Work Text:
1974
Roger’s got his bare feet up on the dashboard on the passenger’s side with his legs crossed at the ankles, his socks and converse discarded beneath him on the car floor. He’s undone the buttons of his top completely in the heat, and a sheen layer of sweat is ripe across his chest, tan and dewy. He pushes his bangs back from his face with one hand, fingers and forehead both sticky in the heat, further matting the still tangled shape that his hair’s taken since having slept on it as he blinks away the sun in his eyes through dark shades.
Brian’s not looking at him. An insistently adept driver; he plays it safe and won’t let his eyes leave the road ahead of them, even way out in deserted highway; Roger hasn’t seen anyone for miles, and they haven’t passed a street sign or traffic light for at least a half hour.
It’s early still, barely past ten in the morning, and there’s still the shining reflection of dew in the grass glowing in the blinding sunlight. Brian had overheard rumours of an old guitar shop in the next town over and, in the hopes of finding a particular VOX amp he had his eyes set on, had taken the it upon himself to pursue the piece instead of assigning a roadie to go after it. He’d invited the others to join him out of politeness, but Freddie had predictably refused to leave the comfort of his bed before noon, and John had been well absorbed in the morning paper and unwilling to leave their hotel just yet. Roger, already bouncing with energy and itching for something to do, had tagged on to the little road trip to keep himself occupied with a hope of irritating Brian.
Brian proved to be impressively serious about his pursuit of the VOX amp, and his stoicism had Roger fidgeting already; fingers playing with the hem of his trousers as he hummed along to whatever happened to be playing on the radio: The Velvet Underground right now, he thinks. A bit slow for his liking. He glances at Brian, then turns back out the window again aimlessly, eyes taking in the sights without really seeing. A few dozen hay bales lay scattered across an enormous lawn, wrapped in white waterproofing plastic. If he squints he can just make out a barn in the distance, a blurry red spot on the horizon. Acoustics fade out on the radio and The Beatles’ ‘Why Don’t We Do it in the Road?’ comes on. Roger quirks a grin. Eyes still fixed out the window, he quips, “Not a bad idea, that.”
He can hear Brian’s frown’s through his voice. “What?”
Roger taps at the radio with one finger, eyebrows raised, smiling cheekily. He begins to sing along, drumming along to the beat with his hands. Brian spares him a glance, then does a double take when he catches the meaning. Roger’s grin widens.
A beat passes. Then, his eyes back on the road ahead of them, Brian says, “You serious?”
“If you’re up to it,” Roger shrugs with one shoulder. “No one will be watching us,” he quotes, giggling.
The offer isn’t a total non-sequitor. Ever since their days in Smile, when too many drinks and the resting adrenaline of a well-played gig had left them each hoping for something more, they’d found themselves in the arms of each other. The girls hadn’t always been as loose or as readily available as they were now with the newfound success of Queen, and at the time it had just been convenient; several drunken incidents later and the hookups had escalated into a regular occurrence they could fall back on when one was feeling particularly bored or lonely.
Brian eyes him. “Did you bring...?”
Roger smiles inwardly; the fact that Brian is considering the idea means that he’s already won. “No, but...” He shakes his head. There’d been lube and condoms back at the hotel, but he hadn’t thought to bring them, not expecting a quick drive to an antiques shop to turn into a chance at a lay. He knows he’ll be sore, but hey - it’s nothing he hasn’t done before while drunk or stupid. Right now though, he’s just bored and horny enough that he finds he doesn’t quite care. “I can suck you off.”
Another beat of silence. “I’d have to pull over.”
Roger waves a hand through the air as if to say, Go on, then. Still, Brian is cautious as ever, checking back and forth along the speedway, wary of vehicles or hitch-hiker passerby, but still there’s no one, and after a few moments of deliberation he flips his turning signal on and begins to pull off in to a thick glade of trees alongside them.
Roger is buzzing with anticipation, heart pounding and already getting hard in his jeans. The moment they’re parked, stationed behind a shrouded edge of forest and clear out of view, he has one hand over the zipper of Brian’s trousers. The engine thrums before coming to a full stop, and Brian opens his mouth to ask, “How do you want to do this?” but Roger is already pulling himself up to sit on his lap.
