Roger Taylor Imagine - Tumblr Posts - Page 2

Make Believe Update Schedule

Hi everyone! First, I want to say that I’m really blown away from the amount of positive feedback I got on this story (thank you guys so much!) 

Second, I’ve decided to lock in an updating schedule for Make Believe. I will be posting a new chapter every Monday and Thursday! 

As of right now, I’m not completely sure how many chapters there will be, but the first two chapters are already up! 

PART ONE // PART TWO

Make Believe: Part Three [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: 4.6k (I got kinda carried away)

Contains: TW: PANIC ATTACK/ANXIETY. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU GET TRIGGERED BY THIS. DISCLAIMER: I just want to say that panic attacks are different for every person. I wrote this out of personal experience/how my panic attacks feel to me, but this is not necessarily the exact, universal experience for everyone who suffers from them. 

A/N: Thanks for all the support so far! Would love to receive some feedback / let me know how you’re liking the story so far! Hope you enjoy! :) 

PART ONE || PART TWO

–––––

Previously…

“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. 

–––––

A Couple Days Ago

Just as Roger drops your hand and opens your car door for you, Freddie comes running up to you.

“Y/N, I’m having dinner and drinks and my house with all the boys and their girls next Friday. You’re welcome to join. I mean, you are apart of the family now,” he says with a wink. 

You don’t miss the way Roger’s mouth open in protest next to him. And just to spite him, you accept Freddie’s invitation with an overwhelming amount of enthusiasm. 

Worth it you think when you see the pure annoyance on Roger’s face when Freddie gives you a kiss on the cheek. “Amazing! I’ll tell Jim to send my address,” he exclaims.

–––––

You’re standing in front of Freddie’s house with a bottle of wine nestled in the crook of your arm. You ring the bell. A few seconds later, Freddie opens the door, a big smile on his face. 

“Y/N!” he says, welcoming you with a warm hug before leading you inside. 

When you walk into the kitchen, you’re greeted with the smell of roast chicken and the sound of laughter and clattering dishes. Someone––a woman with long blonde hair––pulls a pan out of the oven while the rest bring a variety of dishes to the table in the dining room.

“It smells delicious,” you compliment to no one in particular. 

Brian sets down some plates and silverware, wipes his hands on his slacks, and pulls you into a hug. 

“Y/N! So glad that you can make it!” 

“You must be Roger’s new girlfriend,” the woman who was in charge of the oven says––you’re guessing she’s Chrissie (Brian’s girlfriend) as she gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze before hugging you tight. You furrow your brows, looking at Brian. He subtly shakes his head––she doesn’t know.

“Yep, that’s me!” 

You greet John with a kiss on the cheek and introduce yourself to his wife, Veronica, and Mary. Roger is nowhere in sight. And just as Brian grumbles about how he’s always late (“No sense of time”), you hear the door open and footsteps coming into the dining room. 

“Sorry, I’m late everyone, I had––” he stops when he sees you, and you wiggle your fingers at him. You figure that he had forgotten you were coming. 

He quickly recovers. “Hi gorgeous,” he says as he walks over and gives you a kiss on the forehead before sitting down to your right. He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head. 

“Hey handsome. Good of you to finally join us,” you tease, pressing your lips to his cheek. Your lipstick leaves a mark on his skin, and you wipe it away with what you hope is a look of fondness. 

“This one is always late,” Chrissie says to you. “Brian complains about it all the time.” 

Brian shrugs. “Punctuality is important!” 

“I know right. I always have to tell him to come thirty minutes before the actual time, but he still manages to be late,” you add. 

“Oi! I can hear you,” Roger complains. 

You flick his nose. “Good.”

Throughout the dinner, Roger has been oddly…touchy. You assume that he has taken your words from last night to heart, but even with that knowledge, you’re getting pretty damned flustered. 

“Can you pass me the green beans, love?” After you hand him the bowl, he squeezes your upper thigh in thanks. You freeze, and you know that smug little bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He smirks when he sees your cheeks flush. 

