(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)
Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean
Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe
Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay
Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden
Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)
Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)
Here and here are websites where you can play with sand
Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods
Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails
Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis
Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)
Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites
Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)
Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3
Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm
Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests
↳ A/N I couldn't help myself. I needed to write a Roger fic. There will be more, I'm sure. 70s Rog just begs to have stories written about him, have you seen the guy?? All I was watching when writing was this performance x
↳ Summary: Spending your Friday night at a college bar alone, you expected no more company than that of the music. But when the drummer of the band catches your eye under the stage lights, your mundane night turns into one you'll remember for decades.
↳ Pairings: 70s!Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)
↳ Word Count: 8.9k
↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, one night stand, smoking, drinking, public sex, oral sex (m receiving), minor spanking (with drumsticks), fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex (but he pulls out so like-).
London, 1971
The bar was hazy with cigarette smoke, fracturing the light from the cheap spotlights cast onto the cramped stage. The crowd was dense that night—strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder across the sticky wood floor, pushing and shoving in time with the music thudding through the crackling speakers. It almost felt like if the band got any louder, the sound system might burst.
You were front row, slightly to the right, getting an eyeful of the guitarist’s impressive solo as he took to the edge of the stage for his moment in the spotlight. This band had been pricking the ears of many students in and around Imperial College, rumblings that they had just signed a record deal whispered in the dormitory rooms over shared joints and stardust. They called themselves ‘Queen’—a bit of an improvement from their previous alias, ‘Smile’, you thought—and although they were still trying to find their sound, it was clear to anyone that they had potential.
You didn’t believe the rumours until you heard it for yourself, however, so you turned up that Friday night to one of the college bars where they were playing. Halfway through the show and you were pretty sold.
From their music, of course. The golden angel of a drummer was certainly just a bonus.
As much as you had found yourself a little captivated by him, he seemed to share in the feeling, his gaze constantly drifting to you throughout the show. At first you chalked it down to coincidence; how much could they see of the crowd with the stage lights in their eyes anyway? But after he performed such an impressive minute-long drum solo without a single error and then immediately winked in your direction, your suspicions of the blinding lights wavered.
You couldn’t recall seeing him around campus; you definitely would have remembered him. With blonde hair that was chopped shaggy around his shoulders, messy with sweat and exertion from the show, he looked like he already was perfecting that star-studded rock-and-roll persona from the get go. But his features were so soft, as if he had been carved by God’s most gentle angel with a precise and steady hand. It was as if he tried too hard to look hard rock but he was far too pretty to be genuinely convincing.
They played a forty minute gig in the crowded college bar. It was a show that outright felt like perfection and you were almost reluctant to admit that it might have been one of the best shows you had been to, to date. London felt far too small for them.
You watched with a warmth in your chest as the four band members lined up in the middle of the stage and took a bow to the cheering crowd. Someone towards the back whistled. The band looked ethereal like that, standing under the hazy stage lights, infinite.
And the drummer, taking the end of the lineup closest to you, was bathed in sweat that glistened like gold, dripping down his temple and getting caught in his sideburns and the ends of his frazzled blonde hair. You had never felt the urge to lick someone’s sweat off their brow as much as you did in that moment. God help you.
You were only pulled from your unruly thoughts when he looked at you, dead in the eyes, and for a moment you wondered if he could read your thoughts. He had such entrancing eyes, framed with long lashes as if he had put on mascara, his irises pale in the blinding stage light. You couldn’t look away, hardly even noticing how the guitarist and bassist threw some picks into the crowd as the drummer stepped over to the edge of the stage right in front of you, all without breaking your eye contact.
And then he was holding out his drumsticks to you; an olive branch, an invitation. His chest heaved with his exertion, and when you accepted his gift, his face broke into a handsome grin, a sly little smirk, and something shone in his eyes. The wood was still warm from where he had been holding them, slightly damp from sweat, splinted at the ends, the pair almost buzzing in your hands from the energy of the show.
No sooner did you receive your generous gift did the stage lights switch off and he disappeared into the darkness.
You stood there for a beat, the drumsticks still humming in your hands, unsure if you’d imagined it all—that look, that smirk, the slow-burning, unspoken invitation of it all.
But then, not long after, there he was again. At the bar.
Still glistening with sweat and running a hand through his damp, tangled hair, he leaned on the counter like he hadn’t just given the performance of a lifetime. His black tanktop stuck slightly to his back, toned arms shown off beneath the cut-off sleeves, and when he laughed at something the bartender said, the sound reached you through the crowd as clear as day.
With his drumsticks tucked in the back pocket of your jeans, you approached him. He glanced briefly at you as you leaned forward atop the bar at his immediate left and then almost did a double take as if it took him a second glance to register who you were. You didn’t look at him at first, directing your attention to the bartender instead as you placed your drink order with an addition of:
“...and whatever the man of the hour is having.”
And then you looked at him; the blonde haired drummer who was already staring back at you like you were a drop of heaven. When your eyes met, his surprised expression melted into a friendly grin—slightly bashful around the edges where his confidence gave way to something more humble. He turned towards you a little more, one arm still resting atop the bar, his eyes carding down your figure like he was trying to figure you out with just a look.
