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so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god
Could you do hc or whatever you want where the reader has separation anxiety and Roger is on tour and he comes back and sees her cuddling her pillow or something like that? it’s like super fluffy. I have separation anxiety and I’m struggling a lil bit cause my boyfriend is away🥺
Just wrote this HERE! :)) hope you like it!
Roger’s on Tour, and You Miss Him Terribly [ROGER TAYLOR X READER]
A/N: I hope this does your request some justice and hope you see your BF soon <3
–––––
You blink awake. This is the third time you’ve woken up tonight. You sigh. Sitting up, you glance at the clock. It reads three in the morning, and you groan, flopping back down onto the mattress. You’ve been having the worst sleeps ever since Roger left for tour a couple months ago. It’s been hard having to sleeping in an empty bed. You’re not used to not having Roger snoring next to you. Not used to his side of the bed being cold.
You miss him terribly.
Fluffing your pillow and rearranging the blanket, you try to fall back asleep. But after several minutes of looking at that one brown dot on the ceiling, you huff and get out of bed. You wrap the throw blanket around your body before making your way to the kitchen. In the mood for something comforting, you grab the carton of milk from the fridge and some cocoa powder. Growing up, you would always sneak into the kitchen and make hot chocolate whenever you couldn’t go to sleep––a habit you kept throughout your years at uni as well. After mixing and heating the ingredients in a pot on the stove, you pour the drink into a mug and take a big sip. You sigh when you feel the chocolate warm your belly and head back to the room, drink still in hand.
Pulling off your sleep shirt, you rummage through Roger’s clothing drawers. Finding your favorite shirt of his––an old, ratty, way too big Rolling Stones shirt––you throw it over your head. It smells like cigarettes and cologne and something distinctly Roger, and you smile. The book you began reading a week ago sits on the desk, and so you grab it. Maybe it’ll help you fall asleep.
–––––
Roger slowly opens the door to your shared flat, placing his bags off to the side––he’ll deal with those in the morning. After all the traveling, right now, he just wants to see his beautiful girlfriend and go to sleep. Passing through the kitchen, he sees the pot growing cold on the stove and a spattering of cocoa powder on the counter, and smiles to himself. When he reaches the threshold to your bedroom, he stops and leans against the doorframe, drinking in the scene before him. You’re in one of his shirts, sleeping on his side of the bed and hugging his pillow tightly to your chest, a book forgotten on the sheets. He can hear your soft breathing.
His heart absolutely melts at the sight, and he’s struck with a wave of pure adoration and warmth. Smiling to himself, he pads into the room while shedding his jacket and pants. Left in his briefs, he turns off the lamp, and carefully lifts up the comforter to crawl into bed with you (he now has to lie on your side, but he doesn’t mind one bit).
You roll over in your sleep, mumbling something incoherent and reaching out your arms. But you feel something solid and warm, and you shoot awake, slapping your hands wildly in front of you. His hands catch your wrists.
“Shhh, sorry, it’s just me love, just me,” he says, trying to hold in a laugh. You stop, blinking rapidly to adjust for the darkness of the room. Your eyes widen when you see Roger lying in front of you, holding your hands in his.
“Rog?” you ask, voice heavy with sleep. You’re not sure if you’re actually awake or not.
“Hi darling,” he whispers.
You throw yourself in his arms and pepper his face with kisses. He laughs, voice raspy and rough.
“I thought you were coming back on Friday!”
“Was dying to see my best girl,” he says. He looks at you still lying on his side of the bed.
“Missed me that much?” He asks, tilting his chin down to your––his––shirt and the discarded pillow, and you can hear the smirk on his face.
“Well, you did leave your poor, poor girlfriend all alone in this ridiculously big flat for two months,” you retort. He chuckles at that.
“What a terrible boyfriend I am,” he begins, tightening his grip on your waist, pulling you closer, “How can I ever make it up to you?” he whispers into your hair. Your chest warms, and your mouth pulls into a smile. You tilt your chin up, puckering your lips, and he laughs softly.
Gently grasping your jaw, he gives you a kiss, long and sweet, something that makes your toes curl.
“I love you, and I missed you so much,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to yours. You kiss him again.
“I love you too Rog.”
And you close your eyes, wrapped in Roger’s arms, legs tangled with his, listening to his heartbeat.
Best sleep you’ve gotten in months.
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Do you know when make believe part 5 is coming out?
most likely this Sunday night or Monday :)
Go follow my marvel blog! :))
Some Friendly Competition [BUCKY BARNES X READER]
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader // Avengers x Reader
Summary: The first time you ever interact with Bucky Barnes is over a game of beer pong.
Word count: ~1.7k
Contains: just some good ole fluff and a bit of PG-13 language
A/N: My first fic/post on this blog! I really hope you guys enjoy this, and let me know your thoughts/give me some feedback! Requests are open, so feel free to send me some ideas or just say hi!
–––––
“Friday, chill sesh in the main apartment,” Tony calls out as you guys walk out of the meeting, “I’m gonna dock your pay if you miss it!”
–––––
The hangout is already in full swing when you arrive.
“Lady Y/N!” Thor booms when you walk in, raising his drink to you, and you wave back laughing. Tony’s outside at the bar next to the pool, playing bartender. You walk over.
“What can I get for you, kid?” He asks, throwing a dishrag over his shoulder.
“Surprise me, old man,” you shoot back.
After grabbing your drink (he made you a Margarita), you head to the ping pong table at the other side of the pool where Sam and Steve are talking.
“What’s up, Y/N,” Sam greets with a hug.
“Great job on the mission,” Steve says, patting you on the shoulder.
“Easy peasy,” you say with a nonchalant wave of your hand. Your gaze catches on the red solo cups on the table.
“Wanna go a round?” You ask Sam, shaking the ball that’s clutched in between your fingers.
“No way, Y/N. Remember the last time we played?” he asks, and you cackle at the memory of finding him the morning after going sixteen rounds of beer pong (all of which he lost but continued to call for rematch after rematch) in a neon pink speedo and asleep on the unicorn floatie on top of the pool. You used up half of your phone’s data taking pictures of him, all of which you sent to the team group chat.
“Stevie?” You asks, jutting out your bottom lip. He laughs at you.
“Nice try,” he says while shaking his head. Since he can’t get drunk, you guys usually play with a forfeit. Last time he had to let you pick his outfit for one day. The look on everyone’s faces when Captain America walked into the mission meeting in a hotdog suit brings a smile to your face every time you think of it.
“You guys are no fun,” you say with a pout.
“I’ll play a round with you Miss Y/L/N,” Peter pipes up from the couch in front of the fire pit. You raise a brow and Sam laughs, but you throw him a ball anyway.
“Good luck kid.”
“Okay, okay cool, I’ve only played like once at a party, but I don’t know if that counts since we didn’t have beer, so we used cranberry juice, but I feel like––”
Bucky plucks the ping pong ball out of Peter’s hands. “You and me,” he says to you. You raise your brows, surprised that the Winter Soldier decided to even come out to one of these hangouts. You talked to him before, basic pleasantries on missions and around the tower, but haven’t really had a full on interaction with him. You ignore that though. The tequila is beginning to work its way into your bloodstream and he looks especially good in a simple black tee and jeans and you kind of want to see how good of a beer pong player the famous Winter Soldier really is. You look at him for a beat longer, giving him time to change his mind if he wants, but he simply quirks up a brow.
“Okay, you’re on Barnes.” He flashes you a smile that makes your cheeks warm.
“You don’t want to play her Barnes, she’ll smoke you,” Sam warns him.
Steve folds his arms across his chest, his face adorned with an amused smile. Because honestly, he doesn’t know who would win. A super soldier with a bionic arm against an assassin with deadly aim. Each has an equal shot.
“Eye for eye,” you both say in unison, locking eyes while tossing each of your balls. Yours makes it in while his bounces off the rim of a cup.
“Next time, sweets,” you say with a wink. He cracks a smile and rolls his eyes. You make two of his cups, and now it’s his turn.
Flicking his wrist, the ball plops into the cup at the center of the triangle. Your mouth melts into an evil grin.
“Pants off.”
His eyes sharpen. “What?”
“You made the center cup on your first try. Pants off.” His mouth opens, about to argue.