“You doing okay, gorgeous?” he asks lowly. You suppress a shiver when you feel his hot breath brushing against your ear. Your response is a tightlipped smile, and you see amusement dancing in his eyes.

Ok. Two can play at that game.

You continue with dinner, chatting with everyone about your last tour, music, and your personal life. The conversation eventually lands on the topic of best grilled cheese places in Europe. And you find yourself in the midst of a friendly debate with John, the two of you arguing about who has the best grilled cheese in Ireland. You firmly believe it’s Shaw’s Grill, but he insists it’s Bluestone Pub. 

While you lay out all of the qualities that Shaw’s grilled cheese has that Bluestone’s lacks (one of which is quality of bread), without breaking eye contact nor faltering in your speech, you slowly begin to trail your foot up against Roger’s calf. He chokes on his wine. And Brian, who’s on his left, has to hit him a few times in his back.

“You okay, love?” you ask, brows raised with mock concern. He looks at you with wide eyes, but you can see a delighted surprise on his face. You flash him a smirk before launching back into your debate. 

Roger’s arm ends up stretched out onto the back of your chair, and he begins playing with the tips of your hair as he talks to Freddie about an idea for a new song. It’s an innocuous act, and you don’t know why, but it makes your heart pound a few beats faster. His fingers brush against the side of your neck. Worried that he’ll soon be able to feel the rapid beating of your heart, you grab his hand and place a kiss to it, bringing it down to your lap. 

“Cheeky,” he mumbles into your ear. 

“Shut up.” 

“Hey Y/N, could you pass the salt please?” Brian asks a few seats down. 

“Of course,” you say, and you suppress a wicked smile pulling at your mouth. You grab the salt. And instead of handing it to Roger so he can give it to Brian, you stretch your body over Roger’s lap, firmly placing your other hand directly onto his crotch. You smirk when you hear him let out a surprised groan that he tries (unsuccessfully) to cover up with a cough. 

“You two better not be doing anything weird under the table,” Brian calls out, narrowing his eyes at the both of you. You guys don’t answer, both of your faces flushing.

“Ew, you guys are gross.”

“Prude,” Roger says. You stifle your laughter into the palm of your hand, and he flashes you a grin. 

–––––

Roger quietly watches you talk with Chrissie and John, slightly smiling to himself as he sees you gesturing wildly with your hands before Brian sidles up to him. John throws back his head and laughs. 

“I can see why everyone loves her so much,” Brian says to him quietly. Roger stays silent. Instead, taking a long pull from his cigarette. 

“You know, if you get past your differences and whatever petty feud you have going on, there might be something that could happen…between the two of you…It might be good for you, especially after Alice––”

Roger lets out a dry laugh. “Okay, I think you’ve had enough to drink.” 

“Don’t fight it! You know I’m right.” 

“Uh huh,” Roger says, unconvinced before standing up and putting on his jacket. He walks over to you, interrupting your avid storytelling.

“Hey, I’m going to go home, love, had a long day.” You furrow your brows in mock worry, placing your hand in his. 

“Okay, you want me to go back with you?”

“No, it’s okay, stay, stay. I’ll see you tomorrow for the interview.” And with a kiss to your nose, he leaves. 

“Aw you guys are so cute together!” Chrissie gushes. “This is going to be really good for him.” You and John make eye contact, and you both have to hold in your laughter. 

–––––

You’re in the green room of the talk show studio, your leg jiggling as you wait for the interview to start. Roger and the rest of the band are here too, listening to Jim tell them the kinds of questions that they’ll have to answer, what not say, and what to focus on. 

You already know your part, having gone over everything the day before with Anne. But even so, you’re nervous, and not being able to sit down any longer, you get up and grab an apple from the counter. 

“Y/N, I know you went over it, but got any last minute concerns?” Jim asks. 

“I hope you’re as good of an actor as you say you are,” you say to Roger with a sweet smile. 

