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titusnowlTitle: Homecoming (I guess. Hahahahahah coming hahahaha I'm 12)
Pairing: Simon/Roger, of course. I never bother with fic-headers on anything else, apparently.
Rating: NC17 NO SERIOUSLY THERE IS SEX IN HERE I SAY THE WORD COCK AND EVERYTHING
Summary: It's been three months, Saint. You could have called. There could have been long-distance phone sex or something. Or maybe telegram sex. Although I imagine that would get expensive awfully fast.
The Brook Street flat was, technically, his, so when Simon saw fit to vacate, Roger saw fit to remain. Sometimes it would be too quiet, and he would notice the silence and be reminded of the noise which had filled it not so many months before, when Simon and Dicky and Norman were there, but those times were infrequent and readily remedied by pushing down to the pub. He had to stay there, you see, so he'd be there when Simon came home... not that he was waiting for him, like a puppy or something, no, but...
...when he did, Roger was there.
He was doing the washing-up after supper, idly humming one of the nameless tunes Simon liked to appropriate for his own compositions, when another voice chimed in on counterpoint.
Roger spun, flicking water from his hands, and there was Simon, leaning long and lean and rakish in the doorway, swinging his walking-stick, hat pushed back from his forehead, lips curved into a buccaneering smile as he held the last note a full measure, then widening into a grin. "Hello, old firefly. You've finally learned to be a good little housewife?"
"Hello, Saint," said Roger evenly. "I see they weren't able to do anything about your face, wherever you went."
Then, quick and purposeful, Simon lanced his cane into the umbrella-stand and spun his hat into a chair, and in the same fluid motion crossed the room to pull Roger against him, mouth hot and insistent against his. One hand pressed against the small of Roger's back, holding him close; the other caressed his shoulders, his neck, ran through his hair; and as Simon pulled out of his kiss and moved to plant more small kisses near his ear, he breathed "I've missed you, beautiful."
"Then take me with you next time," said Roger, rather more plaintively than he'd planned. He held his hands rather stiffly at his sides, feeling a bit ridiculous but instinctually unwilling to get slightly-soapy handprints on Simon's impeccable suit. He knew the man had enough museum-quality samples of the tailor's art to supply a small nation, but it still seemed slightly sinful to muss such an immaculate appearance.
As if he knew what Roger was thinking, Simon released his hold on the other man long enough to drop his jacket off his shoulders and toss it carelessly into a corner. "Don't worry, Roger," he said softly as he pulled him close again. "We will have more adventures ere we die."
Simon's touch was urgent, the quick, clever hands questing over Roger's body as if he were reading the story of the months they'd spent apart in Braille or something, in the wrinkles of his shirt, the starch in his trousers, the twist where he'd gotten his braces on wrong and been too lazy to fix it just to wear around the house. Then the shirt was unbuttoned, untucked, one hand sliding under, hot skin on skin all around his waist, pulling cloth free, and all the while Simon was speaking softly, words interspersed with kisses to Roger's lips, face, jaw, neck, the breath of his speech as warm and gentle as his lips; telling the tale of his absence, shot through with half-mumbled endearments, and Roger struggled to keep the thread of the story - for the Saint never minded mixing business with pleasure.
He got lost somewhere in Luxembourg, as Simon pressed him back against the counter, hips grinding against his, and - "Oh, I'll tell you later," Simon said finally, a husky undertone creeping into the clipped and quiet voice. "You must have had things well in hand here, as the bishop said to the actress."
"You could say that," Roger forced himself to reply; and Simon smiled into the hollow between neck and shoulder and slid Roger's shirt down his arms.
"We'll see if we can't make up for it," Simon said, with his peculiar mix of angelic innocence and devilish innuendo. One leanly-muscled thigh forced its way between Roger's, pressing hard against him, inciting a low moan. Roger thrust back, his hands clutching at Simon's hips, burying his face in the crook of Simon's neck, biting his lip hard to keep from making noises that would be words that he would feel silly about afterward.
Then Simon's hands were running over him again, one sliding down between trousers and skin, skimming so lightly over his arse, and he couldn't bite back a hoarse "God, Simon - "
"Mmm." Simon nipped at Roger's ear. "I suppose there are more comfortable places to do this." Then he stepped back, leaving Roger gasping at the sudden loss of contact before he was pulled along, both of them shedding clothes along the way as they headed to the nearest bedroom, not caring whose it was.
