âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Jim Morrison (IV) •

For -starsailor my beloved - I apologise for the wait but, finally, I have fulfilled your second Jim Morrison request. I really hope you enjoy!

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It was raining when Jim burst through the door of your shared apartment, hair and beard dripping thickly with water, sneakers scuffed with mud, eyes dark and lined with bags. "Y/N," he called, the rumbling of his voice echoing through the sparsely decorated rooms, intermingling with the hammering of rain on the windows. "Get your coat on, honey, I gotta take you somewhere."

You were still in your pyjamas, stretched out like a content cat on the sofa, and jumped at the sound of his entrance. You'd been making your slow way through a late breakfast while listening to the radio and trying – somewhat uselessly – to suss out a French newspaper. As it seemed you and Jim would be staying in Paris indefinitely, you felt the least you could do was try and learn the language.

Jim's heavy footsteps carried down the hallway, halting as his shadowed frame appeared standing in the doorway, a shocking black and white film still out of place against the modern technicolour apartment. At the sight of you, the words waiting to bloom from his opened lips wilted in his throat, and he swallowed audibly, eyebrows furrowing. "You still not up?"

You dropped the piece of toast you'd been halfway through and graced his troubled brow with a smile. "Hey, not all of us are tortured poets. Some of us need sleep. What's the matter?"

Snapping back into life, Jim finally stepped into the room's threshold, leaving a sheen of rain droplets in his wake along the hardwood floor. "Get dressed. I gotta show you something."

When he made it to your lounging figure, he bent to kiss you, but you quickly dodged him, laying a gentle slap on his shoulder. "Jim! You're wet! What the hell do you have to show me in this weather?"

He manoeuvred past your waving hands and half-hearted dodging to press his lips to your cheek even so, and you squirmed at the feel of his wet hair and skin against yours. Jim just laughed.

"The future. Come on, get moving."

It took some convincing, but Jim eventually managed to scrape you from the sofa, into some fairly presentable clothes, and out on to the winding streets of Paris. It was around 10:00, but the pavements were bustling with shoppers, tourists and workers running late, even despite the rain. Still, Jim led you through them as though they were nothing but spectres, weaving gracefully through umbrellas and shopping bags and one stray baguette.

It was a long walk, made to feel even longer by the looming figure of Jim striding ahead in front of you rather than beside you and the rain dampening the ends of your hair even though you held your hood tight. Despite the none too surprising attitude of your lover, you found it interesting to slink through the Parisian rues, dodging your way through cobbled back alleys and side streets lined with towering balconied houses of the 1800s. Even the rain couldn't dampen this city, not for you, and certainly not for Jim.

When he did finally stop, it was at a pair of large gates, reminiscent of those you'd always imagined at the long extinct Bastille. Flanked by two gargantuan carved pillars, the ornate gates were cast open, providing a teasing display of cobblestone pathways, leafy trees, and strange little shack-like buildings.

A cemetery, you realised. He'd taken you to a cemetery.

"Isn't it beautiful, Y/N?"