“I’ve reached that level of fame now, have I?” he spoke playfully, his voice handsomely raspy and low, warm like firelight, “Where beautiful strangers buy me drinks in bars?”
“Seems so,” you responded easily, “Keep putting on such incredible performances and maybe next it’ll be a car.”
“Do I get to know your name so I can hold you to that?”
You introduced yourself to him simply and he repeated your name as if testing the way it felt on his tongue.
He offered out his hand in return, “Roger.”
“Just Roger?” you played, setting your hand in his for a proper handshake. His palm was still clammy from his time on stage.
“Roger Taylor,” he humoured you with a smile.
“A good name for a rockstar.”
“You reckon?”
“Absolutely.”
The bartender set your drinks down in front of you and you rifled through your purse to find a few coins to pay for them. Your coins were passed into the bartender’s outstretched palm and you dropped your change into the glass labeled TIPS by the register.
Roger lifted his drink from the bartop and said casually, “It feels wrong allowing a woman to pay for me.”
You quirked a brow in his direction, lifting your own glass, “You don’t support feminism, Mister Taylor?”
He smiled at being called out for his misspeak, meeting your gaze over his glass with a cool, “Of course, I do. Suppose I just mean that next time I should make sure I return the favour.”
“Next time?” you echoed, voice filled with interest.
But both of you just sipped your drinks, all without breaking eye contact. The unspoken tension lingered around the two of you like an invisible string, luring you closer with the kind of intrigue that threatened those of the sort to write top-of-the-charts hits. It had been simmering like a soft and steady trill of a drumroll since the start of the show when he had first taken the stage, when he had first spotted you in the crowd.
Despite the way you both had been staring at each other for most of the night, there was still a game to play, a move to make. You knew you had to test the waters. So, you set your drink on the bar before leaning against it, fingers trailing around the rim of your glass as you said to him, “I haven’t seen you around campus. I definitely would have remembered you.”
He cocked his head, “You would have?”
“Oh, definitely,” you lifted your drink to take a sip, feigning an endearing sort of blasé, “I don’t forget such a handsome face easily.”
Roger ducked his head slightly, like he was trying not to grin, his eyes flicking down to his glass. A quiet laugh escaped him—low, soft, amused. Your compliment settled in the air around you and although he didn’t seem quite surprised by your words, he still clearly accepted them genuinely.
“Well,” he said, finally looking back up at you, just a flicker of dry wit nestled under all that bashful charm, “I’m not always this sweaty. Maybe that’s why you missed me.”
You licked away your smile, loving the push back, how he met your banter with such ease. You eyed him up yourself as if judging his statement for yourself before replying calmly, “It’s a good look for you.”
He accepted your comment with an ease of grace and answered your initial remark, “We play at Imperial because our guitarist goes here. I go to East London Polytechnic. But I used to go to London Hospital Medical College if that makes me sound cooler.”
A medical student and a skilled drummer? You were growing more fascinated by this guy by the second.
“What did you study?”
Roger hesitated for a moment, as if he knew whatever cool factor he had going for him was about to be shot down. Then he chuckled dryly at his own expense and said, “Dentistry.”
Your mistake was having gone for a sip of your drink just then. You were so caught off guard you ended up snorting into your glass, nearly sending the cocktail up your nose.
Roger’s laughter came quickly, soft and melodic as he reached for a napkin to offer you. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched you recover.
“What?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“I just did not expect the man I saw ravishing that drum kit on that stage settling down to warn people about the risks of gum disease.” you confessed playfully.
Your teasing banter didn’t seem to sway him as he laughed along with you and bit back with an easy reply of his own, “Yeah, exactly, dentistry was fucking boring, that’s why I switched to biology.”
“The fantasy of sticking your fingers in people’s mouths didn’t appeal to you?” you played.
Roger’s tongue swiped along his bottom lip almost painfully slowly and his eyes shut for a moment, long lashes kissing his cheeks, as he shook his head with a low chuckle. When he gazed back at you again, his reply was smooth, “Much rather’d do so off the clock, y’know? On my own terms.”
Your chest burned from more than just the alcohol, “Of course.”
“So, what’s your major then? Must be much more interesting than mine.”
You shared your major with him and he asked all the right questions to keep you talking. All the while, he stared at you like you were the headliner, his light eyed gaze taking in every movement of your lips and words they formed. You weren’t quite sure if you could remember anyone listening to you that intently before. Maybe he was just looking for a shag, or maybe he really did care. Either way, it was a win for you, frankly.
The college bar was so noisy and crowded that you were almost chest to chest with him so you could hear each other over the chatter. Amongst the haze of smoke around you, you could smell him; the obvious but not repulsive scent of sweat from his performance, masked in deodorant and some cheap cologne. It was all so personal. For a moment—blame it on the alcohol—you wanted to dip your nose into the apex of his neck and inhale him. The bar-goers surrounding you were far too drunk and chatty to have paid any mind if you had.
When both of your drinks were emptied and your conversation had momentarily ebbed, you noticed the way Roger’s hand almost habitually reached for his back pocket. He revealed a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and pulled one out to place between his lips.
