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request: Okay so like this happened to me last week but sadly minus roger. Reader being happy giggly and veryyy drunk at a party with rog and him just being so in love and looking after her and then looking after hungover reader the next day and it’s just really cute
“you’re so pretty, roger.” you don’t register your boyfriends cheeks flushing under your touch as you brush your painted nails over his features. “like a bunny.” you mutter.
“thank you, baby.” he smiles, brian punching him teasingly on the arm.
“s’okay.” you slur. “you’re pretty too, bri. i like your hair.” you reach across rogers chest to grasp a curly brunette lock. “you’re like a poodle. or a.. c-curly wurley.”
brian laughs amusedly, gently prying his hair from your palm with his big hand.
“i think it’s time to go home, love?” roger bounces his leg, and you hop up from your spot on his lap.
“m’kay.” you comply, collapsing against the arm roger slings around your waist.
“my love?” you giggle on the way out to the car. “my love, will you buy me a curley wurley on the way home?”
“i’ll buy you all the curley wurleys you want.” roger says, pressing a kiss to your nose as you fall into the passenger seat. “if you can stay awake until we get there.”
——
the next morning you awake to an empty bed, a blinding headache, and a fan of curley wurleys on the pillow next to you. intriguing, to say the least.
you throw your legs over the edge of the bed and stumble your way into the bathroom, ready to begin your hangover ritual of a warm bath, a piping hot lavender tea, and slipping into your biggest, comfiest cardigan. but when you reach the claw foot tub, it’s already full. as is the mug that’s perched on it’s lip.
“catch.” roger calls from behind you, and you turn around just in time to retrieve the green, fluffy bundle he throws at you.
“it’s warm.” you mumble, pressing your cardigan to your chest.
“i put it through the dryer.”
in your tentative state, you could almost cry at your boyfriends thoughtfulness, taking care of you the way he does. “you are quite something else, aren’t you?”
“a bunny, i think you said last night?” you bury your face in the jumper once again as roger wraps his arms around you.
“should i even ask about the curley wurleys?” you mutter.
“perhaps not. just hop in the bath before it gets cold.” roger releases you with a kiss on the forehead. “and don’t be too long. i’m making pancakes.”
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request: alllsso jusst imaggine cudddling with rogie while yourr having a piccnic at nite andd stargazzing thatt woulld be sooooo perfecct
when you’d suggested stargazing as an activity to commemorate the end of term -and with it, the end of exams- you hadn’t taken into consideration just how fucking cold it would be. all that occurred to you as you and roger left brian’s flat, arms loaded full of astronomical maps and bri’s prize telescope, was how much you were looking forward to some quality alone time with your bestfriend.
the two of you haven’t seen any less of each other than usual over the past few weeks, it’s simply that the time that you have spent together has mainly consisted of silent cramming sessions and flashcard revision. so stargazing seemed like the perfect way to get away from it all. drive out to the middle of fuck knows where, put your finals, which roger no doubt aced, despite his objections, behind you, and look at some pretty stars. and you have to admit; you’re not entirely adverse it’s romantic connotations.
but, like you’d said, the slight fact that it’s fucking november didn’t quite occur to you. call it post-exam brain. and so, as you step out of roger’s car and into the middle of nowhere, away from the heat of london’s bustling streets, you curse yourself.
“shit, it’s fucking freezing rog.” you rub your arms over the sleeves of your pullover, jumping up and down in an attempt to warm yourself up.
“do you want my jumper?” roger offers, walking around the hood of the car and dumping the bundle of supplies he’s carrying at his feet. he’s pulling the navy blue hoodie over his head before you have a chance to protest.
you shake your head as he holds it out to you. “you’ll freeze.”
“i’m decidedly hot blooded.” roger grins, biting the air with a growl and shaking the jumper at you.
“is that what you tell the ladies?” you accept the hoodie and slip it on.
“yeah. drives ‘em wild.” roger mutters. he takes a step towards you so he can roll up the sleeves of his jumper, the navy blue fabric flopping over your hands.
