Make Believe: Part Two [Roger Taylor X Reader]

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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Freddie Mercury and Roger Taylor in Spain, 1986

Love all your work ❤️ please add me to your permanent taglist xxxx thank you so much 🌞

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“The Rolling Stone magazine in America, New Musical Express in England… Do you find that they become very condescending?”

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

[texting]

Ben: I'm so sorry, I'm gonna be about half an hour late :/

Rami [forgot they were even meeting, still in bed]: You always do this.