“Fancy stepping outside for a bit?” he offered over the noise.
The venue was so small and unsuited for a proper show that its idea of backstage was simply a hallway that led to the bathrooms and the delivery exit. Roger’s hand somehow found its way into yours as he guided you past the bathroom lineup towards the back door, unlit cigarette still between his lips and his drumsticks still tucked in your back pocket. You followed him gladly until the pair of you broke out into the cool summer night. The door shut loudly behind you, instantly muting the sounds of the noisy bar left behind inside.
Behind the bar, the back alley was illuminated by only the single flood light above the door and the tail end of street lights leaking in from the main road. The alley seemed empty apart from the dumpster a few paces away and what you assumed was the band’s van parked across the narrow space. The sounds of the city filtered through the buildings that surrounded you and your ears still rang from the noise of the music and the liveliness of the bar.
It was a calm night, comfortably warm with a breeze that took the edge off, and you found yourself stepping closer to Roger as if to share in your body heat. He stopped a few paces away from the back door and turned back to you, shadows dancing across his face in the moonlight. You already had your lighter at the ready.
He smiled through the cigarette between his lips and leaned a little closer as you flicked on the lighter and lifted the flame to the end of it. Roger cupped his hand around the flame to shield it from the breeze. Once the cigarette caught, he drew back, inhaled deeply, and plucked it from his mouth with a satisfied exhale. Smoke tumbled from his lips, wispy against the indigo night.
When you held out your hand—tapping your thumb and index finger together as if to say give here—he smiled warmly at you and passed it over without hesitation. You brought it to your lips and took a drag, letting the strength of the nicotine warm you from the inside out. Roger stared.
You exhaled and offered the cigarette back to him and he accepted it, unfazed by the slight stain of your lipstick that was left behind on the end of it. You watched as he placed it between his lips and slouched back against the brick wall as he took another lengthy drag. He looked straight out of a Marlboro advertisement like that; still dressed in his stage clothes and appearing so effortlessly cool. He could have convinced asthmatics to smoke, looking like that.
You stepped a little closer again, less for warmth now and more because why not? Roger didn’t move. Instead, he just watched you with a calm curiosity, smoke curling past his lips, eyes tracing the shape of you in the moonlight.
When you held out your hand for your turn with the shared cigarette, he passed it over with a casual, “Didn’t take you for a smoker.”
“I’m not,” you replied before pausing long enough to take a slow, deliberate drag. When you plucked it from between your lips, you spoke through the tumble of smoke, “Only on special occasions.”
“This is a special occasion?” Roger inquired, taking the cigarette back from you. When he lifted it to his lips, he didn’t take his eyes off of you.
“Of course. It’s not every day I get the opportunity to smoke with the drummer of the headlining band.” you boasted cheekily.
Roger scoffed through a smile, coughing once on a quiet laugh. “Oh, well—aren’t you a lucky one.”
You smiled at that, letting the words hang between you like the haze of smoke curling in the space you shared, “I think I am.”
Roger flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette, eyes still on you as if he were studying you, trying to figure you out, “You always this bold?”
You shrugged, tilting your head, “Only on special occasions.”
That earned a grin from him—wide and knowing…dazzling—but he didn’t laugh this time. His gaze held yours for a long moment, something slow and serious settling beneath the flirtation. You could feel your heart beating faster now. There was something about the way he was looking at you, like he was weighing something, deciding.
And then he held his free hand out and he linked his finger in the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you closer to him until you were standing chest to chest. You had him sandwiched against the brick wall like that, body against body, standing between his feet that were clad in pink sparkly Converse. Very rock-and-roll.
You could smell the sharpness of the smoke on his skin in such close proximity and that shamefully addicting scent of his sweat and the fading remnants of his cologne. For a beat, you weren’t quite sure where to put your hands, almost as if you wondered if touching him would break the fantasy. But, when his finger gave another inviting tug to your belt loop, you settled your palms against his chest, bodies pressed together.
Your voice was quiet, teasing, barely a whisper, “You don’t go around kissing your fans after gigs, do you?”
Roger’s reply was easy, “Only on special occasions.”
Before you could even so much as properly process his cheeky retort, his lips were on yours.
The simple action shot shivers down your spine and, instinctively, your fingers tightened on the material of his shirt. Roger kept his finger linked in your belt loop, holding your body flush against his, urging you a half step close as if neither of you could stomach even an ounce of distance between you any longer. The kiss was a little clumsy at first as you tried to find your footing with each other, tipsy strangers, slightly off-centered and yet still intensely dizzying.
His cigarette stayed burning away between his fingers of his other hand, the smoke swirling around the both of you in the dimly lit alley as you melted into the moment. You lifted a hand up to grasp the side of his neck, thumb stroking along his jawline, luring him closer still until he was almost leaning into you. Roger’s hand let go of your belt loop to, instead, splay across your back and keep your body pressed right up against him, his lips moving with yours in slow, hungry kisses that almost made your knees give right out from under you.