–––––

“So, today we have very special guests, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Queen!” the interviewer announces. The crowd goes wild as they walk onto the stage. They shake hands with her before settling down on the couch.

“I love you Roger!” a girl shrieks from the crowd when the clapping dies down. 

“It’s so nice to have you here today boys, let’s start off by talking about your previous album, shall we?” And so, they talk about music, recording, and touring for the next twenty minutes or so.

Roger’s talking about their process with coming up with lyrics when, with a red blur, something lands onto his lap from the audience. He looks down, face contorting from confusion to surprise to alarm in a matter of seconds. He gingerly picks up a red lace bra, delicately pinching the strap with his pointer and thumb.  

“Uhh, thank you for this…I don’t think my girlfriend would love it, though,” he jokes, placing it carefully onto the table next to him. There’s a mixture of cheers and boos from the crowd at the mention of a girlfriend. A backstage assistant quickly jogs onto the stage and takes it away. 

“I hear a lot of hearts breaking in the crowd,” the interviewer jokes. Roger shrugs, a smile on his lips. 

“Speaking of girlfriend…” she says with a wiggle of her brows. You have a new one, yes? And not just anyone, but rockstar, Y/N Y/L/N!” 

“Is there any competition between the two of you––I mean she did take the number one spot for UK sales this year,” she asks. He laughs. 

“There’s no competition––she’s––she’s amazing––everything about her,” he says good-naturedly. The audience “awws”

“Who knew Roger Taylor is such a romantic! Well, we have a surprise guest on the show today!” she announces. 

And you walk onto stage, waving at the cheering fans. Roger pops up from the couch, shock overtaking his features for a split second before morphing into an excited grin. He’s a good actor, you think. He walks over and embraces you. And liftting you up, he spins you around. You yelp out, a surprised giggle escaping your mouth as you grip onto his neck tighter. He lets you down and presses a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose, hands still gripping onto your waist. Your hands, still wrapped around the back of his neck. 

“Hi gorgeous. Funny seeing you here,” he jokes quietly but knowing that the mic that’s taped onto his chest is picking up everything he says. As you sit down on the couch, Roger presses you up tightly against his side. You grab his hand and place it on your lap, playing with his fingers. 

“Aw, look at the lovebirds!” the interviewer coos. She turns to the rest of the band. “Does it ever get too much?” she asks in a stage whisper.

“These guys––cannot keep their hands off of each other. Sometimes I can’t even eat my lunch,” Freddie says with a wild gesture of his hands. The crowd laughs, and Roger shrugs with a smug look while you burrow your face into his shoulder. He lifts up your hand and presses a kiss to your palm.

“Kiss!” someone yells. And soon, the whole audience is chanting for you to kiss on live television. 

You freeze. During your so far week-long fake relationship, you’ve pretty much avoided kissing him on the lips, thinking that that’s an act way too intimate for someone you’re simply fake dating. Roger didn’t seem to mind as you’ve also noticed that he has usually stuck with kissing you on the cheek, nose, forehead. 

He can sense your discomfort, and so he brings you closer. 

“Uh, as much as I love kissing her, I dont think the missus is very on board with snogging on live television,” he says lightheartedly. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief, silently thanking Roger for his quick thinking. 

–––––

“So you can be nice,” he says with a smirk, arms crossed after you walk off the stage.

“I’m just a very, very good actress,” you say with a light pat to his chest. 

“Oh man,” he says, staggering back and clutching his chest. “You really know how to break a man’s heart.” You roll your eyes and duck your head, trying to hide the small smile threatening to pull at your lips. 

 –––––

Stepping out from the doors of the talk show studio, you’re instantly mobbed by awaiting fans. Way more than you’ve ever seen––the mixture of both Queen and your own fans have created what appears to be pure chaos. The security next to you try their best pushing the screaming people out of the way, but the crowd seems to get wilder by the second. 