“Those are the rules man,” Steve says, eyes crinkling at the corners. Bucky gives him a glare that would make any other man piss his pants, but Steve just shrugs and beckons him to undress. He lets out an annoyed huff, but proceeds to unbuckle his belt. When he finishes pushing down his black jeans, he’s left in a pair of tight black briefs. Someone whistles. You can’t help your eyes as they wander down.
“Eyes up here, Doll,” he says with a smirk, and your mouth drops open. The dimple on the side of his face deepening when he sees your flustered state.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you say, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists when he calls you “Doll.”
–––––
You’re currently in the lead when Nat walks over, six shots held impressively between her fingers. She hands you two of the them, gives two to Sam, and downs the last two herself.
“I would have gotten you two oldies some, but then I remembered that you guys only drink gross whiskey,” she says to Bucky and Steve.
“How considerate,” Bucky says dryly, arms now crossed against his chest.
You hiss when you feel the vodka run down your throat, and you scrunch up your face at the taste.
Sam laughs. “One of the best Russian trained assassins can’t handle the taste of vodka.”
“Fuck you Big Bird,” you wheeze out, flipping him off. Sam’s mouth pops open comically. Bucky chokes on air, and Nat howls, clapping her hands together.
“Big Bird? Big Bird?” Sam asks, eyebrows to his hairline. You all continue to laugh even harder at his affronted expression, and he scoffs.
“The utter disrespect. Big Bird? Come on, I need a drink,” you hear him mumble to himself as he walks away.
“I love you!” You yell. He waves you off, and you blow him a kiss. Nat’s still giggling when your favorite song comes on.
“Your turn Barnes––oh my god, I love this song!” you exclaim. Bucky gauges the shot, and he’s just about to release the ball when you raise your arms above your head, swaying your hips to the music, and his eyes laser in on the small strip of skin that’s uncovered when your shirt rides up. His hand falters, and the ball flies to the left and bounces away and onto the ground. You smirk and wink, and his eyes narrow.
“Distracted there, Bud?” Steve murmurs. Bucky glares at him. And out of spite, he tosses the ball while still glaring at Steve. It splashes straight into a cup. Steve raises his brows and his hands in mock apology.
You’re both down to your last cups. He’s a formidable opponent. It’s his turn, and he makes it. You’re not worried though.
Okay just gotta make this shot, or he wins. Easy peasy. You take a breath and release the ball. It soars in a nice arc, hits the rim, and…
rolls off the side of the cup and bounces off the table.
Your mouth pops opens in surprise while Bucky’s stretches into a triumphant smile.
“Rematch,” you demand.
“Uhh, I don’t think so, I kinda like being the king of beer pong right now. Maybe another time,” he says with a smug grin. Your shock turns into a begrudging laughter.
“Okay fine. Good game, good game,” you say, offering up your hand, which he takes, warm hand and rough callouses rub against your skin deliciously.
You grab his tumbler of whiskey sitting on the table and down the rest in one gulp. He raises his brows, eyes focused on a drop of liquor at the corner of your mouth.
“I’m gonna hold you to that rematch,” you say before sauntering off. He watches you leave before seating himself down on the couch.
A hand offers him a refilled glass of whiskey, which he takes. He can’t get drunk, but it’s familiar, and Tony’s collection tastes nice. Seconds after, Steve plops down next to him.
“So, what do you think of Y/N?”
“She’s cool. I like her,” he says simply, not taking his eyes off the way you’re drunkenly dancing dangerously close to the pool’s edge with Natasha. Steve narrows his eyes, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
“Shut up, punk,” he says
“I didn’t say anything!” Steve exclaims, raising his hands in defense.
“Didn’t have to,” still gazing at you. You’re now braiding Thor’s hair, and his stomach clenches with something akin to jealousy and something else when he sees you throw back your head and laugh at something the lightening god says, wishing that that person who was making you laugh was him. That the hair you’re combing your fingers through was his. That he could laugh that easily with you.
“Okay, whatever, I won’t push it,” Steve says, clinking his own glass to Bucky’s.
A few moments of peaceful silence.
“Bucky has a crush!”
“Oh fuck you, what are you twelve?” Bucky says before pushing himself off the couch.
“Hey––where are you going?” Captain America calls after his best friend.
“Away from you!”
Steve shakes his head as he laughs, raising his glass to his lips before hearing Sam’s shriek followed by a loud splash.
“Fuck you Barnes,” Sam sputters once his head breaks through the water. Bucky just flips him off as he walks back inside.
“What the hell did you say?” Steve asks, wiping the water droplets off of his face.
“I just asked him why he was smiling so much!”
HEY guys!! I made a lil side blog for Marvel writing, so go give it a follow if you do so please! :))) @ohtobeoneofbuckysplums
Omg thank you 💕💕💕
Falling [ROGER TAYLOR X READER]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader
Summary: Roger calls you in the middle of the night, and you guys reminisce at some happy memories.
Word count: ~1.5k
Contains: angst
A/N: This was written while I listened “Falling” by Harry Styles (my fave song on the album) on repeat, so you can probably guess the tone of this piece. Hope you enjoy!! :))
His hand hovers over the telephone. He’s a bottle and a half into the handles of whiskies he picked up at the liquor store a couple hours ago. This is a bad idea, he thinks, but he doesn’t care.
He picks up the phone and dials the number.
––––––
You’re startled by the ringing of your flat’s telephone. The man sleeping next to you stirs.
“Shh, go back to sleep, I’ll get the phone, love,” you whisper. You couldn’t go to sleep anyway. After placing a kiss to his forehead, you grab your robe and pad into the living room. The phone rings one more time before you answer it.
“Hello?”
“Y/N.” Your stomach drops at the voice, and you take in a deep breath.
“Roger?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
You sigh. “Why are you calling me?”
“Wanted to hear your voice.” You hear a clatter of a glass on his end, and you clench your teeth.
“You’re drunk right now Roger, hang up and go back to sleep.”
“Wait, wait, wait––just––wait. Please.”
You can easily hang up the phone, go back to bed and your loving boyfriend, and not have to deal with what will inevitably wreck your heart again––
But you hate yourself a little bit more tonight, so you stay on the phone. Wait for him to continue.
He inhales. “I was just thinking about that night in Montreal––when we were doing the show at the Montreal Forum. Remember? It was three years ago from today?”
––––––
Keep reading
Falling [ROGER TAYLOR X READER]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader
Summary: Roger calls you in the middle of the night, and you guys reminisce at some happy memories.
Word count: ~1.5k
Contains: angst
A/N: This was written while I listened “Falling” by Harry Styles (my fave song on the album) on repeat, so you can probably guess the tone of this piece. Hope you enjoy!! :))
His hand hovers over the telephone. He’s a bottle and a half into the handles of whiskies he picked up at the liquor store a couple hours ago. This is a bad idea, he thinks, but he doesn’t care.
He picks up the phone and dials the number.
––––––
You’re startled by the ringing of your flat’s telephone. The man sleeping next to you stirs.
“Shh, go back to sleep, I’ll get the phone, love,” you whisper. You couldn’t go to sleep anyway. After placing a kiss to his forehead, you grab your robe and pad into the living room. The phone rings one more time before you answer it.
“Hello?”
“Y/N.” Your stomach drops at the voice, and you take in a deep breath.
“Roger?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
You sigh. “Why are you calling me?”
“Wanted to hear your voice.” You hear a clatter of a glass on his end, and you clench your teeth.
“You’re drunk right now Roger, hang up and go back to sleep.”
“Wait, wait, wait––just––wait. Please.”
You can easily hang up the phone, go back to bed and your loving boyfriend, and not have to deal with what will inevitably wreck your heart again––
But you hate yourself a little bit more tonight, so you stay on the phone. Wait for him to continue.
He inhales. “I was just thinking about that night in Montreal––when we were doing the show at the Montreal Forum. Remember? It was three years ago from today?”
––––––
You’re lounging on the hotel room bed in your pajamas and reading a book that you bought at the airport on the way here. Roger’s still at the stadium, rehearsing for the show tomorrow night. The clock just struck two in the morning, but jet lag is really kicking your ass, so you thought reading would help relax you (it’s not).
You hear the sound of the key card sliding in the door before Roger walks in.
“Hey, love,” he says softly as he quietly puts his bags down. He isn’t surprised that you’re still awake, the jet lag hitting him as hard as it’s hitting you. Untangling yourself from the mound of pillows and blankets you nestled your way into, you make your way over to him and wrap your arms around his middle. He sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“How was rehearsal?” you ask.