You gave into him almost too easily; letting him part your lips with his own so his tongue could tease against yours. That unmissable warmth coiled tight in your belly from only the change in pace, the tilt of his head, the way his tangled hair felt between your fingers as you held his mouth on yours. Shamelessly, you couldn’t help the small moan that slipped from your throat, letting him taste the pleasure on your lips like a new melody, something only he could lure out of you.
You burned for him faster than the cigarette in his hand, aching for him in any way you could get him. The fact that you had only laid eyes on each other for the first time not even two hours prior felt obsolete, as if you were meant to find each other, meant to be sharing this moment in the darkened alleyway behind the college bar, meant to be tasting the way his tongue felt against yours.
Meant to be sinking to your knees to the cold, hard concrete ground in front of him.
Roger’s breath shuddered in his chest at your simple action and he rested back against the brick wall of the bar, silently entrusting you completely. You could feel his eyes on you as you popped the button on his tight blue jeans and the zipper gave way almost too easily from the pressure hidden beneath the denim. When you glanced up at him again, he was lifting the cigarette to his lips for another deliberate drag, expression shadowed in the limited light. He didn’t stop you.
The concrete ached your knees but you focused your attention on him instead, on the way his fly fell open all too easily, on the way the waistband of his underwear felt faintly damp with sweat from the performance, on the way he habitually pushed his hips out towards your touch when you grazed your fingers over the tented fabric. It was too dark to get a proper look at him when you pulled his cock out but you didn’t want to waste time anyway.
Instead, you tucked your hair behind your ear and leaned in to drag your tongue right up the underside before wrapping your lips around the swollen head in a greedy suckle. Roger let out a small shaky breath at the introduction of your warm, wet mouth. His eyes stayed locked on yours as you peered up at him and slowly took him deeper, finding a lazy pace as you hollowed your cheeks.
“Fuck…” he groaned.
The cigarette was hurriedly placed between his lips so he could have both hands free to reach down and help pull your hair back and out of your face. You moaned around him as he started to guide you gently with his hands in your hair and you reached up to wrap your fingers around the base of his cock to keep him steady. Sinking deeper around him, you could feel yourself salivating as if this alone was not enough to satisfy your hunger for him.
Roger groaned lowly from above you, cigarette dangling between his lips and hair partially falling in his eyes as he watched you on your knees for him. From that angle, you knew he could still see his drumsticks poking out of the back pocket of your jeans—a quiet reminder of everything that had passed between you tonight, the spark that started the moment the lights dimmed onstage, from that first drumbeat. In that moment, you would have given him anything he wanted.
You wanted to be good for him, to give him a night as unforgettable as yours already was, and so you pushed yourself deeper until you gagged lightly around him, forcing a tight inhale from the man above you. Roger’s hands tightened in your hair, guiding you, keeping your pace, although there was an obvious hesitation in his movements as if he didn’t want to push you too far. You just took over anyway, pushing deeper until tears stung your eyes and you were forced to pull back for air.
When you sat back with a choked gasp, spit dipping down your chin, Roger spoke in a quivering whisper, words muffled through his cigarette, “Jesus Christ, you’re unbelievable…”
All you could do was smile and move back in, swirling your tongue around the swollen tip as your hand stroked his foreskin back some more, giving you direct access to the most sensitive parts of him. Luring such obscene reactions from him made your heart race, desperate to hear more of them, no matter what it would take. So your other hand joined in, tugging down the front of his jeans a little more so you could gently grasp his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze while your mouth tended to his cock.
Except the sudden sound of the back door slamming open startled you back. In a split second, you were on your feet and Roger was turning away to button up his pants, both of you scrambling to look like nothing had happened.
A small group of drunk patrons stumbled out into the alley, not even noticing you and Roger a few meters down in the shadows. They were engaged in their own drunken ramblings and laughter as they made their way in the other direction towards the main street and you watched them as you caught your breath. Just then, Roger’s arm went around your shoulders, drawing you nearer, hiding his smirk against your cheek.
“Well, that was bloody close.”
You chuckled breathily, a hand falling against his chest, “You can say that again.”
Roger lifted his boot, snuffing the cigarette against the heel before flicking it toward the dumpster without a second glance. Then, his arm around you tightened, drawing you in, and he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth—soft, almost teasing—then another, closer. When you finally turned into him, he caught your lips in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, like he was still tasting the moment you’d been pulled from.
It lingered, lazy and warm, until he pulled back with a low groan.
You followed after him, giggling quietly into his chest, fingers tangling in the back of his hair, “What?”
Roger didn’t answer right away. His mouth brushed yours again in a barely there kiss before his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, smug and unhurried, murmuring, “Think it’s time I got you somewhere less public.”
The van across the alley was unlocked and he slid open the door to usher you inside first. Every horror movie ever would have insisted against getting into the back of a stranger’s van after dark but there was an unspoken trust you held towards Roger. So you climbed in.
The floodlight from above the back door of the bar filtered through the van’s curtain-trimmed windows just enough to offer some illumination into the cramped space. It was what you would expect from a van belonging to a band of young twenty-somethings; messy but somewhat decorated inside, a place to cart instruments doubling as a place to hang out.