They collapsed onto the bed in something of a tangle; Simon sorted them out and climbed on top of Roger, applying himself to the other man's throat with a vigor that would leave a mark. Roger's hands slid to Simon's arse, tugging him down to press them together, and Simon interrupted his ministrations with a hissing intake of breath as their cocks ground against each other.
"I have missed you," breathed Simon, and then for once it was Roger cutting off the conversation as he wrapped his hand around them both and Simon's voice faltered. "God," he said meaninglessly. "Your hands."
"Nice, what?" Roger grinned. "It's all that washing-up. I've switched to Fairy Liquid. 'Hands soft as your face' - "
"Oh, shut up," said Simon; and when Roger opened his mouth to say another word, Simon pressed his own mouth over it, thrust his hips sharply, and whatever smart remark had been planned became a muffled moan.
Business and pleasure, then; working efficiently, though not too fast, not too slow, finding and keeping a rhythm that grew between them, hot with the friction of skin on skin and heavy with the weight of things left unsaid; gasps and moans and choppy murmurs - "oh, beautiful - " "don't, don't stop - " "yes, right there - " Then a sobbing gasp, a tightening of the shared grip, clenched teeth and arched back as Roger came, spilling sticky heat across his stomach; Simon pressed kisses to his face, his neck, his sweat-damped forehead, murmuring encouragement, keeping up the rhythm until a second rush of heat filled the space between them. The rhythm gradually slowed to a stop, their breathing slowing with it, and Simon collapsed onto the bed beside Roger, resting one hand on his thigh, reluctant to break contact entirely.
Roger stirred enough to find a pair of cigarettes in a box on the nightstand; as he lit one, he gave the room a double-take and groaned.
"This is Pat's bed."
Simon took the lit smoke out of Roger's mouth and drew contentedly. "She won't mind. Just switch the blankets out before she gets in."
Roger glared at him half-heartedly and lit the second cigarette. "If you say so, old man. When is she due, anyway?"
"She and Norman stayed an extra night in Calais; they ought to be in tomorrow. We've all the time in the world." Simon drew open a drawer in the matching nightstand and produced a couple of handkerchiefs, tossed them nonchalantly to Roger. "For now, though, I'm taking a nap. I've been on my little hooves since yesterday. Night-night, beautiful."
"Goodnight, ugly-wugs."
Pairing: Simon/Roger, of course. I never bother with fic-headers on anything else, apparently.
Rating: NC17 NO SERIOUSLY THERE IS SEX IN HERE I SAY THE WORD COCK AND EVERYTHING
Summary: It's been three months, Saint. You could have called. There could have been long-distance phone sex or something. Or maybe telegram sex. Although I imagine that would get expensive awfully fast.
The Brook Street flat was, technically, his, so when Simon saw fit to vacate, Roger saw fit to remain. Sometimes it would be too quiet, and he would notice the silence and be reminded of the noise which had filled it not so many months before, when Simon and Dicky and Norman were there, but those times were infrequent and readily remedied by pushing down to the pub. He had to stay there, you see, so he'd be there when Simon came home... not that he was waiting for him, like a puppy or something, no, but...
...when he did, Roger was there.
He was doing the washing-up after supper, idly humming one of the nameless tunes Simon liked to appropriate for his own compositions, when another voice chimed in on counterpoint.
Roger spun, flicking water from his hands, and there was Simon, leaning long and lean and rakish in the doorway, swinging his walking-stick, hat pushed back from his forehead, lips curved into a buccaneering smile as he held the last note a full measure, then widening into a grin. "Hello, old firefly. You've finally learned to be a good little housewife?"
"Hello, Saint," said Roger evenly. "I see they weren't able to do anything about your face, wherever you went."
Then, quick and purposeful, Simon lanced his cane into the umbrella-stand and spun his hat into a chair, and in the same fluid motion crossed the room to pull Roger against him, mouth hot and insistent against his. One hand pressed against the small of Roger's back, holding him close; the other caressed his shoulders, his neck, ran through his hair; and as Simon pulled out of his kiss and moved to plant more small kisses near his ear, he breathed "I've missed you, beautiful."
"Then take me with you next time," said Roger, rather more plaintively than he'd planned. He held his hands rather stiffly at his sides, feeling a bit ridiculous but instinctually unwilling to get slightly-soapy handprints on Simon's impeccable suit. He knew the man had enough museum-quality samples of the tailor's art to supply a small nation, but it still seemed slightly sinful to muss such an immaculate appearance.
