasping for air, taking Roger’s breath away as he does so, making him dizzy, making him feel like the only thing that is important in the world is John, right in front of him, against the wall, looking as gorgeous as anything.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Whiskey doesn’t do shit, and even though he’s starting to feel it, the pounding at the back of his head, his skin is hyper-aware of everything around him, and he keeps feeling like his lips are trembling ever so slightly to hold back the urge to press his lips again’s John’s again, feeling the way John just melts in it. He wants to feel John melt against his skin, warm and languid, and he wants to feel John on him, touching him, making him lose his mind at the way John just shudders so easily, sensitive as anything.
Roger lets his fingers thread in John’s long hair, feeling the corners of his own lips curl up into a smile when he hears John’s little purr.
“You like that, Deaky?” he asks next to John's ear, just dipping his foot in the water, walking over the border to be a little bit more flirty with the young bassist. He's a little surprised at how low his voice sounds like even to his own ears, like he's completely gone far under.
When he looks up, John just kills him.
He closes his eyes slowly, his eyelids dropping down in a slow flutter that looks so hypnotising to the point like it isn't real, impossibly-long eyelashes casting a soft shadow against the surface of his reddened cheeks, which prompts Roger to swipe the tip of his thumb against it. John leans into him. His head is tilted back slightly, as if he’s just accepting all of it with no hesitation whatsoever, as if he wants this as much as Roger does, as if he’s as mad as Roger is. Roger feels John’s fingers curl onto his back and his bicep, digging his blunt nails against the velvet top that he’s wearing, pressing the fabric deeper into his prickly skin in a way that makes him blind with need. He wants to kiss John somewhere else, not in this dingy bathroom that casts a purple light over them.
He wants to see John beneath the stars, one day. If he’s ever fortunate enough to see such a sight.
john
He has never felt anything quite like this before.
Roger’s fingers on his skin feel like fire, and they’re all burning him in a way that makes his head pound, his lips tingle, and his heart skipping one or two beats altogether.
He doesn’t know why he’s feeling like this – like it burns just to be with Roger, but god, the feeling just makes him crave for more and more and more until he can’t help but to suffocate in it, lose himself in it.
He’s never felt something like this with anybody else, with any girl or any boy, they’ve all never made him feel like he’s slowly losing his mind, in the sweetest way possible. He grips onto Roger’s bicep when he feels the blond nosing his way into his neck, threading his callused fingers through his hair in a way that makes him wanting more of it.
He wants Roger to touch him all over, splay his hands over his skin, wherever he wants, John doesn’t care. John doesn’t know why he’s thinking this way over his bandmate, but he’s so addicted to it, he wants Roger to press him even deeper against these tiled walls, until he melts into it. Something on his mind tells him Roger can help him up.
He grips the ridiculously soft skin of Roger’s back beneath his velvet shirt, feeling the plushness of it on the tips of his fingers.
Perfect.
roger
Roger feels himself pressing into the brunet, getting himself closer and closer and closer until he can smell the soap on John’s skin and rose on John’s hair. The feeling of John gripping onto his skin is driving him wild, and he knows he’s slowly losing his mind but he doesn’t know what to do—doesn’t know how to control a feeling this overwhelming. It’s as if his entire life is only leading up to this, or to John, he isn’t particularly sure. He can play his cards all he wants, but John will always be a mystery to him; a beautiful one.
He leans into the crook of John’s neck and sinks his teeth into the soft skin of it, feeling his knees melting when he hears John mewl right next to his ear. The sound is amplified by a thousand, and he wants to hear it over, and over, and over.
“Rog…” He hears John whisper into his ear, leading him to hum out a reply as he lets the bassist rest his head on his shoulder. Roger doesn’t know what came over him when he presses a kiss onto John’s wild – yet insanely soft – hair, hoping it’s plush enough to the point where John can’t feel the touch of his lips.
john
He does feel it.
Roger’s lips pressing themselves gently against his hair.