“It was good…couldn’t sleep?” You shake your head in response. “Well good thing, I have a surprise for you,” he says before grabbing your hand and pulling you into the hallway.
You raise your brows but follow him as he leads you through the hotel. He stops at the pool area, and you gasp at the sight in front of you. All the chairs were cleared out and a single table covered in a white cloth and rose petals sits next to the pool. Sitting on top of the table is a platter of desserts: cakes, chocolate truffles, chocolate covered strawberries, crème brulée, and two flutes of champagne, the bottle sitting in an ice bucket off to the side. The candles basks the scene in a ethereal glow, and the record player sitting off to the side plays Sinatra’s The Way You Look Tonight.
“Ta-da,” Roger says with his arms outstretched and a big grin on his face.
“Oh my god, Roger. You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“Well, the hotel helped me set it up, and did you really think I wouldn’t do anything considering how amazing of a boyfriend I am,” he says with a playful wink to which you roll your eyes at. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kiss him. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer.
“I love you,” you say once you break away.
“Words cannot express how much I love you,” he says softly, brushing back a piece of stray hair blown away from the breeze.
A bottle and a half of champagne later, you’re sitting in a chair, watching Roger drunkenly air play the drums while serenading you with his rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.
“Rog, you’re going to fall into the bloody pool!” You warn. He doesn’t listen to you, and as he gets to the chorus, you see his foot slip and before you can warn him…
Splash.
Your mouth pops open in disbelief as you see your boyfriend fall, fully clothed, in the hotel pool at three a.m. in the morning. A second later, his head pops out of the water. He’s coughing and hastily pushing his wet hair back out of his face. You let out a surprised laugh, and when he turns his face to you, his shocked expression makes you lose it.
And now you’re laughing so hard, tears prick at your eyes. Laughing so hard that you snort, which makes you clap your hands over your mouth and laugh even harder.
“I told you!” you manage to wheeze out through laughs. He’s laughing too now, wading to the side of the pool.
“Help me out?” He asks with an outstretched hand.
And you go over, clutching your abs, and since you’re still laughing, you don’t notice the evil grin adorning his face. And so when you reach down to grasp his hand, you’re not prepared for the feeling of him yanking you down and into the pool with him. You manage to let out a surprised shriek before hitting the cold water.
“You’re such a dick!” You yell when your head breaks through the surface, and you start assaulting his arm with slaps.
He catches your hands and engulfs you into a wet hug. “You love me,” he says with a kiss to the top of your head.
“I do love you but that doesn’t mean that you’re not a dick,” your voice muffled from your face being pressed into his chest. He fakes a gasp, and you giggle.
You two stay there for you don’t know how long, you wrapped in his arms, rocking back and forth with Frank Sinatra’s voice as your backdrop and the stars as your ceiling.
“Happy anniversary, my love,” he whispers into your ear.
“Happy anniversary, Rog.”
––––––
“Yeah. Yeah I do remember.” You laugh, sniffling. Of course you remember. “We were so happy,” you say. You sigh and look down, picking at your fingernail and thinking about that night. You let out a whimper, and your face crumples thinking of just how happy you two were.
“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers over the phone, wishing that he could be there to hug and kiss you. Wishing that he could take back that one stupid drunken night that ruined everything.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.”
You continue to cry silently, furiously picking at that fingernail until it bleeds.
You both stay on the line for a minute, the only sound you hear is the faint buzz of the phone and your shaky breaths. Roger is the first one to break the silence.
“I miss you. So much,” he rasps.
“Roger…Roger please don’t do this.”
“I know, I know, love––I just––I still love––”
“Roger, you were the one who––” You stop yourself.
“I know, and I hate myself for that every single day.” On the other side of the line, his heart breaks when he hears your sniffles, and his eyes blur with his own tears. He clears his throat.
“I was just calling to hear your voice one last time. I won’t call you anymore. All I want for you to be is happy.” He pauses. “I love you.”
“Thank you Rog,” you whisper into the phone, “I love you too.”
It takes all of your willpower to set the phone back down onto the receiver.
A quiet sob escapes your chest, and you clutch yourself, hugging your arms to your torso. Sliding down to the ground, back leaning against the back of your couch, you stuff your fist into your mouth to muffle your cries.
And at this moment you absolutely hate Roger Taylor, the man who was your first love, the man who shattered your heart into a million pieces, the man who, no matter how much you try, you’ll never be able to forget––never stop loving.
“Y/N?” You hear your boyfriend call from the bedroom.
“Just a minute!” You call out, voice strained. You don’t know how long you sit there, but once the tears have dried up, you get up, grab a glass of water, and head back into the room where you crawl into bed and under the covers
“Who was that?” your boyfriend asks, voice raspy from sleep.
“Just an old friend.”
Permanent Tag List:
@thefirstkillerqueen @hysterical-queen-trash @ladycataztrophe @ghost-in-love @blondecarfucker @scarsout @radioblah-blah @hold-your-invisible-horses @lordofthunderthr @iwasnothingbutacityboy @jennyggggrrr
just found make believe and im in love its so good!!! im a sucker for the fake dating au
Ahhh thank you so much!! Hahahaha fake dating is literally my fave thing to write and read!!
oh my god im so excited for make believe part 5!!! im in love with it
Omg this makes me so happy!! So glad that you’re enjoying the story!!
me too ;))
Make Believe: Part 4 [Roger Taylor x Reader]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader [FAKE DATING AU]
Summary: You’re a famous rockstar. Roger Taylor has an image problem. Both of your management teams thought it would be a great idea for you two to fake date. Problem is: you guys hate each other’s guts.
Word count: ~3.1k
Contains: language and slut-shaming (not from Roger though!)
A/N: I AM BACK. Here is part 4, I don’t how many people still want to read it, so if you’re on the taglist, and no longer want to be on it, please message me (I will not be offended). And vice versa, if you want to be on the taglist but you aren’t on it, just shoot me a message! I hope you guys enjoy this part and thank you for sticking with me! Love you guys.
PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE
Previously…
“I’m really tired of fighting. Can we call a truce until this whole thing is over?” he says after he blows out the smoke. You let out a laugh that sounds more like an exhale.
“Truce,” you say, handing him the bottle of scotch.
“Okay, well, now that we’re not enemies anymore, we should get to know each other better,” he says after he takes a swig.
“Okay, shoot,” you ask.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Really?”
“That’s basic question!”
“Fine, pink. You?”
“Yellow.”
“Ok. I wanna ask a question, why are you always wearing those sunglasses? It’s night and we’re––we were––indoors.”
“These sunglasses are sexy, and you know it,” he says with a nudge of his shoulder to yours.
And so, you two spend most of the night there––forgetting about the party raging below. Passing the bottle back and forth to one another, you both share stories of childhood memories, being on tour, and everything in between. You talk about your crazy university stories and the time you not so accidentally threw up on a douchebag at a bar.
Roger talks about the time he got into a bar fight over a pack of peanuts.
“Did you win?”
“Oh god no, I was absolutely shit-faced, and I think he was a former boxer.”
You tilt your head back and laugh, and he looks at you with a small smile playing at his lips, a weird feeling warming his chest.
–––––
After that night, you and Roger have been trying slowly to create a somewhat functional friendship.
“Can I get an iced latte with vanilla and two packets of sweetener please?” you ask the waiter taking your order. Roger pulls a face, and you cross your arms.
“What? I like sweets Mister Plain Black Coffee.” He rolls his eyes and flicks your nose. You swat his hand out of the way but laugh nonetheless.
Maybe that smile in that picture the paparazzi caught of you and him wasn’t entirely faked.
And maybe after you guys pay for the check and are walking towards the car, Roger leaves his hand wrapped around yours a moment longer than he has to even after you both get are out of the camera’s spotlight.
–––––
You sigh as you look around the room. Another night, another party, another evening spending time around drunken fools.
You stiffen when you hear a voice that makes your skin crawl. Oh no. Looking over, you spot your ex standing by the bar with his arm around another girl’s waist. Roger notices the way your shoulders tense, and he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get to say anything because before he can turn around, you grab his hand and drag him into the nearest bedroom.
Shutting the door behind you, you look at a very confused Roger.
“Give me a love bite.” You’re not thinking this through. Jealousy and pride clouding your logic, but you don’t care.
He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Give me a love bite.”
You almost giggle at how clueless and flustered Roger looks right now, so unlike his usual cocky self. He opens his mouth.