“really? cause i couldn’t help but notice that it’s been rather quiet over your side of the wall lately.” you tease.
roger shakes his head, chuckling. “even the loveliest of birds can’t distract me during exam season, angel. gotta keep my head on straight if i want to beat you.”
you groan. “let’s not talk about finals? just know i fucked them. arse over tit.” roger rolls his eyes - he’s used to your (usually unwarranted) post-test melodrama.
“just come sit down, will you?” roger collapses onto the grass and beckons you over. you join him, and the two of you lean against each other, your thigh pressed firmly against his, your forehead dropping to his chest as he makes some juvenile yet amusing joke about a particularly phallic looking constellation. before long, you’re collapsed on the soft ground behind you, silently taking in the view above.
“it’s quite beautiful.” roger murmers, more at peace than you’ve seen him in weeks.
you open your mouth to reply, but your teeth chatter unmercifully before you can say anything.
“are you still cold?”
“a little.”
“should’ve mentioned it, love.”
“it’s okay, rog. what’re you gonna do? give me your pants?”
roger shifts next to you. “do you want me to… i could, um, cuddle you.”
you twist your neck to look at him, discern whether or not he’s taking the piss, but the only expression on roger’s face is a slight, fond smile.
“okay.” you whisper. “sure.” you readjust so you’re a little on your side, roger pressed up behind you. and shit, he wasn’t kidding about being hot blooded, because you begin to feel warmer almost the second he wraps his arms around your torso and intertwines his legs with yours.
“better?” roger’s soft lips brush the shell of your ear.
you hum contentedly. “much. thank you.”
you sink into him, your eyes flickering between roger’s hands on your waist and the stars, flecked across the sky above you like the embers of a dying fire.
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request: Roger being adorable with his kids and reader watching him 💖 also, his kids (idk why but I think in a son and daughter) telling him he’s the best father of the world and he can’t believe that 💫
you’d always been able to picture yourself settling down. a spouse, a few kids, a house to raise them in. you couldn’t say the same for your significant other. roger had always been particularly opposed to the suburban life style -green lawns and blue skies and a life lived quietly. and in truth, those aspects of it didn’t hold massive amounts of appeal to you either. but the very essence of settling down irked roger. being in one spot for too long made him antsy, and he expressed his reckless tendencies in varying extremities; from jittering his leg under the table, to buying one way tickets for a same-day flight to rome.
as long as you’d known him, roger’s always needed to be free. and that’s why nothing could’ve prepared you for the day he told you he wanted to have kids. of course, you’d thought before about the long term with roger, having had been his girlfriend for almost eight years. and sure, when you drew up a mental image of your life, a few sparkling-blue eyed babies always made the cut. but, at least at the time, you were happy to continue with roger’s fairly monotonous schedule of album, tour, album, tour.
as soon as roger said the words, however, you were overcome with maternal wanting, throwing your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. “you’ll be the best dad, rog,” you muttered into his neck as he carried you upstairs, eager to start the process.
from the moment your son was placed in roger’s arms -tiny and blonde haired- any doubts you’d had disappeared, nullified by the fond tears streaming down his cheeks. “careful dad.” you’d murmered as a droplet splashed onto your newborn’s cheek. “you’ll drown our baby.”
and if roger wasn’t already the softest, sweetest father you could’ve imagined with your son, he became it with your daughter. baby taylor, he dubbed her when she arrived, already a dead-ringer for her dad.
your lives certainly weren’t at all suburban after that. though sometimes, on evenings spent like this one, they felt it: tucked away in your surrey property, laid on the grass in your back garden, watching your children run circles around their dad’s leather-clad legs.
you cood internally as you heard one of your darling, blonde haired boys murmer to the other that he was “the best dada in the world.”
roger grinned uninhibitedely at the praise, eyes glistening in a manner that you were sure wasn’t purely caused by the golden, evening light.
roger swung him up onto one shoulder, and his little girl over the other. he peppered kisses on their cheeks as he walked to you, letting them collapse onto your lap in a giggling mess.
you smiled softly at roger, his blue eyes and elegant button nose the spitting image of your daughters. you daughter, who was currently clutching onto your chest for dear life as her brother attempted to tickle-tackle her into the ground.