He presses his hand down hard between Brian’s legs, coaxing stiffness through his fingers to match that of his own and shifting his weight pointedly against it. He tilts Brian’s chin upward with his free hand and leans in to kiss him, laughing against his mouth. This is as good a win as any. “Good morning,” Roger murmurs.
Brian’s got his hands in Roger’s hair in an instant, pulling their faces together. They don’t have much space like this; Roger’s back is pressed up against the steering wheel behind him and Brian’s height makes it so that he can hardly fit comfortably in the car to begin with, but determination makes them conducive. After a moment of blind struggle Brian finds the gear beneath his seat and adjusts it so the chair moves backwards and down to give them more room. Roger takes his cue and crawls off of him to rest between Brian’s legs, crouched on his knees between the car seat and the break pedal.
There’s a flash of eye contact between them, a final request for permission before their both give in; then Brian’s clambering at the buckle on his jeans and Toger’s just as eager, leaning over him with both hands out to tackle Brian’s boxers and get him out and out and out.
Though it isn’t new information, Freddie’s onstage utterances hold true, and Roger has never appreciated it as much as he does now; Brian is big. He keens at the sight, and, to express his appreciation, Roger licks his lips and then takes him down all at once.
He hears a sharp exhale above him, and then Brian’s hands are in his hair again to hold him in place, tight and twisting. Bowie’s Cracked Actor screams through the radio, and Roger can feel the thrum of guitar move through his legs and in the muscle of his jaw. Arousal surges through him with the vibrations. He’s salivating hotly around the taste in his mouth and the way the head of Brian’s cock presses against the entrance to his throat. It’s a welcome intrusion, and Roger accepts the invitation with ease.
He slackens his jaw and lets the head slip past his throat, swallowing around the width of it. He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing slow through his nose, not moving just yet; just basking in it, adjusting to the size and the feeling of fullness in his mouth and the promise of more to come.
If Brian wasn’t fully hard before he certainly is now, and it’s taking all of his energy not to thrust deeper in to the mouth that’s wrapped tight around the length of him; Roger can feel the the way his hands are shaking from their grip in his hair and by the tautness of Brian’s thighs. He’s struggling to keep still, trying to let Roger go at his own pace, but he’s waning.
Roger pulls back slowly, running his tongue up the underside of Brian’s cock as he does it, and then slotting his tongue against the tip once he’s almost pulled completely off. He sucks leisurely, relishing the taste of precome on his lips, before bobbing his head all the way back down at twice the speed, stopping when the head hits the opening of his throat this time. He hears Brian breathe out in relief and start thrusting, matching his pace fervently as Roger repeats the motion, and they work up an easy rhythm.
Usually, Roger would take his time in order to enjoy this properly, teasing and pushing himself further with each thrust in to his mouth to see just how much he can take in. He likes the challenge that comes with giving blowjobs, but now isn’t the time for showing off or testing his skill, so he lets himself get messy.
He loses all sense of precision and starts licking everywhere at once, sucking the head deep into his mouth and then pulling off with a wet sound. He’s vaguely aware of Brian whining above him, hands twisting in bleach blonde hair as he bucks loosely into the heat of Roger’s mouth.
Roger hears the song fade out and allows himself a moment to catch his breath, kissing the head and inhaling the scent of sweat and sex that’s caught between them. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, tasting and swallowing. When he refocuses, eyes still closed in the silence, he realizes that Brian is saying his name over and over and tugging at his hair. Roger raises his head.
“Rog... Rog,” Brian is saying, a bit incoherently. His eyes are pitch dark and shining. “I think that should be enough.”
Roger meets his eyes, mouth watering. He drags his lips up and down the length of Brian’s cock once more for good measure, cherishing one final taste and making sure that it’s good and dripping before he pulls off with a deliberately loud pop.
He smiles up at Brian, a bit lopsided, lips swollen and shiny with spit. “Alright,” he rasps. His voice is strident and hoarse.
“How do you want to do this?” Brian asks breathlessly.
Roger hums, trying to rise from his crouched position in the small space they have to work with. The confinement doesn’t allow for many options in terms of what they can do, but that’s okay; this fits his preference. “Want to ride you.”
