#t.roger

“I will speak to you later about this, I have an appointment now,” Roger says as he is veering the car into a parking spot, ending the call with his manager about his upcoming race. A smile blooms on his face as he sees the sign above the shop and he checks his reflection in the rear view mirror one more time before exiting the vehicle. With confident steps, he makes his way towards the establishment, pushing the door and letting himself in. 

     Being fashionably late was one of Roger’s strong suits. Making an entrance, however, was his expertise. He ran a hand over his carefully styled hair before exiting his sports car and throwing the keys with a charming grin to one of the valets. 

     “Take care of her, will you?” A strong English enveloped his words as he patted the man on the shoulder and made his way towards the entrance of the imposing mansion. He gave dazzling smiles to any eyes that set on him and was welcomed into the building by a tray of champagne glasses. “Cheers,” he made as he picked up a flute and advanced further. The ballroom basked in tones of gold and red, stylish decorations adorning walls and tables. Everything around him looked and felt expensive. 

     “Ah, Melanie!” he greeted as he rose his glass towards one of the women afront him. “Long time, no see, no?” Kisses on cheeks were shared, introductions were made and soon enough, as usual, Roger was the centre of attention. He accepted the flattery with feigned timidness, never one to shy away from laudation. Entrapped as he was in conversation, he barely noticed the familiar face in the crowd - he did see him, however. With rushed apologies, he took his leave with a promise to return, before walking towards the man that piqued his interest. 

     Roger takes in a breath as he feels the murmur of the engine turn into a purr under him, his hands griping at the steering wheel as a smile contours against his lips. The speed of the car is nowhere near what he is used to - but the feeling of driving with the stormy clouds above him and feeling the tyres of the car slip against the wet pavement bring a wave of adrenaline to him nevertheless. With controlled movements, he wills the vehicle into half a drift, before the car comes to a still position as a thunder echoes above him, rippling above the foreheads of dark, menacing clouds. Roger runs his hand through his hair, before escaping the car, a dazzling grin contouring against his lips, before eyes land on the prompt held up by one of the crew. One, two, three steps towards the camera, gaze intense and smile seductive as he reads the words on the prompt. 

     “That’s a wrap, guys! Let’s move along, storm’s picking up!” he hears the director of the commercial pronounce, and at last his posture melts into a relaxed stance as a sigh deflates his chest. He receives the praises of good work and lavishes compliments in return to the crew, before his eyes instinctively drift towards the figure of the man who has, earlier in the day, been introduced as Desmond to him. A nagging feeling has been sitting with him since then and, half-way through the shooting of the commercial, he had realised where he knew the man from. With big, languorous steps, he approaches the brunet, a charming smile slipping onto his features as the cold breeze picks up around him. 

     “You’re not serious, are you?” Roger’s voice brought the people in the studio to a standstill, the atmosphere becoming austere all of the sudden. “Sorry, darling, nothing against you, but I’m a gay man,” he spoke as he turned towards the model that was supposed to accompany him in the pictures. “I can’t have as my ‘romantic interest’ a woman,” he continued as he rotated in place towards his manager and the photographer. He didn’t care if it looked good for the ad he was taking pictures for or the fact that he owed this one to the guy that was arranging the race he was the face of. 

“was it lovely, the french countryside?” elliott twirls a finger in his mulled ale, bewitched by the stranger’s tales of worldly travel. “i’ve always wanted to visit mallarmé’s summer home on the seine, but i’m deeply afraid of airplanes.” he sniffs. “and the french.”

     Roger’s impromptu trip took a turn for the unexpected and arguably worse when, during a late afternoon swim, dark clouds contoured against the diffuse line of the horizon. Shortly enough, even the stubborn racer was chased inside by a furious storm, the sky opening up to let torrential rain and groaning thunders descend upon the idyllic paysage. As usual, Roger finds himself inside a seaside bar and restaurant, quickly finding company in a man he learns is named Elliott, is a writer and, more recently, that he is deathly afraid of planes and the French. 

     A soft laugh rises from Roger as he listens to the other man, which he rushes away with a sip of beer. 

     “It’s gorgeous, but maybe I've just gotten used to it and now it feels like a second home,” he speaks, words muttered under the influence of fondness. He has been visiting France since his childhood and teenage years, his sponsor having rather tender sentiments for the French culture and instilling the same love in the racer. 

     The car engine purrs once, twice more before settling to silence, Roger’s gaze now drifting towards his watch that notifies him he is five minutes early for their meeting. He exits the vehicle with a sigh, the afternoon warm and inviting as he leans against the hood of the car, eyes searching for the vaguely familiar face through the people ambling around the street. At last, the man appears afront him and Roger straightens himself up, a charming grin slipping on his lips. 

     Long flights always had Roger tired and restless. Unable to sleep on the plane and having indulged in one too many whiskeys during the trip, he was now feeling a headache bloom around his temples. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, trying to look presentable as he walked through the airport, gaze trained on the floor. 

16. a kiss on the back of the neck. - 29. a kiss on the inside of the wrist. - 31. a kiss on the palm. - 15. a kiss on the jawline. - 17. a kiss on the underside of the jaw. - 18. a kiss on the throat.

There is an art to worshipping that Roger has almost become a master in. He starts with words, flattering and sweet, his touches barely there or innocent enough to not give away the adulation. There is a press of lips against Morgan's nape, slow and deliberate and slightly more courageous now that he feels the man's muscles relax under his touch. His fingers glide along the length of Morgan's arm and in an instant, he's pressing his mouth next to where Morgan's pulse thrums melodiously against the soft skin of his wrist. A look is shared, a silent question... Shall I go on?

Morgan doesn't respond - not audibly, his lips curled into a curious smile. But Roger knows he's safe to continue his now unabashed worship - he can tell by the way Morgan's gaze glistens secretly, watching him intently, his breath a tad slower and more shallow now that Roger kisses his palm. His lips melt against the spot where Roger imagines a ring will sit prettily one day on the man's fourth digit. He runs his tongue over his lips, gaze fixated on the way Morgan looks like right now, basking in the glow of the warm sunset. His own lips taste like the salt in the air, cradled from surface of the ocean on the arms of a balmy breeze - salt water and sex. The taste makes Roger's skin prickle with delight, a drop of adrenaline seeping beneath his skin.