“careful, baby. she’s littler than you.”
roger bit his pink lip to stifle a laugh and mouthed along with your three year old as she murmered, “‘m not little.”
“course not, my big girl.” you covered your mouth with your hand to hide a smile and stroked her hair.
she seemed satisfied with that, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek before chasing after her brother.
“did you hear what he said?” roger settled next you on the uncut grass. you shook your head with a coy smile.
“said i was the best dad in the world.”
“of course you are love.”
roger laughed dryly. “actually, i always thought i’d be kind of shit at this.”
“what? why on earth would you think that?”
“you know i’ve never been that great with affection and shit.”
you glanced down at his legs slung across yours with a quirked eyebrow.
“oh, fuck off.” he smirked. “but seriously, i just can’t believe i’m not fucking this up.”
you swiped your thumb over his cheek, giving him a soft, yet resolute smile. “i can.”
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request: oKAY im really in my feels today about Dad!Roger like god imagine him with little kids, running around the living room making screeching car or rocketship sounds as he swings the kid through the air. also like I bet when he reads to kids he puts on different voices and everything ugh im like Soft Horny thinking about it lmao
picture you, curled up on your (no doubt expensive) leather couch, mug of tea in hand as you watch roger being bloody tackled from all sides. your little boy, latching onto his back from the leg of the couch while his daughter clings to his calf.
he does that Dad Thing where he pretends he can’t see them, searching every corner of the room while they hold back their giggles and make wide “we’re right here!!!” eyes at you over his shoulder.
and when you finally give an exaggerated gasp and exclaim “dad! look down!” your two babies fall into hysterics at roger’s faux shock, swinging them through the air and yes, you’re absolutely right, making rocket noises.
and you just fucking swoon when he rests your little boy on his hip because god, he’s the spitting image of his dad, all blonde hair and big blue eyes.
and when he’s finally settled the pair, tackled them into their pyjamas and tucked them up in bed, they beg him to give them a nighttime story.
the usual protest comes when roger reaches for the bookshelf because “no dadda, we want one of your stories.”
you press kisses to their cheeks and leave him to it, smiling fondly from the hallway as the familiar “one day, your uncle; prince freddie…” trails after you.
rog joins you on the couch after they’ve well and truly fallen asleep, pushing up the sleeves of his blue and red flannel with a contented sigh.
“can’t believe i ever gave deaky shit for that ‘happy at home’ line.”
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request: !! could you do a blurb about roger comforting the reader that's scared of needles?? I had to get 4 shots yesterday and I would've loved a soft roger to hold my hand and say sweet things (and maybe brush my tears away sksksks oof) :( I love your writing so much!!!!
you’ve always fucking hated needles. been terrified of them, in fact. more than public speaking, more than sharks, more than taking exams. you’d take a cage dive over an injection any day.
unfortunately, the trade isn’t an option when you need to top up on your flu vax so you can join roger on tour.
“you don’t want to be getting on a plane from heathrow in mid-winter without being vaccinated.” your doctor had lectured. you’d lectured yourself in turn. one tiny prick. it’s one needle, or it’s the almost certain promise of two weeks in bed sick. or, of course, three months home without your boyfriend. you can handle one needle for all of that.
you’re starting to see less merit in your own points now you’re actually sat in the foreboding green chair.