Someone grabs onto Deacy’s jacket, ripping him back into the crowd, and you think someone just tried grabbing your hair, feeling their fingertips graze the top of your head. 

You want to get out of this situation and you want to get out now. But the crowd is so thick, you can’t walk two steps in front of you. And so you’re now trapped in a sea of bodies. The only constant, Roger’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. The security who’s supposed to be watching your right side has disappeared, probably trying to deal with the girl who had just launched herself at Brian.

You and Roger are alone. And then you feel him being pulled away from you, fingers desperately trying to keep hold of your shoulder, but you feel them being dragged away with a stinging scratch.

And now, you are alone. Alone in this crowd of people screaming. Screaming your name. Screaming Roger’s name. Screaming obscenities. Hurling insults at you. Next thing you know, you’re face-to-face with a girl, her face contorted with anger. And you don’t even see her cocking her arm back until you feel the force of the punch hit the side of your jaw. Your head whips around, and you stagger back, almost falling onto the ground in your thin heels. But someone grabs your elbow from behind, stabilizing you. 

“HEY,” Roger roars, enraged. And you never thought you would get this much relief from that voice. 

But the relief is short-lived. The ground seems to be tilting at your feet. Your vision becomes blurry.

“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Roger?” you whimper, not really sure why you call out for him. 

“Yeah right here love,” he says, a surprising amount of concern in his voice. 

“I need to go. I need to go right now.” The cold wash of panic slides through your body/ Your body becomes numb. Everything is muffled. You can’t hear. You can’t see. Why is my heart going so fast. You stumble back into Roger. You don’t what you look like exactly, but it must be bad because Roger’s eyes widen. 

“GREG!” he yells to the security guard. 

Seconds-–maybe minutes past. By now, you’re not in a state of mind where you can decipher what’s happening around you. 

You all manage to dive into a small bakery on the street (Roger basically had to drag you in), and someone shuts and locks the door. The shop owner––an old, nice-looking lady looks at all of you with wide eyes. 

“Could we please stay here for a bit? It’s a bit crazy out there,” Brian asks, panting. And just to prove to his point, a body slams into the door from the outside. She doesn’t even hear him, instead, more focused on you as you’re currently dry heaving in the corner by the fresh loaves of bread. 

You can’t breathe and you think that you’re crying but you’re not sure. Everything is too hot and your heart is going way too fast and you can’t see. Gasping for air, you look around frantically. 

“Y/N?” someone to your right asks––you think it’s John. 

“Um––” you can’t even get the words out, wet gasps escaping your mouth instead. 

“Oh my god, her lip.” 

You reach up with a shaking hand, pressing your fingers into your bottom lip. It stings, and you bring your fingers down to see them covered in blood. Oh my god. You start hyperventilating. 

“I think she’s having a panic attack!” 

“Y/N, calm down.” And then someone grabs your shoulders. 

“DON’T TOUCH ME,” you shriek, ripping out of his grasp. Your panic spiking. You can’t breathe. I cannot breathe. Oh my god, I’m going to die. I am going to die. And everyone around you is looking at you with frantic, lost expressions. No one knows what to do. You’re standing alone, heaving, hunched over with your hands on your knees. 

“Y/N. Look at me,” Roger says, standing a foot away from you, and you look up. Look up into his blue eyes. 

“Okay, breathe. Breathe in, yeah? Breathe out.” You listen to his soothing voice, that voice that’s breaking through the haze of panic. 

“Can we get some water?” you hear Anne ask the old woman at the counter. 

You feel him carefully come up behind you, drawing slow figure eight circles on your back. “Breathe in when you feel the upper half of the eight. Hold it in the middle. Breathe out when you feel me drawing the lower half of the eight,” he says softly. 

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. And your breaths start evening out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. You stop hyperventilating. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. 

The lady comes back with a tall glass of water and an oversized, knit sweater. 

“Here you go lovie, I brought a sweater too, just in case and some of these chocolate buns. My granddaughter goes through the same thing, and these always help her feel better after.” Her voice is so kind and understanding, you almost start crying again. 