“Please? I think it’ll really sell our relationship!” He narrows his eyes at you. An inner conflict seems to be resolved when he exhales.
“Okay…” He walks over carefully, almost as if he’s worried that he’s walking into a trap.
Thus explains the reason why you’re currently straddling Roger’s lap in the first available bedroom you guys could find in the house. He carefully pushes the front of your dress to the side, the silk easily gliding away with his touch. Goosebumps erupt onto your skin when you feel his rough, calloused fingers graze your collarbones.
“You sure about this?” he asks you, and you nod.
Keep reading
Make Believe: Part 4 [Roger Taylor x Reader]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader [FAKE DATING AU]
Summary: You’re a famous rockstar. Roger Taylor has an image problem. Both of your management teams thought it would be a great idea for you two to fake date. Problem is: you guys hate each other’s guts.
Word count: ~3.1k
Contains: language and slut-shaming (not from Roger though!)
A/N: I AM BACK. Here is part 4, I don’t how many people still want to read it, so if you’re on the taglist, and no longer want to be on it, please message me (I will not be offended). And vice versa, if you want to be on the taglist but you aren’t on it, just shoot me a message! I hope you guys enjoy this part and thank you for sticking with me! Love you guys.
PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE
Previously…
“I’m really tired of fighting. Can we call a truce until this whole thing is over?” he says after he blows out the smoke. You let out a laugh that sounds more like an exhale.
“Truce,” you say, handing him the bottle of scotch.
“Okay, well, now that we’re not enemies anymore, we should get to know each other better,” he says after he takes a swig.
“Okay, shoot,” you ask.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Really?”
“That’s basic question!”
“Fine, pink. You?”
“Yellow.”
“Ok. I wanna ask a question, why are you always wearing those sunglasses? It’s night and we’re––we were––indoors.”
“These sunglasses are sexy, and you know it,” he says with a nudge of his shoulder to yours.
And so, you two spend most of the night there––forgetting about the party raging below. Passing the bottle back and forth to one another, you both share stories of childhood memories, being on tour, and everything in between. You talk about your crazy university stories and the time you not so accidentally threw up on a douchebag at a bar.
Roger talks about the time he got into a bar fight over a pack of peanuts.
“Did you win?”
“Oh god no, I was absolutely shit-faced, and I think he was a former boxer.”
You tilt your head back and laugh, and he looks at you with a small smile playing at his lips, a weird feeling warming his chest.
–––––
After that night, you and Roger have been trying slowly to create a somewhat functional friendship.
“Can I get an iced latte with vanilla and two packets of sweetener please?” you ask the waiter taking your order. Roger pulls a face, and you cross your arms.
“What? I like sweets Mister Plain Black Coffee.” He rolls his eyes and flicks your nose. You swat his hand out of the way but laugh nonetheless.
Maybe that smile in that picture the paparazzi caught of you and him wasn’t entirely faked.
And maybe after you guys pay for the check and are walking towards the car, Roger leaves his hand wrapped around yours a moment longer than he has to even after you both get are out of the camera’s spotlight.
–––––
You sigh as you look around the room. Another night, another party, another evening spending time around drunken fools.
You stiffen when you hear a voice that makes your skin crawl. Oh no. Looking over, you spot your ex standing by the bar with his arm around another girl’s waist. Roger notices the way your shoulders tense, and he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get to say anything because before he can turn around, you grab his hand and drag him into the nearest bedroom.
Shutting the door behind you, you look at a very confused Roger.
“Give me a love bite.” You’re not thinking this through. Jealousy and pride clouding your logic, but you don’t care.
He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Give me a love bite.”
You almost giggle at how clueless and flustered Roger looks right now, so unlike his usual cocky self. He opens his mouth.
“Please? I think it’ll really sell our relationship!” He narrows his eyes at you. An inner conflict seems to be resolved when he exhales.
“Okay…” He walks over carefully, almost as if he’s worried that he’s walking into a trap.
Thus explains the reason why you’re currently straddling Roger’s lap in the first available bedroom you guys could find in the house. He carefully pushes the front of your dress to the side, the silk easily gliding away with his touch. Goosebumps erupt onto your skin when you feel his rough, calloused fingers graze your collarbones.
“You sure about this?” he asks you, and you nod.
Keep reading
Make Believe: Part 4 [Roger Taylor x Reader]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader [FAKE DATING AU]
Summary: You’re a famous rockstar. Roger Taylor has an image problem. Both of your management teams thought it would be a great idea for you two to fake date. Problem is: you guys hate each other’s guts.
Word count: ~3.1k
Contains: language and slut-shaming (not from Roger though!)
A/N: I AM BACK. Here is part 4, I don’t how many people still want to read it, so if you’re on the taglist, and no longer want to be on it, please message me (I will not be offended). And vice versa, if you want to be on the taglist but you aren’t on it, just shoot me a message! I hope you guys enjoy this part and thank you for sticking with me! Love you guys.
PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE
Previously…
“I’m really tired of fighting. Can we call a truce until this whole thing is over?” he says after he blows out the smoke. You let out a laugh that sounds more like an exhale.
“Truce,” you say, handing him the bottle of scotch.
“Okay, well, now that we’re not enemies anymore, we should get to know each other better,” he says after he takes a swig.
“Okay, shoot,” you ask.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Really?”
“That’s basic question!”
“Fine, pink. You?”
“Yellow.”
“Ok. I wanna ask a question, why are you always wearing those sunglasses? It’s night and we’re––we were––indoors.”
“These sunglasses are sexy, and you know it,” he says with a nudge of his shoulder to yours.
And so, you two spend most of the night there––forgetting about the party raging below. Passing the bottle back and forth to one another, you both share stories of childhood memories, being on tour, and everything in between. You talk about your crazy university stories and the time you not so accidentally threw up on a douchebag at a bar.
Roger talks about the time he got into a bar fight over a pack of peanuts.
“Did you win?”
“Oh god no, I was absolutely shit-faced, and I think he was a former boxer.”
You tilt your head back and laugh, and he looks at you with a small smile playing at his lips, a weird feeling warming his chest.
–––––
After that night, you and Roger have been trying slowly to create a somewhat functional friendship.
“Can I get an iced latte with vanilla and two packets of sweetener please?” you ask the waiter taking your order. Roger pulls a face, and you cross your arms.
“What? I like sweets Mister Plain Black Coffee.” He rolls his eyes and flicks your nose. You swat his hand out of the way but laugh nonetheless.
Maybe that smile in that picture the paparazzi caught of you and him wasn’t entirely faked.
And maybe after you guys pay for the check and are walking towards the car, Roger leaves his hand wrapped around yours a moment longer than he has to even after you both get are out of the camera’s spotlight.
–––––
You sigh as you look around the room. Another night, another party, another evening spending time around drunken fools.
You stiffen when you hear a voice that makes your skin crawl. Oh no. Looking over, you spot your ex standing by the bar with his arm around another girl’s waist. Roger notices the way your shoulders tense, and he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get to say anything because before he can turn around, you grab his hand and drag him into the nearest bedroom.
Shutting the door behind you, you look at a very confused Roger.
“Give me a love bite.” You’re not thinking this through. Jealousy and pride clouding your logic, but you don’t care.
He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Give me a love bite.”
You almost giggle at how clueless and flustered Roger looks right now, so unlike his usual cocky self. He opens his mouth.
“Please? I think it’ll really sell our relationship!” He narrows his eyes at you. An inner conflict seems to be resolved when he exhales.
“Okay…” He walks over carefully, almost as if he’s worried that he’s walking into a trap.
Thus explains the reason why you’re currently straddling Roger’s lap in the first available bedroom you guys could find in the house. He carefully pushes the front of your dress to the side, the silk easily gliding away with his touch. Goosebumps erupt onto your skin when you feel his rough, calloused fingers graze your collarbones.
“You sure about this?” he asks you, and you nod.
He attaches his lips to the side of your throat. Your breath hitches at the feeling of his lips, and you feel his hands tighten on your hips. Your skin is on fire. You reach up, and slowly push up his sunglasses from his nose and to the top of his head. He looks up at you, hooded eyes meet your own. The blue of his eyes are almost swallowed with his black pupils, and you bite your lip at the sight, heat blossoming throughout your body. His eyes flick down at the movement, his mouth opened slightly.
At a particularly harsh suck, teeth grazing skin, your hips give an involuntary jolt into his, and he lets out a surprised, quiet groan.
