𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. (+18)

break up with your girlfriend.

From: Tumblr.

Credits to: jetsandbennie

summary: it's a long affair with roger, and guilt tears you apart over it - yet, you can't get enough of him.

pairings: 80′s!roger taylor x reader.

You met him when you both were drunk.

You didn't remember exactly how you first met him, really. Alcohol was like a way to wipe your memories and you'd had just a few too many shots at the show, one for Queen, and you had booze racing through your veins all night. You could recall the blonde walking up to the bar, buying you another drink, and he was wasted too and you didn't question it.

It was a concert. Everyone was drunk.

You told him that you'd seen him during the show but you couldn't remember where. He laughed and said he hadn't seen you because his eyesight was kind of bad and, and your giggles mixed with his, higher than they usually were. Then you sipped your drink and he sat on the stool next to you. Surely you had a few more drinks but whatever conversation you'd held after had disappeared from your mind.

You woke up in his bed the next morning.

--

He looks like an angel when he sleeps, the early morning light seeping through the window like water through a crack. His hair is messy and his hand is resting over his soft stomach, and you sit up in bed just to look down at him.

He's so pretty.

The room is cold and yet the sheets are colder when you pull them up and around your chest, shielding you from - whatever. Him if he wakes up, you suppose, but if what happened last night really happened it's nothing he hasn't seen.

What's his name?

You don't fucking know. It had been so long since you'd slept with someone without knowing them. It feels wrong somehow. You'd been taught sex should be special and you don't even really know this beautiful man's name.

You settle back into his bed, sheets pulled up to your chin. His are kicked down to just above his waist and you try to avoid looking at him. Just look at the ceiling, thinking.

Contemplating.

After a moment a voice in the room sounds out and it only scares you the smallest bit. Perhaps you were expecting it. "You look scared."

You pause. "Scared?"

"Yeah. All existential. What, was last night not good enough for you to be happy today?"

It's teasing and you turn your head to the side and meet his eyes. They're ridden with sleep. Of course, he just woke up. "I don't remember much of it, really." He smiles and rolls to his side, body completely facing yours. You want to touch him, place your hand against his cheek, perhaps. But instead you shut your eyes and ask, "What's your name?"

"It's Roger. Roger Taylor."

It's a good name, you decide. Fit for someone like him.

--

You left his house after scribbling down your name, number and address onto a napkin in the kitchen. Roger takes it from you and folds it into a small square, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans, and then he says goodbye and that he'll call you.

You don't really expect him to. It seems like a ruse, truthfully, a way to get you to look back on your small memory with him fondly and not recall him as a douchebag who fucked you and never wanted to hear from you again. But you played along. You got in your car and drove away to the nearest McDonalds and you sat at a table and didn't get anything, just thought.