Make Believe: Part 4 [Roger Taylor X Reader]

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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(the ones with a slash are the ones I couldn’t tag, will be deleting the ones who I can't tag next time)

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

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!!

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