“it’s big. shit, do you see the size of that thing?” you slap roger’s arm, the cord around your rib cage getting increasingly tighter as you watch the nurse fill the syringe through the clear plastic curtain.
your boyfriend remains unfazed. “sounds familiar.” roger chuckles boyishly. his grin turns to a slightly amused, but mostly sympathetic frown when he sees your expression of wide-eyed distress. “aw, love. i’m right here, okay?”
his soft comfort is the only reason you’ve not yet said fuck it, i’ll take my chances, and hit the legs right out of the cramped little nurses room.
you close your eyes as the nurse approaches you with the needle, trying to avoid the menacing glint of its silver tip.
roger swipes a thumb over your cheeks —shit, are you crying?— and drops his hand to cover yours.
the nurse gives you her warning, voice mimicking the tone you imagine she would use with the usual kind of scared children usually sat in the chair.
fuck, that’s more than little prick. roger lets out a slight groan of protest as you squeeze his hand painfully tight.
“sorry.” you whisper, but you’re unable to soften your grip.
“s’okay baby. you’re done. you did it.” roger coaxes your eyes open with a hand on your jaw. “‘m proud of you.
“god, i’m a fucking kid.” you chuckle, but roger won’t hear a word of it. telling you how well you did while he kisses the tears delicately from your cheeks.
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request: hell yeah 600 followers!! congrats babe! 😚 I'm gonna request from the 100 ways to say i love you: “You can borrow mine.” with Rog
“do you want to sleep over?” roger calls from the bathroom.
you roll onto your side, lazily pulling the slightly sweaty sheets over your naked chest. your legs still feel slightly numb, the rest of you deliciously fucked out. “i’d love to,” you reply. “but i don’t have any of my stuff.”
roger stretches his arms above his head as he emerges from the bathroom and leans his shoulder against the door frame. “like what?”
you start to sit up with a groan, trying to acquaint yourself with the cruel reality of leaving clingy, cuddly, post-sex roger and his warm bed for the half an hour trek back to your own flat.
“pyjamas.”
roger gestures to the pile of clothes slung over the coat rack in the corner of his room. he plucks off a navy blue hoodie and chucks it at you. it’s one of your favourites. warm and soft and smelling like him.
“pants?” you quirk a brow.
roger shrugs. “not required,” he says with a smirk.
“piss off,” you chuckle. “i’ve got work tomorrow rog. and pants are required there.”
“sounds like a shit place to work,” roger mutters, turning back to his rack. “here,” he says triumphantly, pulling a pair of black trousers and a floral embroidered blazer from the pile. “lovely work attire.”
“i’m tempted,” you concede. “what about a toothbrush?”
roger shrugs again. god, he looks good. so boy-ish and gorgeous with his checkered boxers slightly skewed on his narrow hips and his blonde hair mussed over his forehead. “you can borrow mine,” he says.
“roger!”
“what?”
“that’s kind of nasty.”
“it’s fine. trust me, i’m a dentist,” roger flashes his pearlies.
“doesn’t gross you out?”
“for you, i don’t mind.”
you shake your head fondly. the gesture is strangely touching. that he’s willing to share everything with you. “that’s lovely. but i think i’ll just use a finger.”
“does that mean you’re staying?” roger makes his way to kneel at the end of the bed.
“yes,” you pull him down, half on top of you. “even though i’ll have to show for work tomorrow looking like a twink drummer.”
“dentist,” roger corrects, pressing kisses to your collar bones in a fashion that makes it terribly difficult for you to pull his navy jumper over your head.
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request: hey bby congrats on 600 you deserve it !! here’s to 600 more 💛 can i request something from the “ways you said i love you” list, number 35. as a goodbye with roger if it’s okay ?? 💕 congrats again xx
“wasn’t my fault.” roger’s voice comes mumbled through the phone.
you scoff, tone dripping in amused scepticism. “it wasn’t your fault that you wrecked your drum kit?”
roger chuckles. “would’ve been fine if the fucking lights hadn’t gone out. and it’s not wrecked, just a few scratches.”
“who are you? the roger i know cracked the shits when freddie got a drop of nail polish on one of his cymbals.”
“that’s different. i made these scratches.”
you can picture his shit-eating grin. it makes you laugh.