The spacious back lounge area was lined with worn auburn carpeting that matched the upholstery of the two front seats, unifying the interior in a soft warmth, tainted with the scent of stale booze and cigarettes. The dashboard held a state-of-the-art radio and sound system and atop it sat a scattered collection of maps, pens, notebooks, and empty cigarette packs. It was clearly a well-loved van that did the most to get them around London for various weekend gigs between classes and mundane life.
It felt like an escape in a way; a shut out corner of the world where they could have started to really feel like they made it. A tour bus, of sorts. Something theirs. Hopefully, an indication of what was to come.
You were halfway into the van, crawling on hands and knees across the carpeted floor, when Roger reached forward and pulled the drumsticks out of your back pocket. Before you could turn around, the pair was hit playfully across your ass with a sharp smack, his grin unmistakable even in the dim light—all mischief, no apology. A silent nudge to get moving.
“Cheeky,” you tutted with a giggle as you settled into the back of the van atop the mismatched blankets and cushions that were strewn atop the carpeted floor.
Roger only smiled and set the drumsticks between his teeth as he followed you inside, giving himself his hands free to crawl in and shut the door behind the pair of you. Perhaps if the circumstances were different you might have made some polite conversation—complimented how cool the van was, made some passing joke about putting too much trust in strangers—but there was no time for that now.
Instead, you were far too distracted by the way he was crawling over to you, situating himself above you as you rested back against the cushions and the opposite wall of the van. He still had those fucking drumsticks between his teeth, his eyes blown wide and almost sparkling even in the subdued light around you, a look like a man on the prowl. It was strange how much the sight of the drumsticks between his teeth turned you on, a taunting reminder of where your night had started and where it ended up now; quite the scandalous turn of events.
You reached up to wrap your hand around one end of the drumsticks and gave them a gentle tug to lure him closer, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you watched the way he followed your silent demands. With one hand on either side of your body, positioned over top of your outstretched legs, Roger opened his mouth and let you take the drumsticks out; the playful moment fading away into something much more serious.
Then, as if by instinct, once the drumsticks were tossed aside, your hand found the back of his neck as he leaned in towards you and you drew him in, capturing each other’s lips in a wet, smiling kiss.
An undeniable heat poured through your veins and you kissed him like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, right at the nape of his neck, a fistful of messy blonde, as if you needed something to ground yourself to reality, to remind you that he was there. Right there, over top of you.
Roger tilted his head to the side a little more to deepen your kiss and he parted your lips with his own to slip his tongue into your mouth just the smallest amount. Your fingers tugged at his hair at that action—almost as if to pull his mouth harder on yours—and you moaned into his kiss, letting him swallow up your sounds with hungry lips and tongue. The taste of cigarettes lingered in his mouth, bitter and smokey, and for a moment you just wanted to inhale him completely, breathe him right into your bloodstream like nicotine.
In the quiet of the van, there was no sound but that of your sloppy kisses and mirrored breaths—wet, hungry, fueled with passion. Your fingers scratched through the roots of his shaggy hair and you could have sworn he almost purred in reply, absolutely withering at the sensation, lips slack against yours for just a moment.
You took that moment to speak to him, whispering into his mouth, “You’re so fucking sexy.”
Roger groaned right back, “Fuck, say that again.”
“You are so fucking sexy,” you repeated—dreamily, deliberate—letting every word sink in as you mouthed at his jawline in lazy kisses and then nipped at his earlobe, “And hot. And gorgeous.”
He chuckled lazily, and when he replied, his lips grazed the shell of your ear, his voice a low rumble that stirred something deep inside you, “Say it again while I’m inside you.”
The bluntness of his words almost had you choking on air, but before you could even respond, he turned his face toward yours and pressed his lips back onto yours for more steamy kisses. You moaned genuinely against his mouth, both hands framing his face, pouring all your concentration into every second of that moment. He still hadn’t touched you, with his hands still holding himself up on the mess of blankets on either side of your body, letting his lips do all the work.
But it wasn’t long before he was shifting over top of you and nudging up the bottom of your shirt and popping the button on your jeans, all without breaking away from your heated kiss. You let him do as he pleased while you slung your arms around his shoulders and drew him closer, pushing your tongue against his between sloppy kisses and panted breaths. He held himself up on one hand while his other helped itself down the front of your jeans. Your legs parted a little wider to permit him to touch you, spreading the best they could with the way his knees were anchored on either side of your outstretched legs.
Your kiss only broke when his fingers first grazed over your clothed clit and the pressure had your head falling back silently against the blankets and pillows, lips parted in a shaky exhale. Roger stared down at you in the back of the darkened van, your face shadowed out of the light from the alley, the two of you breathing together as one as he touched you greedily. The friction of his callused fingers through your underwear was dizzying and you instinctively offered him a tiny nod in encouragement.
“Yeah?” he echoed, voice rich and warm, almost filthily condescending if you thought about it too hard, “That’s it, yeah?”
“Yeah…fuck,” you withered, fingers grasping onto the back of his tanktop as you writhed against the mess of blankets and cushions. You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip in a feeble attempt to keep yourself composed.
Roger pulled his hand back just long enough to lick his fingers before he was slipping them back down your pants and, this time, down your underwear too. You flinched as his fingertips made direct contact with your clit, finding it with the undeniable ease of a man who truly did study biology. You silently praised the fact that, okay, it seemed he was good at absolutely everything.
