#and he nearly looses his mind when youve got his cock in your pretty little mouth

[tojigasm]

Jacob Elordi with a cock ring...

[shels-kpop-main]

Moments, part 11

Word Count: 3146

Warnings: None. A little angst and fluff so soft

A/N: Please let me know what you guys think! Things will be heating up in the next chapter, but I had to get this last bit of fluff out of my system. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, send me an ask!

You stayed in Roger’s room the rest of the night, leaving only to retrieve the plate of food from the living room table. Upon returning with it, you set it on the bed between yourself and Roger, and the two of you shared it. After eating, the two of you stayed up talking for several hours. When you finally reached for Roger’s wrist to check the time, it was almost one in the morning.

But you didn’t leave. You just wove your fingers through Roger’s, and laid over. He did the same, and you fell asleep there. Curled up and facing each other, with your hands meeting in the middle.

You woke up to bright sunlight coming in through the window. You were still laying above the covers, but a wool blanket had been thrown over you and tucked under your feet. Your hand, previously holding onto Roger’s, was now loosely curled around his collar, the backs of your fingers pressed to his chest. You inhaled deeply, still half-asleep, but awake enough to appreciate being surrounded by things that smelled like Roger. Including Roger, who was still sound asleep across from you.

He had an arm draped over your waist, and the other rested next to his face on the pillow. You slowly pulled your hand from his shirt and touched his cheek instead. His face was warm to the touch, and smooth. You brushed your thumb softly from side to side, and this was enough to stir Roger a little. He opened his eyes slowly, only about halfway. His hand pressed to your back a little more firmly as he smiled.

“Morning, love.” His voice was husky from sleep, but it was offset by the look in his eyes. You twirled a strand of his hair between your fingers, and scooted a little closer to him.

“Good morning.”

The two of you stayed there for a few minutes, before you got up to go change. You smiled at Roger’s groans of complaint when you rolled out of bed. When you emerged from his room, still wearing your clothes from the night before, you looked down the hallway before hurrying up the stairs. The house was quiet, and it seemed that everyone had gone downstairs for breakfast already.

Which was good; you didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. God forbid someone see you coming out of Roger’s room in your clothes from the previous day and think you’d slept with him. It wasn’t anyone’s business, but knowing the guys, they’d tease you both out of the county for getting caught on a walk of shame.

The following week passed in a blur of messily-written new songs, a fresh series of photo prints, and many, many stolen kisses from Roger. He’d often pull you aside after dinner to press a trail of kisses from your mouth to the collar of your shirt. If Roger ducked outside for a smoke break during recording sessions, you’d grab him by the chin and pull his mouth to yours.

You’d somehow managed to never be found during these moments aside, but the guys weren’t stupid. They noticed the light smear of lipstick on Roger’s mouth when he came back inside. They noticed the looks you two shared over the dinner table. But you didn’t care. Being around Roger was the closest thing you had ever experienced to happiness with another person.

And however much you didn’t care, Roger cared even less. He mentioned your photography to the guys frequently, telling them about a particularly good (“bloody brilliant, you guys!”) shot you’d taken during rehearsals. He asked Deacy for advice on how to formally ask you out, to which Deacy rolled his eyes but told Roger everything he had done successfully with Veronica.

So, five days after he first kissed you by the fence outside the farm, Roger came to your door with another bouquet of dahlias.

“These are beautiful, Roger. Thank you.”

You beamed at the pretty, pink blooms in Roger’s hand and leaned in to kiss him. He accepted the kiss gratefully, immediately leaning down to you. You fidgeted with his collar, reveling in the sweet and smoky taste that you’d come to associate with Roger. You pulled away to take the flowers to the vase atop your dresser, smiling to yourself.

Roger closed the door behind him while you fiddled with the flowers. When you turned back to him, he was running a hair through his hair nervously.

“Something on your mind?” You raised an eyebrow and walked back over to him. Roger let out a breath, and shoved his hands in his pockets. His body language was starting to make you nervous, and you folded your arms.

“Yes, actually. I, uh… Whew, sorry,” Roger chuckled nervously. You must have looked concerned, but Roger’s face softened, he quickly reached forward to rub your arms.

“Everything’s alright, love,” he assured you, hands settled at your elbows. You gave him a half-hearted smile, still afraid of what he might say next.

“I just haven’t done this in a while with someone I care about,” Roger explained. You were just confused at that point, and waited for him to finish. His hands fell back to his sides.

“I, uh… I wanted to know if you’d like to go to dinner with me?” Roger rushed through the last few words, and it took you a moment to process what he said. But then, when his words hit you, you burst out laughing out of sheer relief. Roger gave you a confused frown, his eyebrows slanting with concern. You placed a hand on your chest, as if to steady your rapidly-beating heart. But then you flung your arms around his neck and kissed him fully.

“Roger Taylor,” you laughed, pulling away, “you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“What, what’d I do?” Roger smiled a little, putting his arms around your waist. You shook your head, grinning up at him.

“You got all serious, and scared me!” You answered, giving him a light shove to the chest. Roger laughed, and a light blush came to his cheeks.