“speaking of,” you drop your voice to a murmer, even though you’re alone in your flat. “when will you be home so you can make a few more?”
roger whistles. “very smooth. four weeks.”
you groan.
“‘m sorry,” he mumbles.
“don’t be.” you force a little brightness into your voice. no matter how they start, mid-tour phone conversations always get to this place. the i wish you were here, but i can’t, because your dream is finally coming true and that would be incredibly selfish place. an indisputable downer.
“you know we talk as much as-“ roger’s voice is cut off by the distant sound of high pitched whooping. deaky and fred, no doubt. you hear muffled scraps of conversation. roger’s signature i-dont-fucking-want-to whine. he turns back to the phone with a sigh.
“sorry love. i’m being dragged away.”
“s’alright rog. get shit faced for the both of us.”
he laughs. brian yells in the background.
“bye love,” you say.
“mm kay. i love you.”
he hangs up.
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request: Do you think early-mid 1970’s roger, if given a week off, would rather go to a beach house or a cabin in the mountains? I catch myself daydreaming about cuddling in front of a fireplace while he kisses my neck, but also about his slightly sunburnt skin still warm from the sun while we shower together. Do you have any thoughts on this very serious matter??
look, early-seventies roger was for sure a hippy beach boy at heart. but in my heart, all i want is to live in an aesthetically pleasing wooden hut nestled somewhere on mont blanc that always smells like wood fire and pine needles. so let’s roll with that.
i can imagine the two of you saving for a while to go on a trip away, making somewhat of a bet out of the destination. if roger sinks more frothies than you at the pub, it’s a point for switzerland. if fred prefers your outfit to his, it’s a mark for ortigia. but when the boys second album garners some fleeting attention, roger decides it’s time to squander some of his new found wealth on you. and since it’s his angelic falsetto (as he so eloquently puts it) that got you there, you decide it’s only fair that he choose the destination.
so off you go, bearing jibes from freddie about how much you’ll shag in the privacy of the mountains and about a hundred reminders from brian that you’ve got to take plenty of photos while you’re there.
the cabin you’ve rented is gorgeous - as quaint and stylistic as something out of a movie. it’s got a fireplace (of course), a sprawling attic bedroom with windows that look out over the snow, a luxurious king lain with fur pelts and mountains of pillows.
it doesn’t take long for you to settle in, lighting a fire while roger makes you boozy hot chocolates and sets up a fort-reminiscent pile of cushions in front of it.
it’s complete and utter bliss lying with him as you watch the sky darken into a star speckled tapestry through the skylight above. slightly tipsy off the alcohol in your drinks and the way roger’s nipping gently at the name of your neck. his skin pressed against yours, hair tickling your collar bones, everything soft and warm and lovely
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request: ohh okay a concept: going to paris with rog for the first time? i'm feeling super soft for rog today (bonus point if it's 80s rog) 🥺
although i love 80’s roger, i just can’t get over the idea of the two of u as young, dirt poor twenty year olds running around the city draped in fur coats and layers of jewellery you nicked from the rag trade.
and your hotel is very shitty, and you can hardly afford to eat in any of the places you keep dragging rog to because you just can’t get over the food. but neither of you really care, because you’ve never had so much fun together.
mm yes and maybe he brings you back about a decade later. this time the hotel you stay in is wildly expensive, and he insists on buying you a few keepsakes from the champs-élysées.
and instead of the usual sightseeing, you do a tour of nostalgia, strolling around all the spots you visited the first time you came.
you find the little bar with the alclove in the corner where you had a discreet shag.
the narrow side streets that you walked every day, because roger’s really a big nerd for architecture and he fell in love with all of the buildings.
the dirt-cheap charity shop where he found a pair of red, star spangled clogs and pissed himself laughing, and insisted on bringing them back for brian (who laughed and then whacked him over the head with one of them).
that park with the soft grass that you lay down on for hours when you were both too drunk to walk home. you attempted to star gaze in the diluted sky, and roger sung drunkenly and softly with his head on your chest.
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