“Shit, sorry, sorry,” you stutter.
The door swings open and before you can even process it, you hear a loud, “Oh shit sorry!” And the slamming of the door.
You jump, instinctively pushing Roger away from you, but his hands are still attached to your waist. So instead, he takes you down with him. You let out a surprised squeal before your body hits his as his back slams onto the bed beneath him.
Rolling off of him, you flop onto the bed panting. Heart beating out of your chest. A beat as you both lie on your backs, looking up at the ceiling.
And then you burst out laughing. Deep, heaving laughs that make you clutch at your stomach. And Roger’s laughing as well.
“You’re such a little shit!” you wheeze and hit him with one of the pillows. “Why didn’t you lock the door?”
“I thought I did! And also you were the one who basically jumped my bones out there––you should have been the one who locked the door!”
You scoff, but a smile pulls at your mouth. Pushing yourself up and off the bed, you walk over to a mirror that’s leaning on one of the walls. Poking and prodding the red mark quickly blossoming on the column of your throat, you deem it an acceptable love bite.
“Okay, this should be good, thanks––what are you doing?” You ask as you see Roger reaching for the buttons on his shirt.
“Keeping up appearances.” He gives you a wink before unbuttoning his shirt all the way open.
“Wait––” you say before grabbing a tube of your lipstick from your clutch. Opening the tube, you rub some of the color onto your fingers and proceed to rub it messily around Roger’s mouth. He looks down at you, smiling at the little furrow in your brow as you concentrate. You pull back and admire your handiwork.
“We are now the perfect sex-crazed couple,” you say with a wink and a flourish of your hand.
Walking out of the room, Roger pretends to readjust his belt, and you pull your dress down. Plastering a glazed, satisfied look on his face, he gives all the people standing in the hallway in front of the room a lazy smile.
A couple of whistles, and you just flash them a knowing smirk.
You’ve been at the party for an hour, and you’ve lost Roger after being swept away by some friends. Tired and ready to make your way back home, you’re in search of Roger and the rest of your friends to say bye. As you make your way through the too big house, you’re not watching in front of you. Instead, looking at what appears to be two people in chicken costumes dancing on top of one of the living room tables when you bump into someone. Strong arms grip your shoulders to steady you. You look up, opening your mouth to apologize. But stop short when you see who it is.
“Hey, Y/N, I just want to say congrats on your album,” your ex says with a sleazy smile. His hand lingers too long on your shoulder.
“Oh––uh, thank you.”
You see his eyes flick down, and then stay there. His brows furrow. And you let the self satisfied smile grow on your face when you know he’s looking at the dark bruise you’re not trying to hide.
“Who’s this, love,” Roger asks, coming up from behind you, his hands snaking around your waist. And you have to suppress your laughter as you can practically see the gears working in your ex’s head. His eyes rapidly flicking to your lipstick and then to the same color smudged onto Roger’s mouth. Your matching bed-ruffled hair. The way Roger possessively holds onto your waist, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles into the exposed skin of your stomach.
He blinks a few times before plastering on a slimy grin.
“Matthew,” he says, “Matthew Paul.”
“No way. You’re the bloke who stole the riff from our album!” he asks with an incredulous laugh. Your ex turns bright red, his eyes going wide. He clears his throat.
“So, uh, how did, uh, how did the two of you meet?”
“I was already a huge fan of her work. I went to a concert of hers, I think it was last Spring, and then we met at an afterparty where we really hit it off. And from there, I couldn’t think of anything but her,” he says. You blush before leaning in for a quick kiss on the lips. But when you try pulling away, his arm around your waist tightens and he deepens the kiss. When you part, your cheeks are flushed and you bite your swollen lips, slapping Roger on the chest.
“Just letting you know that you’re dating a fucking whore,” your ex says with a casual sip of his drink. If one wasn’t paying too close attention, they would have almost missed it. Roger stops dead in his tracks.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
Oh shit. By now, this little exchange has attracted a decent sized crowd. You see Brian pushing his way to the front, John right behind him.
“Roger…” you warn, but he’s not even looking at you. It’s actually Brian who steps in between the two men, placing a hand out in front of him. “Walk away,” he says to your ex.
Michael scoffs. Ignoring him, he looks at you, a fire in his eyes. “Oh so you’re fucking all of the members of Queen? That it? I always knew you were such a little slut.”
That’s when Roger punches him. You hear a sickening crunch when Roger’s fist slams into Michael’s nose. Blood sprays everywhere, and you shriek when a spatter of blood lands on the side of your face. ROGER TAYLOR ATTACKS MAN AT PARTY is the headline that flashes in your mind.
“Fuck!” Matthew shrieks, bent over and clutching his face.
“Say sorry.”
“Mate, I’m sorry––”
“What the fuc––not to me––say sorry to Y/N.”
Matthew pauses and turns to look at you. “I’m––I’m sorry,” he gets out, voice thick from the blood clogging his nose.
“Fucking dick,” Roger mumbles as he grabs his jacket, placing it on your shoulders, so you guys can leave. You guys leave the house, hand in hand, and you don’t look back at the gaping crowd.
–––––
“You didn’t have to hit him, you know,” you say quietly, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton swab coated with Neosporin.
“He’s a fucking prick.” You laugh without humor because yeah, you know. You’re in your bathroom in your flat. Roger, sitting on the sink, and you, in between his legs. His hand resting in yours. He looks down at you as you work. Something he doesn’t want to acknowledge pulls at his heart when he sees your tongue poking out of your mouth and the determined furrow in your brow, the way your hair is a little bit messy and the fact that your makeup isn’t all the way off. The way you look in a ratty white tee shirt two sizes too big and how you’re holding his rough hand in between your soft, gentle fingers. The way he secretly wishes that that you were wearing one of his ratty tee shirts. It makes his heart ache. Ache for something he doesn’t want to know. Something he’s too scared to acknowledge––to pursue.
His hand reaches up before his mind can stop him. He reaches up and gently tries to wipe away the dried blood on your face. His thumb trying to rub it away.
“Roger you don’t have to do that…” you say, catching his hand in yours. It stills, still on your cheek.
“I want to,” he whispers. “Let me.” And he grabs the hand towel on the sink, dipping it in the bowl of warm water you brought and wipes your face. the gentleness such in contrast with the way he usually his, banging on his drums, fighting with the paparazzi. It makes your heart ache. Eyes so focused on getting the blood off your cheek, he doesn’t notice that you’re staring.
“Roger,” you murmur, and he looks up at you and something in his chest clenches. Your eyes a little shiny from the remnants of the alcohol, face flushed, and mouth parted. You look beautiful to him. You both look at each other for a beat too long, but you’re the first one to come to your senses and the spell is broken when you clear your throat.
“I––I didn’t finish with your fist, let me see it again.”
And so you work in silence for the rest of your time the bathroom, spreading the ointment over his knuckles before wrapping it with white gauze that you had in your first aid kit. When you fold the gauze over one last time, you pat his hand gently before grabbing the wrappers strewn over the sink countertop and throwing them away.
“All done. You change into those clothes while I make us some tea.”
“Wait––I can do it––you’ve done enough for me already…”
You give him a soft smile. “You’re in my home. Would be a shitty host if I let you make your own tea the first time you come into my flat,” you say with a wink before padding away into the kitchen.
Roger sits there for a moment longer, legs dangling off the sink counter. Hand beginning to throb. He hasn’t gotten that angry in a while now. Learned to control his anger. Usually was able to keep somewhat of a level-head around douchebags and critics––he obviously wasn’t unaccustomed to nasty language. But when your ex was spitting in your face, something in him snapped. Maybe because even though you looked calm and collected, he saw your hands––saw how you clenched them into fists to stop them from trembling.
Maybe because he hasn’t seen that look in your eyes. Hasn’t seen that type of vulnerability even when you He has seen the videos and the pictures––people screaming in your face, calling you the same names (some even worse) than what Michael said––and though you looked a little cautious––he has never seen that look of sadness that he saw when Michael was yelling at you tonight. The way he saw the fire in your eyes that he’s so used to seeing whenever you’re spitting at each other disappear.
He sighs before hopping down the sink, washing his face and then undressing in order to change into the clothes that you brought him.
–––––
“What happened between the two of you?” Roger asks when he walks into the kitchen as you mix cream into your cup of tea. You stop. The spoon clattering loudly against the mug.