As if he knew what Roger was thinking, Simon released his hold on the other man long enough to drop his jacket off his shoulders and toss it carelessly into a corner. "Don't worry, Roger," he said softly as he pulled him close again. "We will have more adventures ere we die."
Simon's touch was urgent, the quick, clever hands questing over Roger's body as if he were reading the story of the months they'd spent apart in Braille or something, in the wrinkles of his shirt, the starch in his trousers, the twist where he'd gotten his braces on wrong and been too lazy to fix it just to wear around the house. Then the shirt was unbuttoned, untucked, one hand sliding under, hot skin on skin all around his waist, pulling cloth free, and all the while Simon was speaking softly, words interspersed with kisses to Roger's lips, face, jaw, neck, the breath of his speech as warm and gentle as his lips; telling the tale of his absence, shot through with half-mumbled endearments, and Roger struggled to keep the thread of the story - for the Saint never minded mixing business with pleasure.
He got lost somewhere in Luxembourg, as Simon pressed him back against the counter, hips grinding against his, and - "Oh, I'll tell you later," Simon said finally, a husky undertone creeping into the clipped and quiet voice. "You must have had things well in hand here, as the bishop said to the actress."
"You could say that," Roger forced himself to reply; and Simon smiled into the hollow between neck and shoulder and slid Roger's shirt down his arms.
"We'll see if we can't make up for it," Simon said, with his peculiar mix of angelic innocence and devilish innuendo. One leanly-muscled thigh forced its way between Roger's, pressing hard against him, inciting a low moan. Roger thrust back, his hands clutching at Simon's hips, burying his face in the crook of Simon's neck, biting his lip hard to keep from making noises that would be words that he would feel silly about afterward.
Then Simon's hands were running over him again, one sliding down between trousers and skin, skimming so lightly over his arse, and he couldn't bite back a hoarse "God, Simon - "
"Mmm." Simon nipped at Roger's ear. "I suppose there are more comfortable places to do this." Then he stepped back, leaving Roger gasping at the sudden loss of contact before he was pulled along, both of them shedding clothes along the way as they headed to the nearest bedroom, not caring whose it was.
They collapsed onto the bed in something of a tangle; Simon sorted them out and climbed on top of Roger, applying himself to the other man's throat with a vigor that would leave a mark. Roger's hands slid to Simon's arse, tugging him down to press them together, and Simon interrupted his ministrations with a hissing intake of breath as their cocks ground against each other.
"I have missed you," breathed Simon, and then for once it was Roger cutting off the conversation as he wrapped his hand around them both and Simon's voice faltered. "God," he said meaninglessly. "Your hands."
"Nice, what?" Roger grinned. "It's all that washing-up. I've switched to Fairy Liquid. 'Hands soft as your face' - "
"Oh, shut up," said Simon; and when Roger opened his mouth to say another word, Simon pressed his own mouth over it, thrust his hips sharply, and whatever smart remark had been planned became a muffled moan.
Business and pleasure, then; working efficiently, though not too fast, not too slow, finding and keeping a rhythm that grew between them, hot with the friction of skin on skin and heavy with the weight of things left unsaid; gasps and moans and choppy murmurs - "oh, beautiful - " "don't, don't stop - " "yes, right there - " Then a sobbing gasp, a tightening of the shared grip, clenched teeth and arched back as Roger came, spilling sticky heat across his stomach; Simon pressed kisses to his face, his neck, his sweat-damped forehead, murmuring encouragement, keeping up the rhythm until a second rush of heat filled the space between them. The rhythm gradually slowed to a stop, their breathing slowing with it, and Simon collapsed onto the bed beside Roger, resting one hand on his thigh, reluctant to break contact entirely.
Roger stirred enough to find a pair of cigarettes in a box on the nightstand; as he lit one, he gave the room a double-take and groaned.
"This is Pat's bed."
Simon took the lit smoke out of Roger's mouth and drew contentedly. "She won't mind. Just switch the blankets out before she gets in."
Roger glared at him half-heartedly and lit the second cigarette. "If you say so, old man. When is she due, anyway?"
"She and Norman stayed an extra night in Calais; they ought to be in tomorrow. We've all the time in the world." Simon drew open a drawer in the matching nightstand and produced a couple of handkerchiefs, tossed them nonchalantly to Roger. "For now, though, I'm taking a nap. I've been on my little hooves since yesterday. Night-night, beautiful."
"Goodnight, ugly-wugs."
