âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Ritchie Blackmore •

Hello! Here's another request, this time for the lovely 003karola003 - thank you for your patience, my love, and I hope you enjoy!
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Ritchie was in a bad mood. Surprisingly, it was often hard to tell the difference between Ritchie’s happiness and his moodiness, as his stoic nature often deprived you and the rest of the world of an insight to his true feelings. However, he was making no effort to hide it this time.

He spent several long, unyielding hours alone, locked in the bedroom or the studio. When he eventually crawled his way out, he was empty handed – no new melody, no expression of creativity, no lingering evidence that he had even spent that time on Earth.

You did all you could to console him, without piercing his carefully constructed armour. Extra showering's of attention whenever he left his cave of bleak solitude, treats at dinner time, sweet smiles in the morning.

But he barely even took notice. If you were lucky, he’d gift you with a small grunt at the sound of your voice, or an arm around your waist as he slipped into bed long after you’d fallen asleep. If he made it into bed.

You were almost at breaking point when he came home one rainy evening from the studio he and his band were recording in. You’d been busy for the last couple of hours, preparing what you had fallen into the bad habit of calling the last supper.

The direct approach never worked with Ritchie, but you were so despaired that you couldn’t think of any other option. He’d barely held a full conversation with you over the previous few weeks, and you were out of ideas. You’d made extra helpings of his favourite dinner and were determined to confront him over what was addling his already troubled mind. Unfortunately, you knew him well enough to know that it may turn explosive.

You were pulling a sizzling roast chicken out of the oven when you heard the key in the lock, the twist of the handle, the slamming of the door. You braced yourself against the counter for a moment, your oven-gloved hands gripping at the edge hard enough to leave grooves in the skin beneath as you took several long, deep breaths.

When it came down to it, you loved Ritchie. With everything in you that was capable of the emotion. And you weren’t always entirely sure if his feelings were as boundless as yours. He did love you; you were sure of that. He proved it to you in the silent affirmations he so willingly gave you. The glass of water he poured and refrigerated for you when he was at home waiting for you to finish work, the clean, warmed towel he left out for you after he’d nabbed the shower before you had the chance, the silent invitation of his open arms as you fell into bed beside him at the end of the day.

But sometimes, during storms like this, when he was so consumed by his own feelings that he was apt to forget about yours, you wondered if he could love you forever. Whatever that meant.

By the time you had gathered your courage, one single move from Ritchie was almost enough to shatter it. He’d had the time to take off his shoes, stomp down the hallway, throw his coat over the back of a dining chair and use his quick, sharp eyes to glance around the room in shielded curiosity. His nostrils tingled with the scent of lemon roast chicken – his favourite. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

With you seemingly engrossed in your roast chicken, he took the opportunity to pounce from behind, creeping his spindly fingers across the line of your waist and dipping his chin to land gently on your shoulder as he inhaled the smell of the food. The sudden presence sent a shock through your body, but the long hair tickling at your neck and the gentle touch of the hands remedied the sudden surprise rather quickly. That, and the fact that you’d heard him come home, after all.