“Well, I was nervous! Been a moment since I’ve properly asked a girl on a date!” Roger replied, pulling you closer. Your hands fell to his collar, as they often did when Roger was holding you close like that. It was cathartic, in a way, to play with the fabric while you talked to him. It was grounding for the both of you.

“Did you think I would say no?” You cocked an eyebrow at him. Roger shrugged, clasping his hands on the small of your back.

“Well, not necessarily,” he smirked. You shook your head at his cockiness, smiling coyly. But Roger became serious again, brows furrowing.

“So, is that a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, and moved your hands up to weave into his hair.

“Yes, Roger,” you kissed him, “I would love to go to dinner with you.”

So Roger took you into town the following night, insisting that you both dress up for your first date. It was incredibly endearing to watch his face light up when you came down the stairs in your only formal dress. It was a navy blue cocktail dress, and although it wasn’t your favorite look, it gave you great joy to see Roger’s mouth fall open. He fidgeted with his cuffs a little as you approached him, and the thought of this cool, arrogant rock star being nervous for a date made you smile.

Roger drove you to a swanky restaurant in town, telling you to wait while he jogged around the car to open your door for you. The meal went well, and the two of you stayed there, talking and drinking, until well after dark.

You were happy. You and Roger still hadn’t slept together, at his behest, but you hardly had time to be annoyed with him. The two of you spent your free time walking around the farm, arms around each other, talking about anything that came to mind. Late nights stretched into early mornings, with you and Roger usually falling asleep in your room.

At some point, Roger had brought his guitar up to your room, to play you a new song he was trying to write. You loved the song, but sleep overtook you as you lay sideways next to him while he played. Roger simply leaned his guitar against the chair your camera was sitting on, and laid down next to you, falling asleep shortly after.

But those idyllic days on the farm were numbered. And you both knew this. But still, you and Roger enjoyed the bucolic lifestyle that came with staying at the farm.

One day, as the completion of the album drew nearer, you were sitting in the studio box with your camera as the guys recorded in the live room. The phone next to the soundboard rang between takes, and the audio engineer reached over absentmindedly to pick up.

“H’llo? Uh-huh. Yeah, she’s right here.” And with that, the guy handed you the phone and returned to his work. You frowned, holding the receiver, unsure of who would be calling you. But when you pressed your ear to the phone, a familiar voice crackled across the line.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God. Why haven’t you called me?” Your mom sounded fretful. You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Hi, Mom.”

“It’s been two weeks since you’ve called. I was worried sick!”

“I’m sorry, Mom, it’s been crazy here. I didn’t mean to worry you. Did Uncle Jim tell you about my photography?” You attempted to deflect, but your mother was worked up, and ignored your question.

“And when are you coming home? You’ve been there for two months.”

“I don’t know, Mom. Wasn’t the whole point of staying here, to get away from everything?”

Your mom huffed out a sigh. “Well, yes, for a brief escape. Not to just move to England forever!” You rolled your eyes, already finding the conversation overlong.

“I’m not gonna be here forever,” you replied, exasperated. “It’s just that I’m waiting to hear back from the record company. The band’s manager wants to use my photos to promote the album, and they’re going to call any day. To tell me which pictures they want to use,” you trailed off, hoping your mom would appreciate the good news. But she was determined to be upset.

“Have you taken any classes?”

“I—well, no.”

“Gotten a job?”

“Potentially, weren’t you listening?” You were starting to get annoyed.

“It just seems too good to be true. If they like your pictures, what then? You just stay there, with the rock stars? Living in a dream, like you’ve been doing?”

For some reason, that statement really bothered you. Maybe you were just irritable at being faced with reality. Maybe it was the tone she took, or the way she worded it.

But you found yourself more determined than ever to make something of this getaway. Because your time on the farm had become meaningful to you. It wasn’t just an escape. You weren’t just living in a dream.

You were recovering.

Recovering from the shock you’d undergone at the loss of your dad. Recovering from the shift in your worldview. Recovering from the guilt you’d piled on yourself since that day in the hospital room with the beige floors.

“You know what,” you began, through gritted teeth. “It is like living in a dream. I have friends here now. I have Uncle Jim. I have—”

You looked up at that moment, to see Roger in the live room. He was saying something to Brian, a wide smile across his face. The sight of him brought you out of the haze of anger, and you experienced a splitting moment of clarity. No matter what, being here was worth it.

“I have everything I need here,” you finished, in a gentler tone. Mom exhaled, and you heard it, miles away, across the Atlantic.

“You’re living in a bubble, Y/N. Please come home.”

The sincerity of her tone caused you to falter. Your eyelids fluttered as you pulled your gaze away from Roger. He was joking with Freddie, who was doing a ridiculous pose on the drum risers.

“I will, Mom. When I’m ready.”

“Okay. I love you,” she replied, sounding defeated.

“I love you, too,” you said flatly, and hung up.

You had forgotten you weren’t alone until the sound engineer gave you a concerned side eye. You folded your arms.

“Sorry, Todd. Don’t tell anyone?”

