George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

“You’re gonna gouge my eye out, mate, watch it,” Roger winced.

“Keep still then,” George demanded, words muffled by the cigarette. 

Roger shifted again, adjusting his arms above his head with a huff, “I’m still, I’m still.”

With one more scribble, George sat back to admire his handiwork. He plucked the cigarette from between his lips with a content exhale and the smoke hazed the warm room, lingering in the air, around the bed, between them. Roger fluttered open his big blue eyes, a slight furrow between his eyebrows as he awaited George’s verdict. 

“Right,” George reached a hand back down to smear away some of the black in the corner of Roger’s eye with the edge of his pinky, “that about does it.”

“How do I look?”

“Smokin’ hot,” George chuckled, “Seriously, Rog, you gotta wear this more often. Makes your eyes pop.”

Roger’s hands fell absentmindedly onto George’s thighs, batting his eyes up at him instinctively as if he were subconsciously proving his point, “It’d be a knockout on stage, you reckon?” 

“Definitely.”

George moved off of him to give Roger a chance to get up and look at himself in a mirror. His eyes followed him into the bathroom as he took the last drag of his cigarette before stretching across the spacious bed to stamp it out on the ashtray on the bedside table.

“Jesus!” came the exclamation from the bathroom, “I look like a fucking chick.”

“A hot chick,” George called back as he settled back against the headboard in nothing but his shorts, long legs lost amidst the rumpled silk sheets, “Just need some mascara and a bit of lip gloss.”

“What do you know about mascara and lip gloss?”

George smiled to the ceiling, “Plenty, thank you!” 

From the bathroom came the sound of rifling through items, bottles and tubes and the like. George waited patiently. Then, impatiently. He glanced over in the direction of the bathroom.

“Are you coming back? Don’t tell me you’re washing it off.”

“No, hang on,” came the familiar voice through the wall, “Think my sister left some of her makeup junk here the last time she came down for a visit.”

George’s eyebrows raised to no one in particular, “Mascara and lipgloss?”

“Perhaps,” came the reply, followed by the pop of a lip gloss cap. A pause, then: “I’ve still got my costume from the video shoot. Perhaps I should put it on.”

George let out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re absolutely mental, Rog.”

“Gotta make a proper go of it, don’t you think?”

“Right, right. Of course.”

George wasn’t unfamiliar with the music video Roger’s band had recently released—four grown men in full drag, all for a laugh. It was harmless fun, really, though the international media stations had called it inappropriate and refused to air it on MTV. George had only caught clips here and there, and the rest he'd heard about in those late-night calls with Roger. 

He’d never admit it out loud, but there was something oddly charming about how Roger threw himself into everything without a hint of shame. He always had. For as long as George could remember. 

Maybe that’s what made him so captivating to George—or maybe it was simply what made him such a successful musician and performer. Either way, he was a treasure, and George was grateful to know him. And to be loved by him, in whatever strange, unspoken way they had.

As he waited for the grand reveal, George drummed his fingers against his bare chest, staring at the ceiling. It all felt like boyhood again, laughing until their stomachs hurt dressed up in their mums’ clothes and jewelry. Nostalgic and innocent, sure, but there was a strange heat across George’s chest that he pushed aside to anticipation.

At the sound of the floorboards creaking, George looked toward the bedroom door just as Roger stepped inside.

The shiny black loafers scuffed against the worn carpeted floor, stopping just over the threshold. They contrasted sharply with the white knee-high socks, which sat unevenly over black tights that hugged Roger’s slender legs up to the hem of that fucking short black mini-skirt. It perched prettily on his waist, the white collared button-up tucked into it messily, as if thrown together in a rush. His chest looked fuller, exaggerated by the black bra visible beneath the thin fabric of the shirt—barely hidden by the pink and yellow striped tie hanging neatly from the collar.

Roger was a gorgeous blonde on his own, his shoulder-length hair always hacked into that messy rock-star style. But now, it was hidden beneath a feminine wig, blonde curls brushed out to fall in perfect waves over his shoulders, curtain bangs framing his forehead. At the top of his head, two black-and-white polka-dot bows were clipped into the synthetic hair, helping draw the attention back to the eyeliner around his eyes. 

