#duchessdaltrey

[entwiistle-blog]

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{ awwww ♥ tHANK YoU rog rox c: }

[entwiistle-blog]

John, Pete said to grab him a bottle of brandy while you're out.

...That's the fifth time this weekend he's asked me for that.

[keith-moon-the-loon]

Oh Keith I forgot to mention, Roger's planning to make a movie about you. What do you think about that? Who do you think should play you?

Roger? A movie about me? Oh bugger, he’d just find more ways to make me look like an arse…

[classic-rock-fandom-confessions]

[keith-moon-the-loon]

duchessdaltrey replied to your post: duchessdaltrey replied to your post: i FIGURED OUT...

Please refrain from dying, Paloma, that’d look bad on my record. Also, did you know, the flower which you know as Daffodils are really just excess Daltrey seed? It’s true. In fact, most people now refer to them as Daltreydils. -Might be slightly hyper-

((ROXIE I CAN'T WITH YOU OMG I'M IN BIOLOGY CLASS AND I'M LAUGHING))

[keith-moon-the-loon]

duchessdaltrey replied to your post: i FIGURED OUT THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PLANT AND DALTREY. Daltrey's a man. The other's a woman.

Surely the difference is that one Photosynthesises. (The other just pollinates all over the damn place)

((OMG ROXIE I AM DYING I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING))

[askptownshend]

 duchessdaltrey said: That’s Pete Townshend for ‘I love the stupid twit really, but despite my vast emotional range, I can’t say it outright ’ (At least, I think that’s what it really says. Maybe it’s a cry for help… or a cuddle?)

Ha. 

Ha.

[askptownshend]

☑ •_•

"Will you luv me when I’m old?"

"What?"

"I said, Will you luv me when, Roger Daltrey?”

It was a rare moment in time that Pete Townshend seemed to be less preoccupied with his work, and more entranced by the idea of love between the two. It sparked so suddenly, constantly, while looking at Daltrey- how was he to stop himself? This was the same thoughts that had always ran through his mind, repeating over and over if it would be proper to say, if it was safe considering their prior engagements to their wives. He couldn’t help but let his mind venture to Karen briefly, yet his lips parted in such a way, as if he couldn’t care less of women- as if the most important thing in the world was the love and consideration of some blond singer in some washed-up rock band. 

His lips moved as if he were reciting something sacred.

And his hands, too, continued to trace over and over the form of his lovers stomach, following certain curves and creases, trying so terribly to remember this moment before it faded into the back of Pete’s brain. It would always happen, it was inevitable, yet he always wanted to know if he could truly get away with etching that perfect shaped scar, or that random right hook on his left side, into his mind on a permanent basis. He dared to remember every bounce and curl that rested on pillows now, counting the different shades of yellow that could be accounted for on Roger’s head. He wanted to recall his hands, that were engraved with veins of a man who had worked too long in his youth, and spend too long in the lap of luxury now. 

He wanted to remember Roger, in this moment, at the epitome of wonderment. 

With Pete’s pillows basking in curls and his bed sheets basking in veiny hands and archangel bodies, Roger shifted slightly, letting his half-dazed eyes fall onto  the features of his own lover. He followed Pete’s game; knew exactly what he was doing. No matter how many times the two made love, it would always end with the guitarist….not really wanting an end. In fact, he would often miss meeting, appointments, plans just for extra minutes to watch Daltrey stir. Yet, he still couldn’t understand such trivial matters-

Why remember something he could always come back too? 

"Now, you know I will, Pete." replied a soft, cockney voice.

"Oh will you?"

"Of course I will," and slowly, those veiny hands would find shelter around the bare hips of some too-lanky singer, and the scars and dents on his abs would touch the smooth, nearly hairless stomach, and the bouncing curls would adjust themselves to fall just perfectly, almost picture-eqse, over his chiseled jawbone- and he would look, and smile, and kiss, and hold "Even when we’re both half dead, in walkers—” a grin sprawled itself across Roger’s face “….even when you’re deaf and dumb and blind—” and his eyes, dropping to winding hands, binding one another to the point where Townshend nearly forgot about tracing, about etching, about holding onto that memory so tightly that---

"Not even when you forget about me, Pete."

Not even then? 

"Not ever."

 And suddenly, Pete's hands stopped tracing the singer.