“He cheated on me––slept with a new groupie every night he was on the road.”
“Shit.”
“That’s why I don’t date guys in the music industry anymore…all of them turned out to be cheaters and liars.” And maybe his heart breaks a little when he sees the light shutter from your eyes. The slump of your shoulders that are usually so defiant and angry and annoyed at him.
“Don’t worry, you’re too hot to be tied down to one guy anyway,” He says with his signature smirk, and it pulls you back to reality, puts the fire back into your eyes––and in that moment you know what he did, why he said that. And for that, you’re grateful for him.
“You’re a dick, you know that?” you say with a light push to his shoulders, but a smile pulls at your lips anyway.
“It’s one of my many star qualities.”
“Only cream right?” you ask.
“Hmm, maybe add like a spoonful of sugar,” he says, and you look up with a grin.
“Oh, I thought you were too good for that,” you tease but dump a large scoop into his. He comes up to you, and flicks your nose, smiling at the little scrunch of your nose and the way you swat at his hand.
–––––
You end up on the couch, watching whatever was on the TV at the time.
Roger looks over and smiles to himself. You let out a big yawn, glasses perched precariously at the tip of your nose.
“Hey, Y/N,” he whispers, gently tapping your leg, “I should probably get going…”
You blink awake. “Oh, you can spend the night––if you want. I have a guest room,” you say. You dont know what possessed you to say it, but it leaves your mouth before you could stop it. He stops––looks at the clock. Looks back at you. A beat.
“Okay, yeah, that would be better actually. Thanks.”
After grabbing a few extra blankets, pillows, and placing a glass of water with Advil on the side table, you deem the rarely used guest room acceptable for use. He settles into the bed, thanking you for everything.
“Goodnight Roger, if you need anything, I’m a door over,” you say before turning to leave the room.
“Hey, Y/N…” he calls out softly. You stop, waiting for him to continue. “I––I never cheated on those girls––never cheated on anyone in fact. All of them––after I broke up with them––they would run to the media. I guess given my reputation, it wasn’t hard for the general public to believe anyway.”
You furrow your brows. Furrow your brows because in that moment, you hear a deep sadness in his voice. A deep sadness filling the dark of the room. You hear him turn over, the bed sheets rustling, and before you can respond, he says, “Goodnight Y/N.”
And despite something stirring deep in your chest, you turn around and close the door.
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Make Believe Tag List:
@royalblueviper @brianandthemays @kurt-nightcrawler @rogertaylorgirl-1977 @toger-raylor @queen-turtle-boiii @rogahloveshiscar @theprettyfandom @geek-and-proud @weakling-grace @loveandbeloved29 @benhardymazzello @radiob-l-a-hblah @ultrablackwidower @havvana-nights @tbird20165 @caborhapch @tichtaylor @queen-bunnyears @luvbohrap @tiredsinceforever @kiwithekiwi @prettygiiiiirl @jfrank1048 @coolcxt @a19103 @galileofigarog @rogershoe @bohrapbxtch @bwunnii @justmyfiveangels @kellypenac @70srogah @amy-brooklyn99 @countryday @rogerm-taylor @importantzonkponykid @honimello @shutup-sorry @youngpastafanmug @ixchel-9275 @darling-egg
(the ones with a slash are the ones I couldn’t tag, will be deleting the ones who I can't tag next time)
Make Believe: Part One [Roger Taylor x Reader]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader [FAKE DATING AU]
Summary: You’re a famous rockstar. Roger Taylor has an image problem. Both of your management teams thought it would be a great idea for you two to fake date. Problem is: you guys hate each other’s guts.
Word count: ~1.6k
Contains: language, that’s pretty much it
A/N: this is a shameless way I can write an enemies-to-lovers trope and fake dating au because I’m trash for both of those (It’s the best of both worldssss). So this was really fun to write! I hope you enjoy! Let me know if you want to be added to this series’s taglist or my permanent taglist!
“Y/N Y/L/N’s Newest Album Hits #1 in the U.K, taking the coveted spot right from under Queen’s noses!”
––––––
“Absolutely not. Not going to happen,” Roger says, arms crossed tightly across his chest as he leans against the desk in Jim’s office.
Jim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Roger. You have an image problem. You’re pictured with a new girl almost every night. An article about you breaking some girl’s heart is in the papers every other day. This behavior,” he waves his hand around, “is hurting sales. You’re not going to get out of this,” Jim says, still annoyed that you had taken the top spot for most album sales when he––and everyone else––confidently thought it would be Queen sitting at the top this year.
Roger scoffs in disbelief. “I’m in a fucking rock and roll band. Our audience isn’t the sort to be swayed away from that.”
“Statistics have shown that each time one of you have gotten into a relationship, your sales have soared. Think about Brian last year. And then consider having the number one artist in the UK dating a member of Queen. This is going to be a huge success.” Roger stays quiet at that.
“Look Rog––I’m not the biggest fan of this plan either, but you’ve got to be honest, it’s going to work. And she’s a great girl. I really like her,” Brian says, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Freddie nods.
“Well, that’s easy for you to say! You don’t have to fake date your nemesis!” Roger says, throwing up his arms.
Brian rolls his eyes. “I think “nemesis” is a little bit of an overstatement, Rog,” he says.
“Why does it have to be me?” he groans.
Jim looks pointedly at him. “Maybe because everyone else is already in a relationship with other people?” Roger just groans again.
“I really don’t understand your hatred towards her! I think she’s lovely,” Freddie says. Rogers eyes are wide with betrayal.
“Ask her! She hated me the second she laid eyes on me!” he says, indignation prevalent in his voice. Brian and Freddie both raise their arms up in mock surrender at his outburst, stifling their laughter. To be honest, they all think Roger and your feud is quite amusing.
“Ten bucks says that they’ll sleep with each other by the end of the night,” Freddie once said as he watched you and Roger bump into each other at a party your record label was throwing.
“Twenty bucks says that she’ll throw her drink straight in the face,” Brian retorted. Brian got twenty dollars richer that night. But still, the band members––everybody––cannot deny nor escape the tension, sexual or not, between the two of you.
John is currently trying to suppress a smile, eyes crinkled at the edges. Roger narrows his eyes.
“What are you snickering about over there?”
“I’m really excited to see you both interact with each other.”
“You’ve got to admit it, darling, this is gonna be so fucking entertaining,” Freddie chimes in.
“Oh fuck me,” Roger says in a huff, plopping himself down in a plush chair while dragging his hand roughly down his face.
“Twenty bucks says he’ll be saying that to Y/N when this is over,” Freddie whispers to Brian. Before Brian can respond, Roger punches Freddie in the arm.
––––––
“WHAT?” you screech, the water you’re holding sloshing out of the cup.
“I’m sorry Y/N, but we already planned this whole thing, and I think this opportunity will be amazing for the both of you. We’re going over to the boys’ recording studio this Friday to finalize all of the details,” your manager, Anne, says almost gently. You sigh.
“I just hit number one on the UK charts. Why would I have to use his help?”
“Yes, and you know that everyone is so proud of you. But this will keep you at the top and open up more opportunities. It’s a win-win situation. Just think about this purely as a business deal, which it is, and just ignore your hatred towards him.” You open your mouth, but she raises her hand.
“And…you’ve got to admit, he’s not hard on the eyes,” she says with a grin. You pause for a moment before lightly smacking her arm with the magazine you grabbed off her desk, both of you erupting into laughter.
––––––
Friday came too soon. Your laughter is gone as you stand in front of their recording studio. Taking a deep breath, you walk through the doors, and you’re met with the sight of Queen, lounging on a couch in the middle of the room.
“Hi boys! Hi Jim, nice to see you again,” Anne says before walking over to Jim and giving him a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek.
“Hey Y/N!” Brian says, standing up from the couch and bounding over to you with open arms. You smile, returning his embrace.
“Hey Bri! How are you?” you ask, voice muffled in his chest. John and Freddie both stand up as well, coming over to give you hugs.
“You look stunning darling,” Freddie compliments, giving you a kiss on the cheek.
You’ve been friends with them for quite a long time, having met at a music awards after party many years ago. They had all taken a liking to you and you to them. All of them except one. And that one is still sitting––more like sprawled out––on the couch, his arms stretched lazily across the back of it and his legs spread too wide. He smiles at you and wiggles his fingers mockingly.