His big blue eyes popped even more now, thanks to a crude application of mascara in the bathroom—his lashes unbelievably long and luscious. And his lips all but shimmered in the warm lamplight, slick with a messy swipe of pink lip gloss.

Always one for the dramatics, Roger turned to lean himself back against the doorframe, raising his voice a bit higher to purr out a sweet, “Whaddya think, Georgie?”

George sat up straighter on the bed, swallowing thickly as he stared at the person across the room. There was no way this was really Roger…it was far too convincing, far too effortlessly passable. If they were walking down the street like this, anyone would assume they were just another couple on just another date. It was those naturally feminine features, now sharpened and sweetened by makeup and clothing—and George caught himself falling for it too.

He had to remember how to speak for a moment, choking out a dumb, “Oh my God, you even have the wig.”

“Wig?” Roger played coy in that pretend voice of his, twirling a strand of fake blonde hair around his finger, “This is my natural hair. Dontcha think it’s pretty?”

George’s chuckle felt so forced, “Yeah. It’s so pretty. I love the bows.”

“Did myself up real nice for you, baby,” Roger gushed, starting to saunter across the carpet towards him.

George could feel his heart pounding in his chest like a drumline. Had someone turned up the heat in the apartment? He was wearing nothing but shorts but suddenly it felt quite hot. He shifted on the sheets, watching as Roger crawled onto the foot of the bed with a sly smile on his face that was immensely playful, like he knew what he was doing. This was all supposed to be funny, something to waste a Friday night on, a bit of a laugh…so why the fuck was George getting hard. 

Roger crawled closer until he was on all fours over top of George's outstretched legs, staring right at him with those big, gorgeous eyes and sweet glossy pout. For a moment, George almost wondered if Roger had applied some blush in the bathroom too. His cheeks were rosy.

Roger sat back on his haunches, ultimately placing himself on George’s thighs at the same time, and he threaded the fabric of his tie through his fingers. He was a grown man of thirty but in that light, in that moment, he looked like a young woman of barely twenty. He shook his head a little to get his hair out of his face before asking again, “What do you think, Georgie?”

George didn’t quite know where to look but his hands knew where they wanted to touch, moving as if by instinct to settle on Roger’s waist. There weren’t any curves as he would find on a natural woman but he didn’t seem to care. He still gave him a little squeeze and breathed out a low, “You look beautiful, darling.”

Roger’s eyelashes fluttered at the praise, as if not having quite expected that level of sincerity. Or maybe it was the pet name that got him, forcing a soft inhale of surprise. It felt all sorts of wrong—salacious and inappropriate—but for them, together, perhaps it was about time. Something was ought to give. 

There was no hiding it—George’s short shorts made the truth glaringly obvious. He couldn’t meet Roger’s eyes, at least not right away, a flicker of shame tightening in his chest. Instead, he focused on the way his hands moved, caressing Roger’s hips before sliding down over the back of his skirt. They had shared wandering touches in the past in childhood bedrooms or in darkened corners of clubs, but as fully sober adults in the unforgiving warm light of the apartment, this felt far more charged.

Roger let go of his tie to cup his hands over the peaks his push up bra made beneath the fabric of his button-up shirt, his voice still soft, tepid, “D’you like my tits?”

George could have groaned out loud right then and there, staring at the false reality right in his face and suddenly he was drenched with the realization of just how long it had been since he had a proper shag. This was as good an opportunity as any, and if Roger wanted it then who was he to push him away? 

“Yeah, darling,” George stared shamelessly at his chest, “Love ‘em.”

He brushed Roger’s hands aside, taking over with a deliberate squeeze of the padded peaks. Roger let out a soft moan, so convincing it almost made George believe he could feel it. He didn’t think—he just followed impulse, leaning in to kiss over the shirt, over the fake curves, pressing his mouth to the fabric where the bra gave shape to nothing. But it didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted. And right now, the thought was enough.

Roger’s hands felt heavy against his shoulders as he held onto him at that moment. Maybe it was the absurdity of it all—or maybe it was the intimacy beneath the absurdity—but something about the moment pressed heavy on George’s chest. He dragged his lips across the cheap fabric of the button-up shirt, mouthing along the edge of the opening where the first button gaped, letting his breath warm the skin underneath, fanning across Roger’s collarbones.