“Do we need to get you to a hospital?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine. It was just––it was just a panic attack,” you mumble. “I just need to go home.” 

“Ok, there’s a back entrance from here, and the drivers are already there. You ready to go?”

 –––––

“Wait Y/N!” Roger calls, jogging up to your car right as you’re about to get in. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes cautious, hesitant almost, treating you as if you’re made of glass. And for some reason, that annoyed you.

“I’m fine Roger,” you snap, embarrassed that you lost control like that––embarrassed that he saw you like that. You see hurt flash in his eyes.

“I’m just trying to help––” 

“I don’t need your help! We’re not friends, we’re alone now, you don’t have to pretend you care, alright?” He stiffens.  

“I’ll be at your door at eight tonight for dinner,” he says curtly before leaving to get into his own car. When you finally settle into your seat, you let out a sigh, tears pricking at your eyes again. 

You shouldn’t have snapped at him. But you were angry and scared and vulnerable and fragile and you hated the fact that Roger of all people had to see you like this. That he, of all people, was the one who eventually helped you calm down. 

And you feel even worse and even more like shit because the person who actually helped you and seemed like he cared for you was Roger, and you just yelled at him for no other reason than that you were embarrassed. 

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath.  

–––––

Roger came at exactly eight o’clock, dressed sharply in an all black suit, his staple black Ray-Bans sitting on his nose. 

The drive to the party was…awkward. You both exchanged polite niceties, saying stilted hello’s and how are you’s before lapsing into silence. You thank the gods for Anne’s chatty nature. When you pull up to the restaurant, you breathe a sigh of relief. 

He opens the car door for you, slipping his hand into yours, the rough callouses scratching against the smooth skin of your palm. He still doesn’t talk nor do you. And with your hand in his, you walk into the swanky restaurant your record label rented out in celebration for your album hitting number one. 

“Y/N!” someone calls as soon as you walk in. You whip your head towards the sound and spot Leila––your best friend in the entire world. 

You squeal, untangling yourself from Roger’s arm and launching yourself into her arms. 

“Leila! When did you get back?”

“Yesterday, but I wanted to surprise you! Did you really think I would miss your celebration party?” You laugh, giving her another hug. 

“I’m so happy you’re here. I have so much to fill you in on.”

“Yes, one of which…” she trails off, looking pointedly at the man standing a few feet away as he chats with some music producer. He looks over, catching you staring at him and gives you a dazzling smile, slipping back into his role for the night. You smile back, slipping back into your role for the night as well.  

“Why did I have to find out about this new relationship from the magazine cart outside my hotel?” she asks, shoving you with her shoulder. 

“Sorry! Sorry! It all happened so fast…” you say with a blush. 

You feel hands wrap around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder. “Hi gorgeous, who’s this?”

“Uhh––this is––” You get distracted by the way his hands warm you through your silk dress. You clear your throat. “This is my best friend, Leila.”

“So very nice to meet you, Leila,” he says, extending the hand that was previously resting on your waist. 

“Hey Rog, come over here!” someone calls from behind––you think it’s Brian. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says with a kiss to your cheek, “I’ll get you a drink, do you want anything?” he asks Leila. She’s staring at him with wide eyes. You shake her arm, and she blinks back into reality. 

“Uh no, I’m good thanks,” she says with an apologetic smile. He returns that smile before jogging off. You watch him as he rejoins a group of friends. 

“Oh my god, he’s so hot,” Leila whispers. You whip your head around and burst out into laughter, swatting her arm. 

–––––

You find yourself sitting alone at the bar. You’ve made all the rounds of the night––saying the necessary hellos to record producers, catching up with old friends, allowing people to hug and congratulate you on your success. People made speeches, you cut into a cake that said “congrats!” with a frosted #1 and a picture of your album cover, and now everyone is wandering around the restaurant, drinking and chatting. You’re exhausted––the panic attack had drained all the remaining energy you had within you that day––probably will keep you drained for the next few days even. 