“Hi gorgeous,” he says with a smirk that makes you roll your eyes. Annoyance already beginning to bubble fast underneath your skin.
“Close your legs,” you snap.
“I know it’s difficult, but eyes up here love,” he says with a tsk. Your mouth drops open, and you feel a flush of anger creep up your face in the shade of a bright red. Before you can retort, Anne and Jim cut you off.
“Behave you guys.”
“Sometimes I feel as if they’re children,” Anne mutters to Jim to which he vehemently nods in agreement.
“Please sit,” Jim says, gesturing to the couch. You take the seat next to Brian, farthest away from the blonde headed drummer who’s still looking at you with a shit-eating grin on his face. Once everyone settles in, the meeting begins.
“Let’s go over what you both will be required to do before you guys rip each other’s throats out,” Jim says quite seriously.
“Question,” Roger interrupts as he raises a hand in the air. Jim sighs, exasperation evident in his face.
“Yes, Roger?”
“How long is this going to be a thing?”
“For at least several months––just until both your albums drop.”
“That’s in nine months!” Roger exclaim.
You roll your eyes before flashing him a mocking grin. “Wow, you can do basic math!”
“Bitch!”
“Dick!”
“Guys!” Anne yells. You grimace apologetically, not before sending Roger one final glare.
“We have an interview already set up for Roger next week where the interviewer will ask about your new relationship.”
“You will also be accompanying the band during their stay at Ridge Farm while they record their album. As you already know, Y/N will be a feature artist on one of your tracks.”
“We have dates where you’ll be seen and pictured out in public, but you can choose the location. And obviously, you guys will have to be seen at parties together.”
“You’ll also have to stay at each other’s flats some nights, so the paparazzi can get photos of you both coming out of each other’s apartments.”
Even though Anne had already briefed you on what this whole fake dating situation would entail, you’re still taken aback at the conditions and what you’re going to be expected to do.
After everything’s explained and the contracts are signed (an excruciating three hours later), you get up to grab a bottle of water from the counter. Anne and Jim discuss whatever it is they’re talking about in the corner of the room. Freddie, John, and Brian joke around in the corner next to the soundboard.
Roger saunters over to you.
“I have one condition about this whole fake dating thing,” he says quietly in your ear. You rest your weight on one leg and raise your brows for him to continue.
“You can’t fall in love with me,” he says with a smirk and a mischievous glint in his eyes. You scoff, pushing past him with a hard shove to his shoulder.
“In your dreams, Taylor,” you call back before joining the other’s conversation.
––––––
As you walk out of the studio, pressed up against Roger’s side, you’re met with a barrage of paparazzi and cameras flashing in your faces, specifically focused on your joined hands.
ARE YOU GUYS RECORDING A SINGLE TOGETHER?
ARE YOU TWO DATING?
WHEN DID YOU MEET?
You ignore the interrogation and simply offer them a strained smile, trying your best not to snatch your hand out of his grasp. He seems to be the doing the same.
This is going to be a long nine months.
NEXT CHAPTER: PART TWO
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Make Believe: Part Two [Roger Taylor x Reader]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader [FAKE DATING AU]
Summary: You’re a famous rockstar. Roger Taylor has an image problem. Both of your management teams thought it would be a great idea for you two to fake date. Problem is: you guys hate each other’s guts.
Word count: ~2.9k
A/N: I’m so happy about all the positive response from the first part/to this story! I’m glad you guys are liking it. Please give me some feedback on this part (what do you think of the story so far?), and I hope you enjoy! Also, let me know if I missed you for the tag list. I’m pretty sure I got all of you who wanted to be on it, but just in case!
PART ONE
––––––
DOES ROGER TAYLOR HAVE A NEW GIRL? the headline reads followed by a picture of Roger and you holding hands in front of the studio a couple days ago underneath it.
You roll your eyes, tossing the tabloid onto the table in front of you and exchanging it with a glass of sparkling water.
Your younger sister called you this morning, screaming at you for not telling her about your new “rockstar, sex-god boyfriend” (she’s a little bit obsessed with Roger Taylor and Queen). So you spent most of your morning catching her up on and spewing some bullshit about your newfound love. You felt bad for lying to her, but you couldn’t risk it: she had the biggest mouth and as much as you love her, you can’t trust her with this secret, especially since she’ll tell your mom who has an even bigger mouth. No––this situation requires the utmost secrecy.
“The tabloids can make a story out of literally nothing,” you grouse to Anne who’s sitting across the table. She doesn’t look up from her notes.
“Well, that’s kind of their job. Besides, that,” she points to the magazine, “is a good thing.”
“Yeah, I love being Roger Taylor’s New Girl,” you say, picking at the half-eaten turkey sandwich, leftovers from your lunch your producers brought for the meeting that ended not even ten minutes ago. Anne ignores the sarcasm in your voice.
“You are Roger Taylor’s New Girl.”
You can’t argue with that. If it was anyone else, you would have been fine. Why did everyone else have to have girlfriends? you lament. But you can’t even be mad at the situation. You did agree to it in the first place. And you know deep in your heart that if you were to be asked again, you would have said yes no matter what. You’re finally catching a break in the industry, making a name for yourself, and if dating an obnoxious asshole will keep you at the top, well, hell, you’ll date the obnoxious asshole.
“So where did Roger choose the date for tonight?” you ask Anne. Roger and you both exchanged numbers (Jim and Anne both forced you to exchange numbers), but you hadn’t bothered to call him nor did he, both preferring to use one’s managerial team to do all the communicating between the two of you.
She looks through her planner. “Freddie’s throwing a party tonight at his house,” she says when she finds the date written in today’s box. You groan. Of course he would choose a party for your first “date.” You had flipped a coin to see who got to choose the first place you’d be seen out together. You chose heads. He chose tails. “What can I say, I’m a sucker for tails,” he said with a wink when the quarter finally stopped spinning.
“The car will be at your house at eight to drive you guys there.”
––––––
If you weren’t already used to it, you would be blinded by the flashing lights and the shouting and the general chaos currently being hurled your way. But years in the business, you walk with sure, even steps to Freddie’s house, pressed up against Roger’s side. Walking up the same steps from a couple of years ago, you can’t help but think of the first time Roger and you met.
2 Years Ago
You trudge up the stairs to the house, your manager by your side. You could hear the deep thumping of the music coming from inside and leaking into the outside streets. Your manager forced you to go to one of Queen’s afterparties despite your protests of wanting a more relaxing night in with a bottle of wine––maybe a hot bath as well. It was on the heels of your UK tour, and you were dead tired. You had a pounding headache. The bags under your eyes refused to be concealed. Your period came a little early, and your cramps were ripping through your body, hellbent on trying to put you in the most pain possible.
Needless to say, you aren’t in the best mood. And you certainly do not want to go around having to socialize with drunk and/or high entertainment people in a too loud, too crowded, too sweaty room.
You personally don’t even know the members of Queen––have only heard their music and the stories. Specifically the stories of their drummer––how could you not when he’s on the front page of a trashy magazine every month for breaking some poor girl’s heart (he always cheats on them). Heard the stories from the people you meet at parties, girls bragging about how they’ve slept with the Roger Taylor, and when asked if he’s as good in bed as the stories say he is, they always, always say “better.” Heard about his infamous temper––you actually saw that in real life when he decided to trash and hurl his own drum set across the stage during one of their concerts. Heard about how he goes home with a groupie after every concert. And from that, you had already possessed a disliking for the man even before you actually met him in real life.
You hope that you won’t run into him tonight.
When you walk into the house, you’re instantly bombarded with the smell of alcohol and sweat. Looking to your right, you see a man and woman in nothing but their underwear doing lines of cocaine off of a drum set. To your left, you see someone riding an exercise bike in a bunny costume.
People who you don’t know nor do you particularly like come up to you, congratulating you on your tour and what-not. You nod your head politely and smile before making a beeline to the bar because if you had to stay here all night dealing with these people, you might as well be drunk when doing so.
“An old fashioned please,” you say to the bartender as you settle yourself onto one of the tall stools.
“Hi gorgeous,” a voice drawls from the couch behind you, and you turn your head in search of the owner. It takes you a second to recognize him. The two girls perched on his lap slightly obscures the view of Queen’s very own, very intoxicated drummer.
Glazed, hooded eyes. A light sheen of sweat. His arms draped loosely around their waists. A tumblr of whiskey that’s held by dangerously loose fingers. He shamelessly rakes his eyes up your body, pausing at the liberal amount of skin exposed by your tiny mini dress.