Roger let out a shaky laugh, half-flustered, his voice suddenly back to its natural pitch with a meek teasing, “You’re taking it a bit seriously, aren’t you?” 

George looked up at him, his mouth still close to his chest, eyes blown wide and dilated like a man starved. He replied easily, muttering an honest, “Maybe I am. Or maybe you didn’t realise how fucking hot you look right now.”

Roger blinked, clearly thrown by that—cheeks flushed, lips parted, the shine of his gloss catching the light. They just stared at each other for a moment, just like that, as if the realization of their close proximity took hold of them. Blue eyes against blue eyes, man to man, the face of someone you had known and trusted your whole life staring back at you. 

They moved in at the same time, lips smashing together in a horribly clumsy kiss that almost felt like more teeth than anything at first. All George could taste was that cheap strawberry lip gloss, tacky against his lips, smeared across Roger’s mouth as they found their rhythm with each other. Neither of them were strangers to kissing, having found plenty of partners in their public, star-studded careers, but suddenly they were resorting back to a clumsy makeout that felt like year seven behind the bleachers all over again.

As Roger’s large hand tangled in the back of George’s hair and pulled, George couldn’t help the low groan that left his throat. It had been too long. Too long without someone, too long without this. And even if the wig and the bra and the skirt were a joke on the surface, the way Roger kissed him back felt like anything but.

George didn’t know where to touch, with his hands roaming all over his body with an urgency that burned hot in his chest. Finally, he settled on his ass and grabbed two firm handfuls to draw him closer, moving the grown man atop him like he was a feather. Roger gasped into his mouth and moved with ease until they were chest to chest and he was properly on his lap. There was no hiding now, George realized, as he felt the weight of him pressing torturously against his erection that was still hidden away in his shorts. 

“Fuck…” Roger moaned, low and masculine and real, “You want it that bad, huh?”

George groaned into his mouth, “Shut up.”

Roger’s laugh was soft and sweet and George didn’t waste a second before he was slinging an arm around his waist and hoisting him over so they swapped positions. Now laid out flat on his bed, Roger stared wide eyed up at George who was now suddenly above him, lips kiss-swollen and gloss-smeared, wig slightly askew, the ends of his fake curls fanned out against his pillow. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, eyes flicking over George’s face like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or pull him in again.

George braced a hand beside his head, the other settling on Roger’s waist, fingers slipping just beneath the waistband of the skirt as he cooed out a low, “You make such a pretty fucking girl, Rog.”

Roger’s arms were draped beside his head as if at the complete mercy of George, his chest rising and falling shallowly. But, even still, he tilted his head, his voice low, smug, “Yeah? I’m pretty for you?”

George didn’t answer. He leaned down, pressing a kiss just beneath Roger’s jaw, then another down his neck. His hand traveled lower until it reached the hem of his skirt and his fingers toyed with the edge, slipping just under the bottom of it and tugging it up just a little higher. He could feel the way his black tights were stretched tight over his muscular thighs as if seconds away from tearing, tracing the fabric with his fingertips. He felt Roger shift beneath him, hips instinctively rising to meet his own—and the contact made them both gasp.

“Jesus,” George hissed.

Roger chuckled faintly, although George swallowed it up with another searing kiss. Their tongues met between them, fighting against each other as if figuring out who was in charge. When George’s large hand pulled Roger’s thigh up around his waist, pressing his hips down against his, Roger seemed to give in, literally withering beneath him.

“Yeah, be a good girl for me,” George muttered. 

“Fuck—“ Roger choked out, pushing his hips up against his in return, desperate for friction. 

George could feel how hard he was under the skirt, restrained by his underwear and the suffocating tights. No wonder Roger was starting to squirm like he was crawling out of his skin; it was undoubtedly incredibly uncomfortable. It only caused him to splay his hands across George’s muscular back, fingers pressing into his shoulder blades and nails dragging across his caramel skin, whimpering into his mouth as they kissed sloppily. He really fucking felt like a girl.

George groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against Roger’s lips as he rutted against him, unable to stop himself now. Everything was too hot, too tight, too fucking good to pause. It felt like a whole other universe outside of their own, something without consequences or regrets looming over their shoulders. Roger was clinging to him like he’d fall apart, rocking up with a rhythm that had George’s head spinning. 

“You look so fucking good like this,” George breathed into his mouth, his hand falling heavy against the pillow beside Roger’s head, “Like a proper girl. All dolled up, legs open, needy as anything.”

Roger whined—high and helpless—and George nearly lost it right then. He pulled back just enough to stare down at him in his wig and eyeliner and mascara, teeth pressed into his bottom lip. He had lip gloss smeared messily around his mouth thanks to their intense kisses and he was so clean shaven that it was easy to see him as just another woman, right down to his hair splayed over the pillow like a golden halo.

“You like playing dress-up for me, darling?” George murmured, pressing the front of his shorts right up between Roger’s spread legs, forcing the hem of his mini skirt higher until he could feel the suffocated bulge he was hiding beneath his tights, “You like being my girl?”

“Y-yeah,” Roger choked out, the word barely formed.

“Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m your girl,” Roger gasped, nails raking down George’s back until his fingers grabbed at his hips and pulled him harder against him. 

George pushed himself up onto his hands, arms straight, pressing himself against Roger until their clothed erections were rutting together filthily, forcing both of them to pour greedy moans and ragged breaths into the bedroom. Hardly anything had happened yet and they were already seeing stars, drowning in an ocean of lust with no safety net. George didn’t think he could stop even if someone held a fucking gun to his head. Had dry humping always felt this good? Or was it the wrongness of it all that pushed pleasure through his veins like heroin. 

“My fucking girl…” George echoed, half in disbelief, half in awe. 

Roger groaned and clumsily grabbed at the waistband of George’s shorts, huffing out an impatient and pitchy, “Just…get these off.”

George swatted his hands away, “You first.”

And then he was reaching up Roger’s skirt, pressing his fingernails into the taut fabric of the tights, and tore them with an audible rip, right over the crotch. Roger gasped in surprise but didn’t offer any sort of rebuttal, simply staring up at the man above him as George pulled the hole larger. It was only then that George realized that Roger wasn’t wearing any underwear. 

Instead, he was face to face with his hard cock—red, swollen, and already leaking at the tip—tenting up the front of his skirt that George pushed up farther to get a better look.

“Jesus, Rog,” George gaped. 

As if knowing what he was referencing, Roger argued meekly, “My underwear would show under my skirt.”

“So you went commando?” 

“Yeah, and the tights itch like the blazes.”

George ripped the tights some more until they were almost right in half, groaning out a filthy, “Naughty girl, aren't you?”

Roger took in a sharp inhale of breath, exhaling with a shaky, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re so fucking dirty.”

George leaned in to kiss at Roger’s neck, mouthing under his jaw while his hand wrapped around his cock under his skirt. He gave it a firm stroke and Roger rightfully withered, melting into the bedsheets, hands falling heavy against George’s bare shoulders. George started to find a pace with his hand while he desperately tried to ignore the strain of his dick still smothered in his tiny shorts. 

Instead, he spoke in a low drawl against the column of Roger’s throat, words tumbling out of him without a thought from his brain, “So hard already…leaking all over my hand and your pretty skirt.”

Roger whimpered, hips twitching into his hand, “Just—just fuck me, George.”

There was no world in which George would have to be asked twice. 

He pushed himself away from the man beneath him and right away started to push down his shorts and underwear in one go. Impatient, Roger reached out to help him pull them off, dragging them down his long legs until they were strewn to the floor without a look back. Then George was kissing him again, hard and hot and sloppy, shoving his tongue in his mouth until all Roger could do was take it. 

Blindly, George grabbed Roger’s thighs and hooked them over his hips again as he settled between his legs. He could feel the warmth of him against the head of his cock, truly almost like he was with just another girl, and the realization made him groan. George reached down to teasingly press the head of his cock against Roger’s perineum and slipped it just slightly lower. 

“Wait,” Roger gasped, voice catching as George gripped his hips, “Lube…condom—in the drawer.”