It makes him smile, and he curses to himself when he feels his heartbeat stutter.
roger
“Touch me,” John says next to his ear, making him involuntarily shudder against the palm of John’s hand that’s still resting on his bicep. Roger chases for his lips, but John turns his head, groaning out like he’s out of his mind: “Touch me again.” He’s breathing loud and heavy – borderline panting – against him, making him look like a purple-lit painting Renaissance painting that’s far too breath-taking for the human eye. His brown hair is all tousled and messy, but it still manages to frame his face that turns the image of debauchery into an innocent façade that a wicked corner of Roger’s mind wants to ruin.
And then it hits him, so much like a freight train.
He presses his hands against John’s shoulders to give some space between them, even though it kills him just so. He feels the back of his head aching just at the sheer foolishness of himself, taking his best friend to the club bathroom when he's under the influence. Selfish bastard, he says to himself.
“Deaks, you’re bloody pissed,” he says, shaking off the thoughts in his head. God, what were they thinking? What was he thinking? “I’m taking advantage of you,” he continues, pressing a hand on John’s cheek, feeling his knees melt when he sees John leaning into his touch. “I’m so fucking so—sorry.”
John grips onto his wrist, digging his blunt nails on his skin, and it sting just a little. Roger thinks he deserves it. “Fucking hell,” he croaks out, shutting his eyes close until the corners wrinkle up. “I thought I was taking advantage of you, Rog.”
Roger falters. “What d’you mean?” he asks.
“What do you fucking think?” John asks, pressing his head back against the tiled walls, and it’s so unlike him that his sentence made Roger’s heartbeat stutter for a split second. John reaches out for him then, with hazy green eyes that look like they’re trying to tell him a world’s worth of words, but Roger just can’t understand them. He thought he could read people in a blink of an eye, but John is a box of puzzles packed into another tied-up box, that’s packed into another, and another, never ending. John pulls him closer, and Roger can’t do anything but to let himself be pulled. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Rog.”
Roger doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to think because right now it’s as if he hasn’t got any idea about what’s going on. He can’t explain the way his heart is beating so fast and so loud in his ears, he can’t explain how his toes curl just at the feeling of John’s hands on him, can’t explain how his breath catches when he sees John looking at him like that.
“I…”
“Save it,” John says, with no malice in his voice whatsoever. But he has always managed to say even the most wicked things with the gentlest of voices. “You can forget about all of this tomorrow. I’m sorry, but please, please, please—“
Roger swallows up his words in a kiss. It’s rushed, it’s sloppy, it’s messy, and Roger hears himself wincing a little when he feels John’s teeth clash against his, but the feeling of his soft lips is able to make up for it. John just feels – and tastes – like the sweetest thing, and Roger feels like he’s tainting him up. One thing Roger knows for certain now is that John makes vodka taste lovely on his tongue, and he would never guess that it would be a taste that he won’t mind having for ages and more.
“Just tell me,” John says against his lips, moaning loudly when Roger sucks onto his bottom lip. The sound almost makes Roger fall. “Tell me you don’t want me so I can live my bloody life knowing I should quit hoping.”
“But I want you so fucking bad,” Roger breathes out, feeling his chest aching, heart pounding against his ribcage. John is right there, in front of him for the night, and he still doesn’t know what to make of all of his feelings, jumbled into one single mess that sends his mind reeling, toppling his entire world over until he has only John in his mind, and nothing else. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, John.”
“Tell me everything—fuck!” John lets out a curse when Roger decides to rip the top button of his shirt open and dives down, sinking his teeth down onto his collarbone. God, the feeling of his skin just melts right against his tongue, and he’s blinded by it, he wants to have it again and again until he’s sick of it.
“I want you,” he lets out breathlessly against John’s neck, giving up. He feels like he's running out of breath, like he wants to cry, like he wants to fall to his knees. He feels like the music is overwhelming behind the doors, and he feels like all he wants is John, John, John, John. “I want to fucking... touch you and make you happy.”
john
You already make me so happy.