“Not interested,” you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. He must have seen the way you scrunch your nose in disgust.
“Helpful tip, you might have more fun at these parties if you take that stick out of your ass,” he says before taking his attention off of you to take a sip from his glass and whisper something into one of the girl’s ears that makes her giggle. The blood pounds in your ears.
The bartender slides your drink to you, and you thank him before getting up and walking over to Roger. He looks at you with a lazy grin, and you smile prettily at him.
“Hmm, maybe I should. Could you help?” you ask. He raises his brows with a self satisfied smirk and asks the other girls to get up. After they leave, grumbling to themselves, you sit carefully onto his lap. One hand playing with his shirt collar, the other one holding your drink. His hands come to rest at your hips, and you lean in close. His eyes flick to the way your dress’s low neckline falls lower as you settle yourself onto his lap before making their way to your lips. You brush your lips next to his ear, and his hands tighten around your hips.
“You’re a dick,” you say softly, and then, standing up quickly so you won’t get any of the splash onto you, you promptly pour the contents of your glass onto his head. Not even caring to see his reaction, you walk off in search for your manager to let her know that you’ll be leaving. She actually finds you first.
“Ah, finally found you! The members of Queen want to meet you,” she says before you can open your mouth and leads you across the room where you’re met with the sight of Queen (minus their drummer) sitting and laughing in some plush chairs in front of the TV.
“Y/N, this is Brian May, Freddie Mercury, and John Deacon,” she says, pointing to the three men in front of you.
“It’s so great to meet you, congratulations on your tour!” Brian says, shaking your hand.
“We’re huge fans,” Freddie continues, giving you a kiss on the cheek. You can’t help but smile, their friendly demeanors contagious as you talk to them more and more. You figure that Brian studied Astrophysics in university too, and you both talk about that for a bit, discussing the most recent scientific theory in stellar dynamics.
“I wonder where Roger is,” Freddie muses, looking around.
“Oh…he’s probably in the bathroom cleaning himself up.” They look at you with puzzled expressions. “Would you believe me if I said that I accidentally spilled my drink on his head…” They look at you wide-eyed, and then Freddie begins to laugh.
“I like you already.”
Brian shrugs with an amused smile playing at his lips.“He probably deserved it.”
“Doing alright gorgeous?” Roger murmurs into your hair as you push through the crowd, and you jerk back into the present.
“You know I hate when you call me that.”
“That’s why I say it.”
You nestle into his side a little more, and your hand around his waist grips him a tad harder. Your sharp, manicured nails digging into his flesh through his floral silk shirt. You smile when you hear him grunt in pain.
––––––
You’re annoyed. Annoyed for two reasons: one, because you would much rather be in bed right now than at a stupid party Roger wanted to go to. And two, because Roger’s been at the bar, talking to a girl who you’re pretty sure is a model for the past twenty minutes and you think he bought her a drink but you’re not one hundred percent sure and he laughs at something she just said and you don’t even know why that’s making you mad in the first place.
She giggles and touches his chest. That’s it. You throw back another shot, hissing at the burn as it makes its way down your throat and stomp over to him. You not-so-discreetly push the drink that’s sitting on the counter (you’re pretty sure it’s the drink he bought the girl), which spills all over Roger’s lap.
“What the––”
“Oops, sorry babe. Let’s go the bathroom, and I’ll help you clean up,” you say looking not-one-bit-apologetic. He looks at you with narrowed eyes before remembering that he has to play his part, and he breaks out into a charming smile.
“It’s all good, love,” he says and calls out a quick goodbye to the girl as you drag him into a dark hallway on the outskirts of the main party area.
“Look, I’m all for having gorgeous women dragging me into dark hallways, but I didn’t appreciate––”
You push him into the wall. “What the fuck Roger!”
“What?” he asks.
You narrows your eyes at him. “You’re going to fucking blow the whole fake dating thing in the first week.”
“I was just talking to her!”
“Oh please. You both were getting awfully cozy with each other,” you retort, huffing out an exhale as you adamantly look everywhere but his face. A pause. He’s silent, so you look back up, and you’re met with a smirking Roger Taylor. He pushes himself off the wall and takes a couple steps towards to you. You take the same amount of steps back, and your back hits the opposite wall.
He leans in closer to you, his lips mere inches away from yours. Those hooded, bedroom eyes boring into your own, a certain kind of triumph dancing around in the blue.
“What?” you snap.
“Are you jealous?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face.
“Oh my god, Roger, it’s simply amazing that you believe that everything is about you.”
“Maybe,” he breathes. You hold your breath. “Or maybe you’re getting a little jealous that that girl was getting a little too cozy with me?” he murmurs, his hand falling to grasp gently onto the exposed skin at your waist. The rough callouses on his hands jolt you back into reality, and you push him away with a hand placed firmly onto his chest.
“Don’t try getting fresh with me Roger,” you say, hating the way your heart is beating a little too fast. He steps back, raising his hands up with open palms.
“I’m gonna get a drink,” he says, walking away. “Old fashioned, right?” he calls back. You’re taken aback by the fact that he remembers your drink order. You nod, forgetting that his back is facing towards you. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t seem to be looking for a confirmation.
Once he’s out of sight, you slump a little against the wall, letting out a slow exhale. Your skin still tingling from where Roger touched you––it’s probably the alcohol making you warm and tingly. Shaking your head, you go to the bathroom, splash some cool water onto your face, and walk out even more annoyed than before. He didn’t even apologize––didn’t even care that he was blatantly flirting with another girl. You’re not going to let him off the hook so easily.
You spot him spread out on a couch, lounging and laughing with the rest of the boys and several others. Your old fashioned sits untouched on the table next to him.
He’s mid-conversation when you plop down a little too harshly onto his lap, relishing in his startled “oof” and the way his eyes widen in surprise. You smirk as you slowly wrap your arms around his neck, and his hands automatically goes to grip your hips to steady yourself onto him. You hear a couple of whistles from the people around you, maybe a flash of a camera, but ignore them.
“Hey baby,” you say. And he’s looking up at you. His thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. He’s smiling. You lean in closer, lips brushing against his ear.
“If you ever pull something like that again with that girl or any other girl, I will make your life being my fake boyfriend a living hell. Now grow the fuck up and try not to fuck this up for the sake of both of our careers,” you hiss into his ear.
Before he has a chance to respond, you get up from his lap. Adjusting your skirt, you give him a peck on the cheek.
“I think I’m gonna go home now, Rog. I’m feeling a little ill,” you say with a pout, not wanting to spend another second at this party. “You boys have fun,” you say to the rest of the guys before looking at Roger, “I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner!”
And not caring about how Anne will have your head for leaving so early (the tabloids probably already got their pictures for their next issue anyway), you toss him a little wave and walk out of the house.
––––––
“I can’t work with her,” Roger declares to his living room ceiling (he’s stretched out on the couch) after recounting the story and what you said to him last night. Brian looks up from the notebook he’s been writing song lyrics in.
“You know, I’ve never seen you this worked up about a girl before.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never met a girl who’s this much of a pain in the ass.”
Brian scoffs and goes back to his writing. “The reason you think she’s a pain in the ass is because she didn’t throw herself at you when you first met.” Roger sputters, but Brian continues, “Your ego’s just hurt.”
“What the––no!”
“You could’ve easily resolved this petty feud, easily stopped returning her snarky comments, easily tried being friendly. But no, you continued to push back and fight and bicker every step of the way. And now look at where it has gotten you.”
Roger turns his head from the ceiling and to his best friend. “Are you finished?”
“And––you better take this seriously, Rog. This is for the band, and whether you like it or not, she––this whole plan––is good for us,” Brian concludes.
Roger huffs but keeps silent because he knows that Brian’s right––knows that letting his feud with you damage the band isn’t worth it. With a reluctant sigh, he makes a mental promise to himself that he’ll try his best. Brian seems to see this change––Brian could always read him so easily (it annoyed Roger to no end)––and smiles.
“Think about it,” Brian says, tapping his pointer finger against his temple before standing up from his chair, patting Roger on the shoulder, and going into to the kitchen to grab a cup of water.
I can take this seriously,” Roger grumbles to himself, and out of spite and the childish competition that always seems to come out of him when you’re involved, he vows to be the best, most convincing fake boyfriend ever.
NEXT CHAPTER: PART THREE
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