It felt like a dream as he reached across the bed to yank open the bedside table drawer and fish through it; shoving aside items he didn’t care to acknowledge until he found what he was looking for. The whole thing was a clumsy mess of lust. It wasn’t graceful—lube slicked onto his fingers, Roger gasping as George worked him open in a blur of movement and want. 

One finger, then two, and eventually a third for good measure, thrusting into him in a flurry of desperation. Roger writhed beneath him, his thighs twitching on either side of George’s waist with every thrust of his fingers. His breathing had gone ragged, mouth slack, head tipped back against the pillow, that soft blush that had once kissed his cheeks spreading itself down his neck now. The sounds he made were soft, broken, obscene—and they only spurred George on.

He tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth, rolled it on with shaky hands, and lined himself up again, the head of his cock slipping through the slick mess of lube between Roger’s thighs. He looked up, just for a second—Roger’s flushed face, his lip caught between his teeth, that ridiculous wig a little crooked now with curls spilling into his eyes. He looked every bit as angelic as he could have dreamt.

George grabbed Roger’s legs and pushed them up towards his chest so he was bent nicely in half, giving George the perfect angle to press against his throbbing hole. And then he eased inside him slowly. 

Roger cried out, the sound sharp and high, hips jerking as George bottomed out in one long, trembling thrust. George’s head was spinning. With enough lube, Roger even felt like a girl too, sopping wet, tight and warm, and taking it so well. 

“Jesus Christ,” George breathed, hunched over him, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress for dear life while the other held the back of one of his thighs, “You’re so fucking tight—”

Roger couldn’t speak. He just whimpered, his eyebrows knitted together as he stared up at George on top of him. When George moved just the slightest bit, Roger’s hands scrambled across the rumpled bed sheets, his voice coming out in a shaky falsetto, “Fuck, Georgie!”

George groaned lowly, jaw clenched, staring down into big blue eyes framed messily with smudgy black eyeliner. The way they stared back at him made something churn within him; raw, unbridled need. He moved a little faster, finding a steady pace, thrusting into the body beneath him that gripped around him so perfectly, pulling him in time and time again. 

Roger’s skirt was useless now with the hem flipped up around his middle, his ripped tights beneath shamelessly showing off his cock and balls. He was otherwise completely dressed compared to George’s entire nakedness. Neither minded, too hung up in the moment to care about logistics, simply chasing the filthy pleasure. 

George’s thrusts grew sharper, deeper, the slap of skin on skin now echoing through the room with every movement. Roger cried out beneath him, one hand gripping the pillow, head tossed to the side, mouth slack, the other hand flailing up toward George’s shoulder—clinging, grabbing, needing something to hold onto. He pressed his fingers into his bicep until it was almost painful. 

With a sudden shift of his weight, George gathered both of Roger’s wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head, shoving them down into the pillow. Roger gasped, eyes flying wide, mouth parted, blinking up at him behind done-up lashes. 

“Stay there…that’s it…” George growled, voice low and hoarse against Roger’s cheek as he kept fucking into him, “Be a good girl for me.”

The helpless little whimper Roger let out in response made George’s cock twitch inside him. 

“You like that?” George asked, dragging his hips back and snapping forward again, grinding deep enough to make Roger’s legs shake, his toes curling in his socks, “Like me holding you down?”

Roger nodded quickly, his breathing ragged, “Yes…yes…feels so fucking good…don’t stop.”

And George didn’t. He fucked him like that—one hand gripping Roger’s wrists above his head, the other still keeping his knees pressed up to his chest, holding him in place, using the leverage to drive into him again and again. One of Roger’s socks had slipped down his calf and was bunched around his ankle while his wig sat crooked atop his head. His mascara and eyeliner was ruined, smudged more around the corners of his eyes, smeared with pleasure beneath his eyes, looking absolutely and completely undone. George had never seen him like this. So beautiful.

He slumped down right on top of him, almost holding his legs back by the weight of his body instead of his hand, rutting into him in needy, greedy, messy thrusts. Ducking his head into Roger’s neck, George groaned heartily, his hands tightening around his wrists still pinning him to the bed. Roger hooked his legs around George’s waist as if to keep him locked inside him, drawing him deeper, moaning freely to the ceiling like a pathetic mess. 