“Blimey, you’re soaked,” Roger muttered in near awe from above you, “You been like this all night?”
“Uh huh…” you replied easily, “Since I saw you on that stage…”
“Yeah?”
Roger slid his hand lower, the angle slightly awkward since you were still completely dressed, but you were both far too into it to care. Besides, the moment his slender fingers dragged through the sopping mess of your cunt and made it throb from just a graze, logistics didn’t matter. He slid two fingers inside you with ease just as you pulled him down for another heated kiss.
The feeling of your muscles so tight around only two fingers had him groaning into your mouth between distracted kisses, starting to curl them inside you. Your breath caught for a moment, the heel of his palm pressed right up against your clit while his fingers stroked purposefully, wrist stuffed down the front of your jeans and keeping him close. It felt as though every single nerve ending in your body was standing at attention, sizzling from every touch. God bless the hands of a musician.
After just a moment, Roger pulled back just enough to glance down, breath hot and ragged, muttering, almost to himself, “Fuckin’ hell…”
Your hips instinctively nudged up against his hand as he slowed, a breathless huff slipping from your chest as he removed his hand from your pants.
“Get these off, yeah?” Roger’s fingers hooked at the waistband of your jeans without wasting a second, already tugging them down, “Gotta taste you.”
He leaned down to nudge up the hem of your shirt and mouth kisses over your stomach but he didn’t get much farther than that. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling him up just enough to look him in the eye in the shadowed back of the van. He peered up at you with wide eyes, almost like a deer in headlights, surprised by the fact you were stopping him.
Your voice was rough and earnestly desperate as you told him, “Don’t want your mouth…just want you to fuck me already.”
That pulled a dark, breathless laugh out of him. His surprised expression melted into a grinning smirk and he pushed himself up, away from your body to finish tugging your jeans off your ankles without argument.
“Coulda told me sooner, love. Wouldn’t have kept you waiting. I’d have had you up against a wall in the dressing room.”
Your head tipped back against the blankets, moaning softly at the image, but you found your voice again just long enough to murmur, “Been thinking about it since the first minute I saw you on stage tonight.”
Roger barely batted an eye at your statement, too focused on pulling off your shirt and then reaching for the button of his bursting jeans. You helped him to strip, both of you scrambling to rid your clothes in a hurry until they were strewn across the back of the van and forgotten about, leaving him in only his tank top and you in only your bra. In all your readjustments and undressing, you ended up knelt in front of each other, lips locked in another searing kiss, hands wandering and exploring bare skin.
And then you were setting a hand against his chest and guiding him backwards until he was slouched back against the locked door of the van, draped out over the blankets and propped up on a stray cushion. It wasn’t graceful but it was intensely hot and you could feel your insides burning with lust as he pulled you after him with a hand at the back of your neck to just keep kissing, while you tossed a leg over his lap.
“Gonna give you what you want then,” Roger mumbled against your mouth, “Gonna fuck you proper.”
You sat up straight on his lap and reached down between you to get yourself situated, his eyes watching your every move as you did so. His breath hitched as your hand wrapped around him, guiding him to your entrance with the kind of aching anticipation that had both of you trembling. And when you started to sink down on him, slow and sure, the both of you shared dreamy exhales and tepid moans, plenty satisfied after the nearly unbearable build up.
Your hands fell flat against his chest as you eased down on his cock in lazy rocks of your hips, slicking him up in your plentiful wetness, gliding all too easily. Roger’s hands stroked your thighs as he watched the way you moved on him with his bottom lip between his teeth, his dick disappeared entirely inside of you, swallowed up by your tight, warm body. The look on his face was that of awe, pure ecstasy.
“Yeah…” was all you could breathe in near relief as you bottomed out. With your ass pressed to his thighs, you were subject to every last inch of him and you took a moment to familiarize yourself with the feeling, the way he stretched you out just the right amount to push that dreamy warmth across your abdomen.
“Come on,” Roger said lowly, almost impatiently, hands gliding up your thighs to give your hips a squeeze. You didn’t need much more encouragement than that and without another word, you started to bounce yourself on his lap in short strokes that were just enough to pull a moan from his chest, “That’s it.”
The whole van creaked with every bounce, the old shocks almost groaning beneath you, but it only made the whole thing feel filthier—like you were doing something you weren’t supposed to in some dim-lit corner of the world, hidden away with nothing but the sound of skin on skin and Roger’s low moans filling the space. You could hardly see each other with how dark it was, just able to make out the faint shadowed outline of each other’s features in the faded light leaking in from the alleyway. Out of everything, how much you could see was not at the top of your priority list. Besides, your eyes were screwing shut in seconds anyway.
“Fuck,” you withered breathlessly as you worked to keep your ungraceful pace with your hands anchored on his chest.
You could feel Roger staring at you, even with your eyes shut tightly and your head tipped back in pleasure. Rather, he was not quite staring as much as gawking. His hands on your hips helped to move you, helping to keep your pace of messy bounces that pushed pleasure through your veins like heroin. The carpeted floor of the van felt rough against your knees but it was a far cry from the pavement you had been kneeling on moments earlier. Anything was worth it for this…even if you would certainly have rug burn in the morning.
