âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Roger Taylor (II) •

I'm working on a Damon Albarn story which has been stuck in my head for weeks, should be up over this weekend - might be a long one 😭 Enjoy this, likely the closest I'll ever get to smut, in the mean time.

--☆--

The first time, it had been a mistake. The second time, it had been a drunken mistake. The third time, it had been a result of boredom. The fourth time, it had been an emotional response to a bad day.

So, what was your excuse for the twenty-first time?

The sad party, in an expansive house rumoured to be owned by some Gatsby-esque, new money Z-lister, which had been dying for several hours?

The woman who had been throwing salacious glances in Roger's direction through mascaraed lashes?

The men whose burning stares had lingered too long on your exposed skin, predatory and uncomfortable when compared with the balm of his gaze?

The way Roger had swung his car keys nonchalantly around one long finger, eyes glittering, smile broad and meaningful, as he'd offered to drive you home? To his home?

Love?

Whatever it was, you'd figure it out if you got caught. That's what you'd told yourself when he'd pulled into a secluded spot in the darkness of one of London's backstreets. He hadn't been able to wait. Your smirk had told him neither could you.

By the time he was pulling you into the backseat of his Rolls Royce, lips pressed ferociously to yours, hands gripping at your tight clothes as though his fingers could burn through them, you didn't have the mind to tell yourself anything at all.

You'd never carried out one of your salacious affairs in Roger's car, despite your affection for it's plush, white leather. The opportunity had never presented itself - and you thought he'd rather vandalize his precious drums than stain his leather seats. But, as you shifted beneath his weight and the material squeaked slightly against the bare skin of your legs, cool and firm, you wished you'd considered it before.

Roger always preferred stillness in the afterglow. Reflection. Letting the heavy breaths fade into the cool, midnight air, letting the smoke of life fade into the heavens. You couldn't complain. The feel of his body, warm and bare between your legs, beneath your chest, around your back. The smell of his skin. The protruding outlines of his bones and moles and freckles and scars.

Presently, he was draped across you. Your legs were crooked, making space for him between your thighs, but you cared little about the uncomfortable twinge of your muscles. His breaths, returning to a normal pace, hit your neck rhythmically.

You were staring out of the windows, still condensed and sticky. You'd told Roger to crack one open slightly, but he hadn't been able to keep his hands from you long enough to crank the handle. Still, it was wearing off, and you could just glimpse the sky through a crack in the fog. Stars had erupted through the night, and you stared at them in blissed-out wonder, hand stroking through his hair.

Roger groaned quietly as he shifted his body, beginning to press kisses along the exposed gland of your neck. Despite your aching and tiredness, you closed your eyes, suppressing a moan.

The longing passed, and you directed your attention from the sky to Roger, now trailing his mouth across your collar bone. His shoulder blade, sharp and exposed as a fossil, pressed into your clavicle somewhat uncomfortably. You shifted to get away from the sensation.

"You should eat more," you whispered, running the tip of your finger gently along one his exposed ribs.

Squirming, Roger made a tired attempt to dodge your touch. "That tickles." His nose ran along your jaw line, lips ghosting your skin as he spoke.

He ran his fingers feather-light down your arm, goosebumps rising along your skin in their wake, until his hand collided with yours. You gripped on tightly. Smiling, he settled against you once more, sneaking his head into the curve of your shoulder.

And still, you wondered. Part of you always did, once the night had fallen to silence around your entwined bodies.

What next?

It had started out clear, just a few weeks before. Into bed, then out the door. However, just recently, it had become into bed, stay over for breakfast. Sometimes, into bed, stay over for breakfast, in the car to the studio. What came next? What happened today?

"So," you began tentatively. "What now?"

Roger didn't say anything for a moment, didn't even move. His breaths came and went, an evening breeze across your ticklish skin.

"I know," he whispered eventually, smiling. "Since I need fattening up, let's do dinner."

You laughed quietly, a joyful tinkle of young love. Not only had he answered that question, but also several more.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

Yet, neither of you made an attempt to move. You considered, briefly, stretching out an arm to scrape along the floor of the car to find some of your clothes. But your arms felt so heavy, and he felt so right in them, that you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Besides, you had a sneaking feeling that one of your socks was currently wrapped around the mirror, so God only knew where the rest of your clothes were.

"Y'know, in a minute," Roger added, grinning as he lazily lifted his head from the crook of your neck to kiss you. "Or five."

"Or ten," you mumbled with a tired laugh, bumbling your way through the darkness to find his mouth.

Dim light filtered through the windows, the moon and stars illuminating the curve of his nose and the hollowness of his cheeks. It was almost too dark, but still your lips found his.

"Don't even know where my jeans have gone," he mumbled against your mouth.

"Rock up in your kecks, you're fucking Roger Taylor."

He laughed softly, before reeling you back in.

Although you did manage to move eventually, you didn't manage to find all of your clothes. Not even the overhead light was enough, so Roger began driving in his underwear, t-shirt, and one sock, cursing the starry night.

Although you were much more decent, you were missing your jacket and your undershirt. Not to mention both of your shoes, which seemed to have lightened into pure shadow.

It was a unanimous decision to get dinner to go.

You took on the task of collection, considering you were the only one of you to have what constituted as suitable clothing. Ever the gentleman, though, Roger gave you his shoes to shuffle off in, a sight he was still cackling about when you were walking back to his car, food in hand.

You ate in silence, a friendly quiet permeated lowly by the radio. Roger was picking through his food awkwardly, and you watched him with curiousity. No doubt feeling your eyes on him, Roger tentatively swallowed the thick chunk of onion he'd plucked from his deconstructed burger.

"I'm gonna take you to meet my mum tomorrow," he said, looking out the front window.

You weren't surprised, really. Well, not at the implications of the statement. He'd just laid out the next step. But you couldn't deny that you hadn't expected it to be that.

He turned to look at you pointedly. "Alright?" Only you could have heard the waiver in his confident voice.

You took a second, chewing on a potato wedge, chewing on your thoughts.

When your eyes met his, you nodded. "Alright."