He lets his head tip back when he feels the touch of Roger’s lips again, right there against his neck, and then the corner of his jaw, and then his cheek, leaving little searing spots right on them. It feels magnificent. When Roger presses his lips right on a spot near the back of his ear, he hears himself keening, feeling as if Roger knows him far more than he does himself. Everything is far too hot for him, and he feels like he can’t fucking breathe but it doesn’t matter – nothing does – because it feels like he’s taking Roger in every time he gasps out, and the way Roger holds on to his waist just feels like the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.
He lets his hand wander towards Roger’s neck, pressing his hand there for support. It seems as if he can’t feel his legs, and the only thing he can do is prop himself up on the man he has loved for so long. It doesn’t matter if this is a dream or a reality—things are better to be left unknown, and sometimes ignorance really is bliss to him.
If only I could make you as happy as you make me.
roger
Beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
It's absolutely fucking beautiful, the way John just lets himself go and lolls his head backwards, as if he's willing for anything. Roger can't help but to let a moan slip out of his lips just at the sight of John like that, unlike anything he has ever seen from the bassist before. He sounds desperate to his own ears, but he doesn't give a fuck when John looks like that, like the prettiest person in the entire world. John's lips are rose-red and parted so beautifully that it almost makes Roger groan out in frustration, and the way his head is pounding doesn't help anything at all. The way John looks at him just makes him dizzy, switching between soft and hard and it's one of the most attractive thing ever, and Roger's mad for it - for everything - and at this point he doesn't know anything better than this.
He feels John’s leg teasingly sliding itself up on his thighs, the touch so unintentionally sexy that it makes Roger wonder if he knows what he’s doing to him—to his sanity, to his well-being. John’s leg ends up on his waist, pressing on, pulling him closer until he feels nothing other than John. The heel of his platform boots is digging into his arse, and then the spot on the back of his thigh, and it’s just a little addictive in the way John can make him feel hot all over just by the simplest of gestures. Roger has never seen anything quite like it, and it shocks him to the bone, seeing and feeling how he’s reacting to the bassist so intensely.
John’s lips taste like the best kind of sweet that you’d never have the kind of luck to find. They’re sinfully-soft, almost like velvet, melting just right beneath your lips like they were meant to be that way all along. They’re addictive to sink your teeth into, gently, and Roger just recently found out that the deeper he sinks his teeth, the tighter John will grip on to his body. He loves it, he loves the feeling of John against him, as desperate as anything.
John loves breathing out against him, as if he wants him to take everything he’s got to offer—and Roger swallows them up right away. John is always gasping, always moaning, always keening and whimpering, and it all makes Roger slowly lose his mind, little by little until he has nothing left. Nothing on his mind at all except the searing memories of John, moaning and purring right against his lips, making him feel like he’s flying and falling all at once.
john
Every single part of his body is screaming.
Screaming for Roger, for something, for anything that’s able to keep him sane. Each time he pulls Roger closer to him, it always seems like it’s never enough for him, like he needs Roger to be closer and closer and closer until they’re flush together. And even that isn’t enough for him.
Roger accepts all of it, every push of his body, and when he groans out right next to John’s ear, it feels like his knees are limp and his head is all fuzzed out, until he has nothing to think about other than Roger. The feeling of Roger’s teeth against his lips—it’s maddening to the point he wants to scream from it, but instead those teeth coaxed out moans out of his mouth like it’s nothing. He would never have guessed that he could be this loud, but it turns out he can, and perhaps it’s because his body’s beneath the hands of his own bandmate.
Roger’s hand is all over his neck, pressing his thumb just slightly against the skin that drags out a keen out of him, making him feel like he’s slowly losing control time after time, feeling as if the things he’s doing are nothing out of his mind. He can’t help but to moan out Roger’s name when he bites onto the skin of his jaw. He can’t bite down his noises. He doesn’t know if he isn’t able to do it or he simply doesn’t want to.
He’s dizzy, from everything. This all feels like it’s straight out of his fantasies, laid out for him on a silver platter in the form of an incredibly-vivid lucid dream.