It all felt like a dream, tangled together like that, chasing pure, raw, humanistic pleasure with no thoughts of the consequences. George moved a hand to grasp onto the back of Roger’s neck and tangled his fingers in his hair—his real hair that was spilling out from under the crooked synthetic wig. With a gentle tug of the roots, Roger withered pitchily and tilted his head back, melting into his touch and giving George space to drag his teeth down the column of his neck. 

“Yeah…” George panted, “Yeah…yeah…fuck, you take it so good.”

Roger pried his hands free from George’s grip, desperate to cling onto him instead, and George didn’t fight it. Right away, Roger’s nails were clawing up his back as if wanting to drag him impossibly closer, “Keep going—don’t stop—fuck, I’m yours, Georgie.”

George couldn’t hold back the low groan that fell from his swollen lips. 

“My pretty fucking girl, yeah?” he muttered, breath hot against Roger’s collarbones as the bed creaked beneath them.

“Yeah, please…” Roger whimpered.

George pushed himself up onto his hands again, staring down into the done up face of his dearest friend, met with the sight of his makeup smeared with sweat and tears and pleasure. It was a sight. He couldn’t stop staring at him even as he adjusted himself back on his knees and grasped Roger’s shins on either side of him for support, fingers curling into his uneven knee-high socks. All he could do was fuck him harder, desperate and hungry, and the wood headboard started to hit the wall in a steady rhythm with each thrust of his hips. 

The new angle had a pitchy shriek expelled from Roger’s throat, his head tilting back against the down-filled pillows, hands flying across the sheets for something to ground him, crying out, “Jesus Christ, George!” 

George reached down and grabbed Roger’s pink and yellow tie, wrapping it around his hand once and pulling it taut like it was a leash. Roger had his mouth agape as he stared up at him like that, fingers grasping the pillow case on either side of his head until his knuckles were almost turning white. 

“Good girl,” George praised breathily, “Taking me so well.”

Roger groaned, diamond eyes glassy, staring up at him stupidly like that. The cheap white button-up that he wore clung to his figure with sweat, damp spots making the fabric almost translucent against his skin, showing off a little more of that black push up bra underneath. George could hardly take it anymore. 

With a huff, George grunted out a strained, breathless, “Fuck—I’m not gonna last.”

As if sharing the same feeling, Roger’s only response was the way he dropped his hand down his body to take his cock in a greedy fist. His pace matched that of the way George fucked into him—messy and quick and full of need—and his face was screwed up in pleasure as he stroked himself off at the same time. 

“Yeah…yeah…yeah…” Roger stumbled out, a mess of nonsensical words and pleas.

“Come for me, darling,” George purred, “Come on.”

Roger whined, high in his throat, jaw clenching as his head tilted back against the pillow, dizzy on the rhythm of the thud, thud, thud of the headboard hitting the wall over and over again. He kept his hand going feverishly, hungry, toes curling in his stockings on either side of George’s naked body above him. 

George wrapped both hands around each of his ankles and pushed his legs back into a wide v-shape. He stared down at him like that, splayed out across the silken sheets in his ridiculous schoolgirl outfit, angry red cock in his fist, makeup smeared and wig askew, and he was filled with the need to see him come more than anything. So he kept thrusting hard into him and spoke behind the sound of slick skin colliding with skin, “Come on, pretty girl. Come on, gorgeous. Come for me.”

That was all it took. Roger’s whole body tensed for a split second and then he cried out—sharp and breathless—as his cock jerked in his hand as he came across the dark fabric of his skirt and all over his hand. His legs trembled beneath George’s grip, almost trying to pull them away in overwhelm as he just kept coming, spilling more and more over his skirt and dripping down the ripped fabric of his tights. 

“Fuck!” Roger exclaimed, voice breaking.

George collapsed forward, bracing one hand against the pillow beside Roger’s head, the other still fisted in the soft stretch of his sock, grinding deep into him once more before he, too, was succumbing to the pleasure. He could feel Roger clenching around him, pulling the orgasm from his body until he was groaning prettily as he filled the condom and imagining he was filling him up instead. 

