Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 40

"Look at you," a soft voice whispered in my ear, waking me up from the nap I had involuntarily taken while playing the waiting game. I drowsily glanced over my shoulder and saw the bassist I'd been dying to see all afternoon lying behind me, his body flush against mine and his fingers lazily trailing up and down my exposed side—my shirt ridden up in an awkward fit. The room around us was dark, and so I could only assume that the rest of the day had gone by. The radio had been turned off and silence seemed to fill the apartment.

He smirked and leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on my lips.

Instinctively, I kissed him back, turning my body around so I was facing him and cupping his face in my hands as I deepened the kiss. He followed my lead for a little bit before pulling back and looking at me with lustful eyes, the corner of his lips curled up into a smirk. "Seems you had yourself a pretty good time without me," he commented in a teasing kind of manner, his gaze shifting downward.

I looked down as well, noticing the large stain on my unbuttoned and unzippered pants. An embarrassed blush crept up in my cheeks as I opened my mouth to explain, but before I could, he chuckled and asked, "What did you do?"

"Nothing," I answered tersely, starting to fidget with my pants as I tried to fasten them.

"No, don't do that," John objected softly, gently pushing my hand away and smiling up at me. I stared at him with a confused expression on my face, watching as he moved further down on my bed—his face only inches away from the area that began to ache like it did earlier today.

I sat up on my elbows while his fingers danced across the waistband of my pants, a seductive look in his eyes that traveled up my torso to meet mine. "You didn't do anything, huh?" An embarrassed blush crept up in my cheeks as he returned his attention downward, the tip of his tongue grazing his slightly parted lips before he pulled my pants down from my waist. My breathing hitched as he yanked the garment over my ankles, staring at me with starry eyes.

"Aww, Roger," he murmured with pouted lips, "You're so red."

I bit back the snarky comment that immediately popped into my mind, opting instead to fall back on the mattress and cover my face in shame. I felt like a fool in front of him, and not just in this instance, but every time he was around; every time we were alone. I didn't know what it was that his presence did to me, but whenever I was with him, I became vulnerable, weak, powerless even. It was a horrible feeling—one I somehow couldn't get enough of and was ashamed to admit I put up with.

The bed creaked beneath me as John crawled between my legs, holding himself over me and planting kisses on the back of my hands—one on each. I parted my fingers and peered through the cracks to see him with a wide grin stretched across his face.

"I'm sick, aren't I?" I mumbled, my voice muffled by my palms.

"I wish everyone was as sick as you, Roger," he growled, his attention being drawn over the side of the bed. I lowered my hands and turned my head, leaning over the edge ever so slightly to notice the notebook that was still there—my lyrics proudly displayed on the lined paper. "What's this?" he questioned, picking up the notebook and holding it out in front of him.

My hand instantly shot out to grab the notebook, but John pulled away, towering over me with his knees on both my sides while he read the words on the page, smiling more and more with each line he glossed over.

"Who do you want to be a woman, Rog?" he asked, peering over the notebook at me. His question reminded me of Freddie's the morning he found it.

"Don't," I murmured.

"Who's 'don't'?" the bassist joked tauntingly.

"John, please," I begged, going for the notebook again, only to have John leap off the bed and cross the small room, standing as far away from me as he could against the wall on his side. I sat up and snatched my pants from the ground, slipping into them as I stood up and walked over to him, trying once again to take possession of the work in progress. He wouldn't give it up, though, holding the notebook tightly to his chest and protecting it like it was his own.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I muttered, my voice cracking.

John refused to give me a verbal response, offering only his provocative stare that seemed to intensify as that damn smile of his grew. I hated it, but what I hated more was how I couldn't hate it. I loved it; it drove me absolutely mad.

The raging conflict inside of me made me shove John back into the wall he was already leaning against, which in turn caused him to drop the notebook and fight back. There weren't any punches thrown and no blood was shed, but it got to the point where we'd switched positions, with me pinned down to his bed and him hovering over me.

"What are you doing?" I croaked out as I struggled to free myself from his tightening grasp, his fingers digging into my shoulders and his weight pushing me down deeper into the mattress.

"Stop," he told me, his voice hitting my ears in a low growl that barely sounded like him.

"You're hurting me!" I shouted under my breath, tears wavering in my eyes.

"Then don't fight," he suggested with a sadistic smirk.

I continued to push against him, refusing to take his plea deal and attempting to get him off of me on my own accord. He wouldn't budge, though I did eventually find a way to sit up, taking the opportunity to bury my head into his chest and let the tears that had been building in my eyes roll down my cheeks. Silent, near inaudible sobs began to rack my body as I clung onto the bassist whose arms hesitantly wrapped around my back and pulled me close to him.

It was exhausting playing this game with him. I was tired of trying to figure out how I felt and why I felt that way. It was draining trying to justify my feelings, and even more when I had to mask them. It was exasperating keeping everything inside, and I didn't know how to do it anymore. I didn't think I could. It was too much.

"Hey," John murmured, the uncharacteristically unforgiving and unrelenting demeanor he'd taken on disappearing and being replaced with a more fittingly concerned and remorseful one as he realized he'd taken things too far. He ran his fingers through my hair and drew me even closer. "I'm sorry," he apologized, pressing his lips against the side of my head, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to...I just...Roger, it's okay."

It wasn't okay. It hasn't been okay this entire time.

He pulled back and tried to connect our lips, repeating himself over and over again as he continued to shower me with affection in hopes of finding the right spot that would get the reaction he desired, "It's okay...It's going to be okay..."