He manages to fit himself upwards and settle himself on Brian’s lap, legs straddling his thighs like they’d been before Roger had been sucking him. Now, he has to balance on the weight of his knees and lift himself a few inches in to the air so that he can pull his trousers down. It’s awkward and undignified, but Brian watches him with randy impatience.
Roger leans forward to rest his head on Brian’s shoulder and uses the angle to stare down between them, trying to line himself up while he’s still balanced over Brian’s cock.
“D’you want me to stretch you?” He can feel the warmth of Brian’s breath against his ear as the man whispers, one hand on Roger’s waist to hold the blonde steady. His thighs are straining from having to hold himself up. Roger shakes his head once.
“S’fine,” He murmurs. Beneath the curtain of his hair, he’s already biting his lip to brace against the pain that’s soon to come. He lowers himself slowly; not having much of a choice without the aide of lubricant to ease him down. Roger gets a hand on his cock to distract himself, stroking rapidly to ameliorate the burn of being breached. His breath comes out in sharp pants against Brian’s neck and shoulder, wet and lachrymose. His eyes sting and water. He tries to distract himself, listening closely to the music on the radio and focusing on the pace of his cock in his hands. He doesn’t even realize he’s whimpering, sounds getting progressively louder the more he bears down, until the music on the radio cuts out again and all he can hear is himself whining and gasping in the silence.
In the split seconds before shame can creep in, Brian is already turning the dial to another station, filling the quiet vehicle with the wail of guitar and the screams of Iggy Pop - Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell, from The Stooges’ most recent record, Roger quickly surmises - and Roger feels a surge of gratitude for it. Appreciation and affection for Brian hits him like a wave; that Brian knows him so well and is so attuned to his needs and wants that he can fill in the gaps without Roger having to ask him. His whole body relaxes with the realization, and this momentary oversight causes his weight to shift. Without thinking the head of Brian’s cock slides past his entrance all at once, so quickly that the pain of it doesn’t have time to register. Roger moans loud in surprise, eyelashes fluttering as he sinks down the rest of the way easily, until he’s fully seated and stretched on Brian’s lap.
It’s a long moment before either of them can move. Brian’s hand at his waist has tightened to the point that his nails leave sharp indents in Roger’s skin, and this time the pain is delicious. Roger belatedly realizes that, in his shock and turmoil, he’s bitten down on Brian’s neck hard enough that it’s left a mark just above the jut of his collarbone. He licks over the spot to soothe it.
He shifts, testing the size and the girth of what’s filling him, and then jerks his hips down once experimentally. Brian gasps in his ear and tightens his grip on Roger’s waist. Encouraged, Roger repeats the motion, slower this time; grinding down roughly. He leans his weight forward and spreads his legs further apart, trying to get a better angle. Brian’s fingernails carve little half-moons in to his hips.
They go slowly at first, Roger setting the pace in order to work himself open. He closes his eyes and tries to relax as he goes through the motions, breathing evenly in time with the grinding of his hips, hair swaying as he moves. It hasn’t been too long since he last let someone fuck him, but the feeling of fullness is just as satisfying as ever. Loosened and slick with pre-come, he lifts his hips just slightly and then comes back down, letting out a little sound of surprise when Brian finally bumps against his prostate.
He bears down again, coming up higher this time and then dropping down with twice as much force, letting his head fall backward when he bottoms out. Brian licks a hot stripe down his chest as he moves, meeting him halfway to capture his mouth when Roger rises up again. This time, Roger clenches around him deliberately, squeezing at the cock inside of him as he tries to keep it inside, and they both gasp out in unison when the head catches at Roger’s rim. The rough drag at his entrance is near painful. Roger does it again.
Brian gives him a halfhearted slap on his thigh. “Quit it, Rog,” he says with laboured breath. “I can’t move.”
Roger stops abruptly, Brian’s cock halfway in him. “Move then,” he grins, panting.
Brian rolls his eyes, smiling in that long-suffering way he does whenever Roger’s gone and done something ridiculous that he doesn’t want to admit he finds endearing. Sighing, he tightens a hand in Roger’s hair and pulls their mouths together; slamming his hips upward once Roger’s eyes have fallen closed. Roger gasps sharply, jaw falling open partway when he bounces a little.