The sound engineer named Todd nodded as he fiddled with the switches on the board. For all his stoicism, you were certain he could keep a secret.

“Thanks.” You left the building with tears in your eyes. Roger looked up toward the control room just as you picked up your camera. He could tell, even at a distance, that something was wrong. He knew your face well enough to tell that you were trying not to cry. You avoided looking at the guys as you exited the control room and ducked through the door without a word.

You were tired of being a mess in front of everyone, so you resolved yourself to sobbing out your frustrations in your bedroom.

Roger was staring at the door the entire time he played, even as the band finished recording their song. He wanted to go after you, but wasn’t sure if you wanted time alone. The guys noticed the funny look on his face, but didn’t say anything. When the session was wrapping up, Brian finally spoke up.

“What happened with Y/N?”

“God knows,” Freddie said, not really paying attention. He was still sitting at the piano, scribbling something on a loose piece of paper. “Anyone up for drinks in town?”

Roger ignored Fred’s question, looking from Brian, to Deacy, to the door you’d exited. Deacy had enough of Roger’s cluelessness, and broke the silence. “Oh for God’s sakes—go after her, Roger,” he told Roger, exasperated, pointing at the door. “See if she needs anything.”

“Right,” Roger responded quickly, rushing to get around his drums. Deacy rolled his eyes, but his heart was warm. Roger’s intentions were good, even if he needed a little encouragement sometimes. He found you in the attic, trying to fix something on your camera that wasn’t broken. By the time you walked to your room, the lump in your throat had disappeared. But you were still uneasy.

“Hey, love,” Roger’s soft voice hummed through the wide room.

“Not now, Roger.”

“Yes, now,” he insisted stubbornly. You frowned at him, still holding your camera.

“What happened?”

“My mom called.”

You were met with confused silence from Roger.

“She said I’m living in a dream, that I can’t stay here forever,” you sighed. It seemed this sentiment had not occurred to Roger either, and his face fell. But after a moment of thought, his eyes sparked.

“Maybe not, but that’s not the end of things. We can make it work,” he told you, looking hopeful and a little excited. You frowned at the floor, then at the Nikon in your hands. Before you realized what you were doing, you pulled the camera to your face. It created a barrier, gave you some control.

But through the lens, you saw Roger sigh and step nearer to you. He reached out and gently pushed the camera down, away from your face. You frowned, refusing to make eye contact.

“Don’t hide. You were so certain before. What happened to that?” His voice was low, gentle. It made you want to cry again.

“My mom,” you answered bitterly, looking him in the eyes. But Roger was confused, and stayed silent.

“She’s got a point, Rog. We’re living in a bubble. Eventually, I’m gonna have to go home, and you’re gonna have to tour.”

“Well, she’s half-correct,” Roger admitted. You frowned, unsure of his meaning. “You’re gonna have to go home at some point. And I’ve got the band. But,” he continued, pulling your camera out of your hands slowly. He set it down on the chair next to his guitar, then returned to you.

“That doesn’t mean we’re living in a bubble right now. This is happening.” He took your hands in his, squeezing them gently. You stared at his fingers, lost for words.

“Hey,” he pulled one hand away, and used it to tilt your chin up. The feeling of his fingers on your face sent tingles down your spine. You stared hard at him, trying not to be emotional.

“Please don’t be sad,” he urged. When you said nothing, Roger released your hands and crossed the room to your dresser. There, he smiled at the most recent flowers he’d given you. They sat in a blue vase, next to your pictures. But between them, sat an old radio. It was a little dusty, having gone unused in a house full of live music.

But Roger turned it on, and tuned it to the first clear station he could find. The small speakers crackled to life, filling the attic with a slow, bluesy song.

I’ve found my thrill On Blueberry Hill When I found you

“Dance with me,” Roger told you, holding out a hand and doing a ridiculous bow. You rolled your eyes, but felt the sting of anxiety fading. So you took his hand, and put your other arm around his neck. Roger was a decent dancer when he wasn’t trying to act a fool, and he guided you in slow circles across the room.

The moon stood still On Blueberry Hill And lingered until My dream came true

The lyrics were sweet, comforting. The melody, coupled with Roger’s fingers drumming softly on your waist, turned your mouth up at the corners. And, without warning, Roger began to sing along, swaying you side to side a little.

“For you were my thrill,” he sang, to your giggling. “On Blueberry Hill…”

You were smiling wide and bright by the time the song ended. Roger finished the dance with a small flourish, lifting your hand and urging you to do a small twirl. Which you did, much to his delight.

Roger grinned at you as he released your hand. You rubbed your arms, and stepped back to him. The next song began, an upbeat swing bop.

“Feel better?” He asked, looking genuinely hopeful. You rested your forehead against his shoulder, prompting him to wrap his arms around you in one of his characteristically comforting hugs.

“Yes,” you mumbled into his shirt. Roger kissed the side of your head, still tapping the beat of the last song onto your waist.

“Good.”

“Thank you,” you pulled back to look at him. Roger answered with a peck to your lips, and a wide grin.

“Any time, love. Can’t have my girl worried.”

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