The room quieted to nothing but the sounds of their panted breaths and pleasured moans as they faded into the afterglow. George could still feel his cock throbbing as he slowly eased out of him and Roger let out a strained little noise at the sudden emptiness. 

There was plenty of room on the spacious bed for George to shift off of him and flop onto his back beside him against the silken sheets and so he did just that. He rolled off the used condom and wrapped it in a tissue from the bedside table before leaving it there to be disposed of later. For the time being, the two of them just laid there, breathless and boneless, staring up at the ceiling and processing. As their senses came back, clear from the haze of lust, reality settled around them. 

Roger moved first, yanking his frazzled wig off and tossing it to the floor as he sat up with a muttered, “Christ, I need a fag.”

George’s eyes followed his movements as he lay across the sheets, nude and flushed, an arm draped above his head. He could still feel his heart racing—either from the workout or the starting realization of what they did, that was unclear—and he took a breath to try and calm down. Instead, he stared at Roger’s back, still in that button-up with the black bra beneath showing through the fabric, his natural blonde hair mussed up from the wig.

There was the sound of the lighter sparking and then he was slumping back against the pillows and tossing a half-empty pack of Marlbros onto George’s bare chest. The silent offer felt like a peace offering although George didn’t speak to it. He just propped himself up on one arm and took out a smoke from the package, setting it between his lips and letting Roger reach over to touch the end with the flame from his lighter. 

When it lit, he took a cleansing drag and then plucked it from his lips to admire it, staring at the swirling smoke like it held all the answers to what they had just done. Beside him, Roger’s eyes were hazy, his own lit cigarette perched between his fingers. He watched as Roger placed the cigarette between his lips and reached up under his cum-stained skirt to push the ripped tights and slipping socks down his legs and onto the floor with the wig.

George stared at him like that, not quite knowing what to say. For a moment, it felt like Roger didn’t want to look at him; he, too, in an internal battle of facing what they had done. They smoked together, side by side, all too aware of the presence of the other, surrounded by the stench of sex and cigarettes. 

Roger broke the silence with a quiet scoff, smoke curling from his lips, “So...what the hell was that, then?”

George scoffed, scrubbing his hand across his forehead with the cigarette still between his fingers. He had no answer. Not one that made sense, anyway.

“Dunno…madness?” he muttered finally, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. He took another drag, the smoke stinging his lungs more than usual, “Felt good, though.”

Roger hummed—neither agreement nor denial—as he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling, hazed by the warmth of the light through the lampshades.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause, voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “Felt like something.”

They lay there in the silence again, the weight of the moment pressing down, tangled somewhere between what just happened and what the fuck do we do now. They laid and pondered and smoked. Heavy.

After a moment, Roger broke their heavy silence with a small chuckle and a faint shake of his head. George looked at him curiously. 

“Your stamina is fucking mental, mate,” Roger laughed breathily as he flicked ash into the tray on the nightstand, smoke tumbling from his nostrils. “Fucking embarrassing to say you were the best shag of my life.”

George’s neutral expression broke into an amused smile of his own and he chuckled right along with him, “Yeah, well you weren’t half bad yourself. Bit dramatic, though.”

Roger scoffed, elbowing him in the side, “I was literally being railed into another plane of existence—what d’you expect?”

George laughed again, softer this time, the kind that lingered in the chest. They looked at each other in that moment, sharing the heat of the air, the familiarity between them, a million words unspoken and yet so much said between their shared smiles. For a moment, George could have sworn he felt something in his chest that rivaled pride.

After a moment, Roger tutted and turned away, stamping out his cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed, “Alright, you arrogant prick—no need to look so pleased with yourself.”

George smirked and followed him, reaching over him to put out his cigarette as well, skin pressed to skin, back to front. His voice was hot against Roger’s neck, “Call me arrogant all you like, but you were the one absolutely crying for it. Can’t hide that desperate look, you needy little slag.”

“Insufferable twat,” Roger shot back with a firm elbow to George’s ribs as they fell back against the headboard and pillows together. There was no real bite behind his words. 

After all, this was the language of friends who’d known each other far too long.

♡ Enjoying my content? Support my writing here :)