They both know how to play this game; Roger teasing and goading and deliberately provoking until Brian takes control and sets a pace for the both of them, harsh and punishing like Roger wants. His thighs are already aching from holding himself up for so long - being on top always tires him out. Brian, knowing this from experience, gets a hand around Roger’s waist to aid him, moving him in time with the sharp cadence of his thrusts, the music not quite loud enough to drown out the sound of skin slapping on skin.
Roger nuzzles his face warmly into the crook of Brian’s neck, by now well fucked out and unwound, sighing and making little noises against Brian’s skin. He mumbles something incoherently and Brian lifts him up by the chin.
“What’s that, Rog?” He murmurs quietly, pressing this foreheads together.
Roger’s own voice is gravelly and sleep-sticky when he speaks. “Close,” he repeats, eyes still closed and lax. His breaths come out shallow, little hahh-hahh-hahh sounds against Brian’s lips.
Brian kisses him on the tip of his nose, pressing a thumb against one rosy cheek, and quickens his momentum, watching Roger shake with the force of it. He’s trembling all over now, face screwed up tightly like he’s bearing for a hit.
Since Brian had taken control for the both of them Roger’s been languid and pliant, letting Brian do as he wants with him, but now, nearing the end, Brian needs him back again.
Pressing his mouth to the side of Roger’s head to whisper in his ear, parting long blonde hair to the side, he tells him firmly, “Rog, I need you to clench down now. Tighten up for me on this next one, alright? You understand?”
Roger nods feebly, eyes unfocused and bleary when he opens them. His pupils are swollen and ink black, with dark eyelashes casting shadows against cheeks that are flushed like he’s been drinking; this is the kind of loss of wits he’s been craving for weeks.
“Wanna come, Rog?” Brian whispers against him, and Roger shivers in response, clenching down around the cock inside him as directed. Distantly, he hears Brian hiss. There’s a stuttering pause in the taller man’s movements, followed by a sudden rush of liquid heat as he finishes. Roger whines loudly from low in his throat as he’s filled, climaxing simultaneously and making a wet mess between them, a thick salty scent that drips down the bareness of Brian’s stomach, abstract white smears trailing downward on tan skin.
The final chords of Nancy Sinatra’s ‘Some Velvet Morning’ fade out just as they’re coming back around. Roger’s lying motionless and slumped against Brian’s sticky form, small and delicate now in his spent-out state. They’re both breathing unevenly and too lazy yet to move from their position of Brian’s cock, now flaccid, still inside Roger, who squirms with the beginnings of discomfort.
He mouths messily against Brian’s neck and collarbone, enjoying the last remaining moments of Brian filling him, all wet and hot and raw before he finally pulls off, the slick popping sound of his hole stretching around the head one last time making him cringe at the pure obscenity of it.
He falls backward into the passenger seat rather ungracefully and is immediately aware of the feeling of come dripping out of him, thanking God that this is a rental car while his cock twitches weakly with interest. With nothing in the vicinity available to clean himself off with, he quickly pulls on his boxers and then his jeans, vowing to change his clothes immediately when they get back to the hotel. Beside him, Brian is attempting halfheartedly to wipe himself off with his hands before doing up his trousers, and then holds the aforementioned hands out to Roger, first his left and then his right. Roger complies eagerly; suckling and lapping at Brian’s skin without protest and kissing at the tips of his fingers.
It’s the radio that eventually pulls Roger back from his sleepy post-coitum haze, still licking Brian’s come from off his lips when an oddly familiar flurry of piano notes grasps at the edges of his consciousness and tugs him back to earth. He hears a resounding crash of drums, and then...
“That’s us!” He jolts up suddenly, grinning ear to ear and pointing wildly at the radio as Freddie’s operatic vocals start to crackle through the speaker and Seven Seas of Rhye begins to play. “Bri, d’you hear that? That’s us, that’s our song!”
Brian shifts upright beside him, eyes wide and beaming with pride and disbelief. He slaps Roger on the back good-naturedly, both of them whooping and cheering with glee at this apparent achievement. Brian wraps one arm tightly around Roger’s shoulders and squeezes, pulling the blonde’s slimmer form against his own.
“Feeling like a rock star yet?” Brian teases, kissing Roger on the top of his head, against his hair.
“Maybe a little, but,” Roger twists up to meet his eyes slyly, dimples popping when he smiles. “I’m with one now anyhow, aren’t I?”