And as you look around, seeing everyone happy and drunk and having a good time, you sigh and stand up. You don’t want be here anymore, and you don’t feel like talking to anyone anymore. The bartender––Michael––allows you take a bottle of scotch on your way to the backdoor that you know leads to the roof. 

–––––

“Hiding from your own celebration party?” you hear a voice behind you ask. It’s Roger. You don’t turn around, still staring at the night sky and city lights. 

“I’m not really into all of the partying,” you say with a shrug while bringing the bottle to your lips. 

“Yeah, me too,” he says as he walks over. He sits down next to you, groaning when he bends his knees.

“I find that hard to believe,” you say with a small smile. He pulls out a cigarette, taking one out for himself and then offering you one from the pack. You shake your head, holding up the bottle of scotch. He lets out a laugh before digging up a lighter from his jacket pocket. 

The only sounds breaking through the silence are the flick of his lighter and the wind and the cars below.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. It’s just that––I don’t know––I was embarrassed? And I really hate when those happen. But I wanna say thank you for earlier––you really helped.” 

He shrugs. “It’s okay, I understand. I used to get them when I was younger, and someone told me to do that. I’m sorry that that happened. I’m sorry that that girl punched you–-should have been there next to you.”

“It’s not your fault…it’s just that all of this…” you wave your hands around. “fame…it’s sometimes too much for me to handle. I mean––I love making music, and I’m so grateful and happy that there are people who love it, but…” you shrug. He nods. 

You skyrocketed to fame in a matter of months after releasing your first album a couple years ago. You see your face on billboards at every corner. You have screaming fans who follow you on the streets when you go out to get groceries. This year, your album hit number one. You spend most of the year touring and the rest of it making music. You have interview after interview. Paparazzi follow you home every night. You’re now dating fucking Roger Taylor from Queen.

And even though it’s been a couple of years, sometimes you feel as if you’re still not used to it. Still that young girl who dropped out of university and out of the path of getting a PhD in Astrophysics to pursue her dream in music. It’s sometimes a little too much. 

His eyes flit to your mouth, to where he knows that underneath the dark red lipstick, your lip is busted from the punch. He takes a long pull from his cigarette. 

“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, an unfamiliar feeling warming his chest. 

NEXT CHAPTER: PART FOUR

–––––

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So my school is canceled so now I’m really TRULY gonna write!!! Send in some requests or just say hi!

ALSO I’M POSTING CHAPTER 4 OF MAKE BELIEVE IN AN HOUR (I bet you guys forgot about that series but I haven’t hehehe)

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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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.”

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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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call my bluff (roger taylor x reader) pt. 3

warnings: intense sexual situations, angst, [fluffy also]

synopsis: pt. 3 [final part] of story of the same name. find pt. 1 and 2 here and here. based off request “could you do one where reader hates roger but wakes up one day in his bed after they’ve had sex (she doesn’t remember most of it cause they were drunk) and just their conversation and stuff when she finds out she slept with him?? and he would be like very smug”

requests: open

word count: 4305

Keep reading

The Devil I Know

Pairing(s): Roger Taylor x f!Reader // Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor x f!Reader

Summary: you can’t quit him, and you’re gonna regret it

A/N: This fic was inspired by the song “Quit” by Cashmere Cat and Ariana Grande, but also @astroherogirl, whose post got me out of my minor writer’s block haha. enjoy!

Word Count: 5,058 

Warning(s): angst, light smut, light fluff, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, swearing

It didn’t matter what anyone else said about your relationship, their opinions were bullshit anyway. You knew in your soul that Roger really did love you, despite the mess he made of your thoughts and emotions. Anyone else would’ve believed that you were just another one of Roger Taylor’s numerous groupies, but you were nothing like those other women because they never got his call a few days later. He never asked them out to lavish dates or brought them back to his bed more than once a month. You weren’t his groupie, you were his secret.

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