Roger’s fingers feel like they’re burning the skin on his body, but he’s so addicted to the feeling of it. And when Roger peppers kisses down from his neck, to his collarbones, and to his halfway-exposed chest, he feels like he’s going to explode.
It doesn’t even faze his mind when his leg move in their own accord, hooking itself up on Roger’s waist and pulls the man closer, until Roger’s lips are flush against his skin. He hears Roger letting out a groan and a little laugh, and it makes his mind turn into a spiral that he doesn’t know when the end is—all he knows is that he needs Roger, and he needs him now, he wants Roger close to him, always, because he isn’t sure if he’s capable of feeling something like this again with another person.
The kisses Roger is pressing down his skin are wet and open-mouthed now, and he feels like his toes are curling up, his eyes rolled up to the back of his head. His hands grip on Roger’s clothed skin, harder than anything, as if Roger is the only thing keeping him awake.
He has never felt this touch-starved before, and he isn’t sure if he wants to feel like this ever again.
But when it’s because of Roger, he isn’t quite sure if he cares that much.
roger
John is surprising in ways he can never guess.
It seems like everything he does is never enough, and he wants to keep on kissing John, touching him until he’s had enough of it, but frankly he isn’t sure when that happens. John is absolutely enticing to touch, as desperate as he is in the way he’s keening and purring right next to his ear. John sounds prettier than anything he’s ever heard before.
He can’t get away from this, a corner of his mind supplies, and somehow he thinks John is making sure of that, from the way his long leg is hitched up on his waist, pressing him closer and closer until the only thing he can feel is John, and John alone.
He pulls away from the kiss, putting his hands on the bassist’s cheeks to cup them in his palms. He just wants to see John.
His eyes are half-lidded and heavy, and Roger doesn’t know how in hell did those greenish-grey eyes that he knew to be the mischievous turned to be something out of his darkest fantasies. They look hazy, and Roger is sure that he’s a perfect mirror of the sight in front of him. John’s lips are scarlet red and almost bruised up, and when Roger looks down, he sees the abundance of purple-red bruises littering his skin, marking him up excessively.
Roger has never been entranced with someone this much before.
And then John puts his hands on his shoulders and pushes him across the stall, until his back hits the other side of the wall, a loud banging noise of weight against steel echoing in the entire bathroom.
He hears John let out a dizzying whine, before he places his mouth right on him again, his long fingers buried deep in Roger’s hair.
Roger feels his own hands move on their own, to place themselves on the bassist’s narrow waist and gripping on the clothed skin.
John kisses like he’s so desperate for it, and it’s slowly taking his breath away. John is gasping against his lips, and Roger is somehow scared that John is going to pass out anytime soon from how hard he’s gripping onto his hair.
john
At this point, who cares?
He doesn’t even know what came over him when he decided to push Roger against the wall, swallowing his startled gasp in a kiss that is enough to make him run out of breath. Roger tastes like heaven, mixed with rum and whiskey, and it’s better than anything he has ever had.
He can’t help but to feel like he’s slowly falling, and he’s gripping on Roger’s hair so hard he’s scared he’ll rip it right off but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about how his desperate moans sound like to his own ears when he feels Roger’s hands on his waist, pulling him closer and closer, and John is silently praying—please don’t ever let me go, you bastard, I’m so fucking in love with you I’m going to die because of it.
roger
John leaves another kiss on his jaw, and then he rests his head upon his shoulder, and it just startles Roger out of nowhere, to see how passionate he has been and then halting, just like that.
He feels John breathing gently against the skin of his neck, chest moving up and down against his in a way that sets a slower tempo for the two of them. Roger feels his own hands loosening their grip on John’s waist, but he doesn’t do anything to move away, he keeps them right there, rubbing small circles on his body with his thumbs. John sighs a little at that, and a corner of his mind tells him that he’s doing something well.