Roger’s hands let go of your hips to cup over your bra, giving your breasts a two-handed squeeze that pulled a gasp from your chest. His thumbs stroked firmly over your nipples through the thin fabric, eyes all over you even in the shadows, “Fuckin’ perfect…look at you.”
His touch, his voice, his body…everything just spurred you on, making that fiery craving deep within you burn hotter, more unbearable. You bounced harder on his lap with a needy whine, fingers fisting the front of his tank top, dizzy on the alcohol in your veins and the lewd clap of skin on skin. Roger grunted lowly as you rode him harder and his hands tightened on your chest—squeezing, pulling.
“God, you feel better than I thought,” you confessed in a panted breath, voice a little pitchy with pleasure.
Roger’s head tipped back against the door with a breathless laugh, like your words had done something to him, like he could barely believe it, “Yeah?”
He shifted just the slightest bit on the mound of blankets and cushions beneath him, tilting his hips just a little more as he thrusted up to meet your bounce.
“Been thinkin’ about this since the second I saw you, babe—knew you’d take me so fuckin’ good.”
You cried out prettily through his praise as his body nudged up against yours, working with you to chase that pleasure. It was so overwhelming and, yet, almost didn’t quite feel like enough yet. The world felt like something outside of yourself, like reality had fallen away into some dreamlike state, and you wanted to chase every second of it before it fell through your fingers.
With a finger looping through the silver chain Roger wore, you tugged him up towards you to crash your lips against his in a filthy, tongue-led kiss. His arms went around your body entirely, holding you on his lap as your bounces turned into needy, hurried grinds of your hips on his. The two of you shared hungry moans into each other’s mouths, bodies rutting together like animals, hot and sticky and panting for more.
Before you could so much as utter another moan, he was shifting out from underneath you and flipping you over, switching positions so you, instead, were draped back over the pile of blankets and cushions. Propped up just enough against the door of the van, you giggled in surprise at the sudden change, how easily he took control, taking what he wanted, and you peered up at him like he was a god.
Roger reached forward to set a hand on the window edge of the door, his other hand pushing your thigh back to give him room to push deeply into you again. His firm thrust had your head dropping back with a pretty moan, fingers twisting in the blanket you were draped on top of, heavy-lidded eyes blinking up at him. It didn’t take long for him to pick up where you left off, returning to that same needy pace you had set on his lap, now giving it to you in deep, firm thrusts that stole the breath from your lungs.
“Mmm…my God…” you all but sobbed, a hand flying out to fist the front of his shirt again.
Roger leaned over you, his breath hot against your cheek as he grunted, “Yeah, that’s it, baby...take me all the way. Fuckin’ hell.”
You tugged at his tank top, panting out a needy, “Harder…faster…please.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. His thrusts quickened instantly, driving deep and fierce until your breath was stolen and you were left gaping dumbly up at him. The van rocked beneath the force of his movements, creaking shamelessly—both of you utterly oblivious and uncaring how obvious you must’ve looked to anyone outside. Inside, the cramped quarters of the band van smelt like sweat and cigarettes and the unmissable stench of sex, the walls and worn carpet bearing witness to every gasp and moan from the both of you, a melody of ecstacy.
Your hands scrambled across his shoulders, feeling the way his muscles flexed beneath your fingertips as he fucked you into the floor of the van with reckless abandon. Your moans turned shameless, high and sweet and unrestrained as he drove you higher with every brutal snap of his hips. The tightness coiling within you was unmissable and yet just slightly out of reach, infuriating.
So you dropped a hand down between you, rubbing desperately at your clit as he kept thrusting into you consistently, his panted breaths and pretty groans falling against your cheek. He gave it to you just how you wanted it, hitting all the right spots that had your eyes rolling and your toes curling.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you shrieked as the tension grew to unbearable heights, your muscles clenching around him like a vice, pulling a low groan from his chest. And you sobbed out his name when you finally came, head arching back against the blankets and the door of the van, your body shuddering through the waves of your orgasm as he fucked you through it.
Roger was barely about to get his wits about him enough to ask gravelly, “Where d’you want it?”
You still had yet to properly catch your breath, chest heaving as you struggled to think of a response for a moment. Then, “Wanna come on my tits?”
“Fuck…yeah,” Roger groaned and then he was pulling out, leaving you horribly empty as his hand took over instead. He sat back from you while he stroked himself off at that same relentless pace, “C’mon then.”
You hurried to shift closer, positioning yourself in front of him so that, only a few seconds later, he was coming across your chest in thick spurts. His moans were angelic, arguably pitch perfect, working himself off with his hand until your bra was splattered in messy white and more was leaking down between your breasts.
You grinned lazily up at him, chest rising and falling as you caught your breath, the both of you slick with sweat and satisfaction. Roger let out a low groan despite his smile and he grabbed a crumpled t-shirt from across the floor to wipe you down, the gesture oddly tender despite the filth of what had just happened.
He collapsed beside you, arm lazily draped across your waist, and the two of you sank into the mess of tangled blankets and flattened cushions. The air was still heavy, humid with sex and summer heat, but it no longer felt suffocating. You were curled into his side, your bare legs tangled with his as he lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter dancing golden light across his flushed face for a moment before disappearing, leaving behind just the flaring red tip of the cigarette in the dim light. When he pulled you in closer, your head fit perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady beneath your cheek.
His skin was tacky against yours and the blankets were scratchy but neither of you seemed to mind, finding your peace as strangers who didn’t quite feel like strangers any longer. The silence was peaceful as you laid there together and he smoked away the dopamine high, watching the smoke twirl up towards the low wood-paneled ceiling of the van. He offered out the cigarette after a moment and you took it from him graciously between index and middle fingers to bring to your lips for a relaxing drag.
Roger watched you like that, tucked up close at your side, playing idly with the ends of your messy hair and threading it through his fingers. When you leaned your head back into his arm around you to look up at him, he leaned in to steal a kiss from your lips. Blindly, you passed him back the cigarette.
“I’ve heard rumours that you’ve got a record deal,” you stated after a while of bathing in the silence.
Roger chuckled lowly, smoke tumbling from his lips, “Nah, nothing like that yet, I’m afraid. Although, this studio up by Wembley allowed us to record whatever we wanted as a way for them to test some new equipment.”
“Well that’s good then, isn’t it?”
“The producers seemed somewhat chuffed with what we laid down, if I do say so myself,” Roger added with a crooked smile.
He held the cigarette out to you and you took it, responding simply, “They’d be stupid not to be instantly wowed.”
“I’m afraid you might be a bit biased there,” he teased.
“Not at all. I can even put in a good word for you: ‘These guys are so talented, absolutely wonderful. And that drummer of theirs is an incredible lay’.”
Roger’s head fell back with a genuine laugh, his arm tightening around your shoulders. You smiled through your next puff of the cigarette, warm at the sound of his laughter over your ridiculous joke.
You lingered in that quiet moment, sharing the cigarette and whispered talks of the future. He spoke about where he wanted the band to go, how big he wanted to make it, all the songs already swirling in his mind. It was clear this wasn’t just a dream — it was a calling. Any talk of university or backup plans was brushed aside, irrelevant compared to this fire in him. He was so passionate, so certain, it made it easy to believe in him too but who knew what the future would hold.
You were just starting to feel drowsy, tucked warm beneath his arm, comfortable in your hideaway, when a sharp knock landed against the steamed-up window of the van.
“Oi! Roger, you dirty bastard!” came a muffled voice, followed by a chorus of cackles.
Another joked to the others with a, “You owe me five quid, darling! I said he’d be mid-shag!”
Then came a third voice and another firm knock on the window, “Bar’s closed, mate—they kicked everyone out. Time to quit muckin’ about in there, we gotta get going.”
Roger groaned and dragged a hand down his face, but he was grinning despite himself, peeling himself away from you to lean over and stamp out the cigarette in the ashtray on the floor as he called back, “Alright, alright! Give us a second, would you?”
You felt a pang in your heart at the realization that your perfect night was coming to an abrupt ending but you didn’t let your disappointment show. Instead, the two of you moved with haste to redress and then Roger was yanking open the back door of the van, allowing the cool night air to spill inside.
His three bandmates stood against the alley wall a few paces away, one nursing a cigarette of his own, a stack of instrument cases towering beside them, waiting to be loaded into the van you had just tainted. None of them really batted an eye at the situation as you climbed out of the van in some terrible forward walk of shame, Roger’s hand on your arm making sure you didn’t lose your balance.
“You sure we can’t drive you home?” he asked softly, hanging out the back of the van like he knew just how cool he was.
You lingered close for a bit longer, voice quiet, as if trying to hold onto the moment of just the two of you for as long as you could, “I’m sure. I’m not far.”
Accepting your reply, Roger then leaned in to kiss you, once, twice, and then for the third one, you linked your finger in his silver necklace to keep him there for a little longer. When he finally pulled away, he was grinning, sly and handsome, eyes all over your face as if memorizing every inch to memory.
“Oh,” he suddenly dipped back into the van for a second before returning with the drumsticks in hand. He held them out to you, “These are yours.”
You smiled back and accepted them, slipping them into your back pocket once more with a quiet thanks.
“Take care then,” Roger said simply.
You left him with one more kiss and a whispered, “Don’t forget about me when you’re famous.”
When you walked away from the van that night, you didn’t look back, even as you felt his eyes watching you retreat. You never saw him again; not in that way at least. Instead, you followed him and his career through television and the newspapers and their chart-topping albums as his band climbed into fame. Just like how you knew they would.
Sometimes, you thought about that night back in the early half of 1971, the stuffy college bar and the loud music and that blonde drummer who looked at you like you were everything, just for a night. The drinks, the cigarettes, the van, the flirting, the sex.
Sometimes, as you listened to their number one hits on the radio, you wondered if he remembered that night too.
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Baldurs Gate 3 Origin Characters Oracle Cards! Almost all of them have been updated since I first posted them. The last one is my Durge Amaranthine 💜 Which card do you like the most?