The music outside the bathroom has stopped, he notices. And now it’s only them, and the quietness of the cramped space, but somehow the amplified sounds of their breathing are what’s making him feel calmer than anything. He hums a little against the bassist’s forehead, and feels something inside him flutter when he hears John letting out a small laugh.
A muffled sound of a familiar violin melody lets itself seep right into the bathroom, and perhaps it really is something familiar, because he hears John let out a little gasp against his shoulder, and something inside of him tells him that he should cup John’s cheek, so he does exactly that, and he lifts John’s head up slowly to make him look at him in the eyes with those greenish-grey pair that never fail to hypnotise him and make him freeze on his spot, with his eyes glued onto John’s own, as if there’s a spell that John always casts whenever he does so, making him fall for it. Roger puts his hand on the small of John's back, tipping his body down just a little bit to see him better, and John slings an arm around the back of Roger's neck, no doubt making them look like a ridiculous pair, with one of them being dipped in a bathroom stall with purple lights. Roger wants to laugh, but he still manages to get a clearer look of John.
John looks impossibly gorgeous. There's a small smile on his lips, and it looks like the only thing that can cause world peace. Roger feels the corner of his own lips lifting up, forming a smile that must look ridiculous.
Roger doesn’t know if it’s because of the whiskey running in his system, but he swears that he sees stars in John’s eyes.
(One might say the entire galaxy.)
john
“Dance with me, Rog,” he says, out of impulse because fuck everything else.
He doesn’t know what to think anymore, and he can only lean against the touch of Roger’s hand that’s on his cheek, making his heart pound and his breathing catch. He doesn’t even know why Roger did that, but it only makes his aching even more painful, and he wants to slap Roger for it because he can’t do things like that and not expect him to melt into the ground!
The only thing on his mind is dancing. Dancing with Roger, because he has always wondered what it would feel like.
That’s one of the many things he’d wanted to do with Roger, and if he’s going to dance with the drummer in a shabby bathroom then that’s fine, he’ll take it. Sometimes he wonders about the things that he’d be willing to do as long as it’s with Roger, but sometimes he shakes them off, out of his easily-enchanted mind, because he doesn’t want to succumb to his fantasies to much—fantasies that have absolutely no chance of happening.
Sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and instead opting for the silent option, relying on his – what people have said to be – quiet and aloof demeanour, hoping that it’ll make people not want to approach him in any way. Even Roger, because every look of Roger’s eyes just make him weaker and weaker.
He doesn’t know what to expect, every single time.
To his surprise, Roger puts his arms around him and smiles at him with that beautiful smile of his, charming and boyish.
roger
Someone out there has somehow found their way to change the song into Etta James. It could be Freddie, he doesn’t know, but it’s a good guess when you’ve got “At Last” in an alcohol-induced party. He feels John push himself closer to him as he pushes himself off the wall gently, and trails his hand down to intertwine itself against Roger’s own, raising it up as he places another hand on his shoulder. Roger feels like his breath got knocked out, but he takes the initiative to snake a hand upon John’s waist, moving his feet just a little bit.
He hears John laugh against his neck, and somehow it makes him feel like a flutter of flowers are filling up his lungs. John’s hair is right next to his nose, and he smells like honey all over, it makes him dizzy in the slightest way.
He feels fine, just like this, with John in his arms and his head on his shoulder, swaying along with him, dancing to muffled Etta James.
He feels fucking wonderful.
john
This is perfect, he thinks to himself, not even bothering to bite down his smile. He feels happy, and the least he can do is accept it with open arms. If the night is supposed to be theirs, he'll take it. Everything about this turns his mind into a jumbled mess of confusion, but somehow he feels absolutely content. Maybe tomorrow they're back to being bandmates, or perhaps lovers, he doesn't know. Or perhaps they'll choose to forget each other in the morning, make themselves absolutely certain that this has never happened ever. John wants to smile at the possibilities, but guessing has never been one of his strongest suits. This might last only for the night, but he doesn’t mind.
I could never ask for anything better than this.
roger
Fuck.
I think I’ve fallen for him.